Twelve years ago today, Seton was officially diagnosed with autism.

On paper, it was a sentence. A label. A medical moment that fit neatly into a chart. In real life, it was the beginning of everything.

Seton was two. He wasn’t talking yet. He communicated with pictures, routines, movement, joy, frustration. He bounced. He ran. He laughed hard. He struggled hard. Autism didn’t change who he was, but the diagnosis changed how the world would respond to him and how fiercely we would have to advocate to make sure he was seen for who he already was.

At the time, I didn’t know what the future held. I didn’t know what school would look like, what friendships would look like, or whether spaces would ever be built with kids like Seton in mind instead of as an afterthought. I just knew I loved my son and that the world didn’t always make room for kids who move, learn, and communicate differently.

Fast forward twelve years.

A few weeks ago, I stood in the PHS gym filled with students, staff, families, mascots, and community members celebrating something huge. A Unified Banner Assembly. A national recognition. A school standing proudly and saying, “This is who we are.”

And somewhere in that room was the answer to a question I didn’t even know I was asking twelve years ago.

The answer was Riley.

Riley grew up alongside Seton. Autism wasn’t something she learned about in a textbook. It was her normal. It was her little brother. It was picture schedules, advocacy meetings, celebrations that looked different, and a front row seat to how inclusion can either be protected or denied.

She chose to protect it.

Riley didn’t just join Unified Sports. She built community inside it. She leads with empathy. She shows up consistently. She treats her Unified teammates not as a project or a program, but as friends, teammates, and equals. She understands instinctively what took me years to learn: inclusion isn’t about helping someone fit in. It’s about changing the space so they belong.

Watching her speak, lead, and stand confidently during that banner assembly wasn’t just a proud parent moment. It was a full circle moment.

Because that banner wasn’t about trophies or titles. It was about kids like Seton walking into a school where they don’t have to fight for their place. It was about students like Riley choosing leadership that lifts others instead of standing above them. It was about a community deciding that inclusion is not optional, extra, or performative. It’s foundational.

Twelve years ago, autism felt like a road map I didn’t know how to read.

Today, it feels like a lens that sharpened everything I value.

It taught our family patience. It taught us creativity. It taught us how to listen differently. It taught Riley how to lead. It taught Seton that his voice matters, even when it looks different than expected. And it taught me that the work is never just personal. It’s communal.

Seton wasn’t at the banner assembly. But if he had been, he would have needed a clear plan, fewer surprises, and absolutely more mascots. He would have wanted to know where to stand, when to clap, and why anyone thought spontaneous cheering was a good idea.

Twelve years after his diagnosis, he is still exactly who he has always been. Smart. Honest. Hilarious in ways you don’t expect. Unimpressed by ceremony. Deeply impressed by fairness. He doesn’t care about banners, but he does care about whether people are kind, whether rules make sense, and whether the environment is set up so people can succeed.

That banner wasn’t for him.

But it was because of kids like him.

Because of kids who deserve schools that don’t expect them to “roll up and explode,” but instead meet them where they are.

Because of siblings like Riley, who grow into leaders who understand that real inclusion is thoughtful, intentional, and human.

Because of communities willing to plan better, listen more, and show up anyway.

So yes, twelve years ago, autism entered our lives.

Today, it looks like a national banner, a confident big sister, and a kid whose accidental wisdom might be the clearest blueprint we have for building schools that actually work.

And honestly?

That feels like progress.

So here’s to all of that and more in the next twelve years.