It was a gorgeous summer day in Texas. Late afternoon in early June, and the warm sun only kissed the water—weeks later, it would be miserably hot. We had rented what became our “usual” lake getaway with my parents. Most of the group retired for an afternoon nap, and the older kids had gone to a movie in the nearby town.

I sat on a covered dock, metal rocking chair scraping the worn deck boards. The dock extended almost halfway across the narrow channel between the lake house property and a small island. The channel wrapped around the small brush-covered land mass on its way to the main body of the lake. Still water showed barely a ripple, with the occasional turtle’s head breaking the surface. Overhead, a waterbird circled, searching the clear water for its next meal. Pure serenity.

TJ straddled the paddleboard, skinny legs dangling in the water, the tether wrapped tightly around one ankle, his blaze-orange life jacket stark against the muted browns and greens of nature. He frowned in concentration, determined to balance and handle the oar without assistance. He was the only one on the water. At first, he paddled just off the dock, then farther from it as his confidence grew. He relaxed his shoulders, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Outwardly, I was as calm as the glass-like water, proudly watching my autistic son try his wings. Inside, my heart pounded, my mind raced, and I fought back tears. I remained on high alert, watchful, and ready to jump in and help TJ navigate, should the need arise.

A fitting metaphor for how we live life with autism. Read our story.