In the year 2000, my wife and I began our autism journey—our Camino Real. That was
the year our son, Christian, was diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum. Back then,
I would have said he was “diagnosed with autism,” as though autism were a disease or
affliction. Today, I would never describe autism as something one “has.” Autism is not
external to our son—it is part of who he is. It is at the very core of the incredible person
he has become.
Like most parents of autistic children, our overwhelming focus was on nudging him
toward the realm of “normal.” We believed that normal meant safety, acceptance, and
success – at least the success we imagined at the time. We tried desperately to
engineer friendships, mask his autism, and continuously tried to somehow stitch him
into the fabric of normal life.
During this time in which we saw our son through a deficit lens, we could never really
breathe. As parents, we are responsible for writing the story our son was to believe
about himself, we were quite simply trying to write the wrong story. By age twelve,
Christian had begun writing his own painful narrative: “If you engage with people, ugly
things will happen. It’s better not to interact with people at all.”
He had begun to shut down.
A turning point occurred during a scout camping trip around this same time. I always
accompanied him on his scout outings, but couldn’t make it until the second night of this
outing; I was very worried something bad would happen in my absence. Every year, I
read stories of autistic adolescents who’d gone missing in the mountains.
After dark, when I arrived on the second night, I found our scout troop’s camp. I saw two
tents–both glowing with lantern light. I popped my head through the flap of one tent,
looked around to see if Christian was among the boys, which covered every square inch
of the tent floor. He wasn’t there.
I checked the other tent—also chock full of boys. “Do you know where Christian is?” I
asked again. One boy pointed toward the edge of the campsite. “I think he’s in that
tent.”
Off in the distance stood the darkened silhouette of our large family tent. As I
approached, I hoped he wasn’t alone (maybe at least one boy would have stayed with
him). I pulled back the flap and found Christian alone in the center of the dark, empty
space. His eyes lit up. “Hey, Dad!” he said with a cracked voice full of relief. I hugged
him tightly.
I was angry and disappointed. I expected better—from the boys, and from the leaders. I
wanted to confront them; I wanted them to understand their responsibility to integrate
this little boy into their tribe. But I didn’t. Something shifted. Up to that point, we had
turned ourselves inside and out trying to make Christian fit into a world that wasn’t built
for him. I was done with that approach–full stop.
Once Christian was asleep, my hurt turned into determination, and my frustration turned
to clarity. A gentle breeze began to fill my soul; it nudged me in a new direction. There
was no need to fix him—no need to make him fit into some notion of “normal.” We
would create all the warmth he needed. Rather than coax him into a world that wasn’t
designed for him, we would design a world around him that suited him–a place filled
with the warmth and belonging he deserved.
During this time, my research led me to understand that our brains are wired in a way
that produces inherent and enduring strengths–patterns of behavior similar to neural
superhighways and that by focusing our attention (overwhelmingly) on strengths, rather
than the backroads of our brains (our non-strengths), we will thrive in our unique
abilities.
As I internalized this concept, I realized how much of Christian’s life was utterly
smothered in deficit thinking, in focusing on his non-strengths. Despite our best
intentions, we were tilting the scales heavily toward his challenges rather than his
strengths. In that moment, I resolved to tip the scales in his favor—to discover his
strengths, nurture them, and build his identity around them.
That decision changed everything. Christian began to see himself through the lens of
his strengths. We watched him grow in confidence, and many of the behaviors that once
concerned us either softened or no longer felt concerning at all. More importantly, we
began to understand the “why” behind his differences, and with that came a deep
appreciation for the remarkable person he is.
This shift in perspective became the foundation of my book, Rebranding Autism: A
Guide to Seeing Strength on the Spectrum. It’s a message born not just from research,
but from lived experience—the realization that our children don’t need to be “fixed” to
belong; they need to be seen for who they truly are.
My wife is an avid gardener. Last fall, she planted beautiful daffodils outside our home.
When I consider autistic people, I envision a well-manicured garden, full of familiar
plants; roses, lavender… a box hedge. These plants thrive in soil and conditions
designed for them.
But there in the middle stands a bright yellow daffodil—striking and beautiful, yet
needing something different to thrive. I’m told by my wife that while other plants enjoy
rich, moist soil and steady warmth, the daffodil flourishes in cooler air, quick draining
earth, and open space. In the structured, controlled garden, it struggles to breathe, its
natural beauty confined. But in a freer, sunnier meadow, the daffodil blooms—vibrant
and unapologetic.
As parents of autistic children, our role is to create environments where our children can
truly thrive—even, and especially, when those environments look entirely different from
the familiar and expected.
About the Author
Drawing from his experiences as a parent of an autistic child, Clain Udy is rebranding
the way society views autism and shifting our perspectives from deficit-focused to one
that sees autism through a strengths-based lens.
As the father of a high-functioning autistic adult son, Clain has spent over two decades
researching and investigating what it takes to help his son and other autistic individuals
have successful, fulfilling careers. He believes helping autistic individuals find the right
environment where their natural talents can flourish is the key to long-term, adult
independence and satisfaction.
Clain has worked for 30 years in the corporate world in the areas of human
performance improvement and learning and development. He has served as an
executive leader within a multinational group of franchise organizations. He has two
master’s degrees in English Literature and Instructional Technology and is the co-
founder and president of Autism Elevated and the Regional Vice President of Learning
and Development at Fortida.
Clain’s new book, Rebranding Autism: A Guide to Seeing Strength on the Spectrum,
details his journey from initially thinking he had to “fix” his autistic son to wholeheartedly
embracing his son’s beautifully unique strengths. Learn more at autismelevated.com.
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