Following the Lines

The first thing people usually noticed about Khai was that he was fascinated by wheels.

Not toy cars or bicycles, but the wheels themselves. He would lie flat on his stomach with one cheek pressed against the ground until his face was only inches away from the pavement, then gently roll a stroller wheel forward and backward as though he were watching something the rest of us couldn't see.

If it happened in our driveway, I found it oddly beautiful. If it happened in the middle of a grocery store or a crowded parking lot, my stomach tightened. Like any parent, all I could think about were the germs, the concrete, and how quickly I could coax him back up before he rubbed his eyes or put his fingers in his mouth.

For a long time, I assumed he simply loved wheels. Pete and I eventually realized the wheels were only the beginning.

Once we started paying attention instead of redirecting him, we noticed that Khai wasn't drawn to random objects at all. He was remarkably consistent. We could walk into almost any room in our house and quietly predict where he'd end up before he ever got there.

It was always the lines-

The narrow slats on the backs of our dining room chairs. The sharp edges carved into the side tables beside the couch. The windowpanes stretching from floor to ceiling. The fence running along the pasture. Outside, he sometimes spent twenty minutes circling the very same bush, captivated by the way sunlight filtered through its leaves, changing the shadows each time the wind shifted. I couldn't always tell you exactly what he was seeing, but I became convinced that whatever it was, it was every bit as real and compelling to him as a favorite painting might be to someone else.

As he grew older, his stimming appeared in other ways too. Sometimes it was walking on his tiptoes. Sometimes it was jumping. Sometimes it was hand flapping when excitement overflowed faster than his body could contain it. Those were the movements other people recognized, because they fit the picture many people have of autism. The lines rarely did. They simply looked like quirks to everyone else. To Khai, they seemed to be another way of understanding the world.

Around the same time, we watched something else extraordinary happen. Khai began memorizing entire books, movies, and songs. At first we thought he was simply repeating words, but over time I realized he was remembering far more than language. He remembered the pauses, the rhythm, the inflection, the movement, and I began wondering if he was also memorizing things I barely noticed at all—the angle of afternoon light across the floor, the pattern of shadows through a window, the feeling of leaves moving in the wind. While I was paying attention to conversations, Khai seemed to be paying attention to patterns.

By then he was attending speech therapy, occupational therapy, and developmental therapy several times each week. Every therapist who worked with him shared a philosophy that quietly reshaped the way we parented: if a behavior wasn't hurting him or anyone else, there was no reason to stop it. That idea felt surprisingly radical in a world that often seemed more interested in helping children appear typical than helping them feel understood.

I know there are families whose experiences have led them toward therapies focused on reducing certain behaviors, and I have tremendous respect for the many paths families choose. Every child is different, and every family has to decide what best supports the child in front of them. For us, though, the more we understood Khai's stimming, the less it felt like something to interrupt. It became another language. It told us when he was overwhelmed, when he was joyful, when he needed movement, and sometimes simply when he had discovered something beautiful that the rest of us had walked right past.

What fascinates me most is how his stimming has continued to change. Some behaviors have quietly disappeared. Others have softened, evolved, or been replaced by entirely new ways of interacting with the world. Watching that progression has never felt like watching something disappear. It has felt like watching his mind slowly discover new ways of organizing an incredibly complicated world.

I used to think my job was to teach Khai how to see the world the way I did. Now, I wonder if these past five years have really been about him teaching me how to see the world the way he does.

Every now and then I'll find myself pausing beside a window, watching the afternoon light stretch across the floor, or tracing the shadows a fence casts across the grass after the sun begins to set. Five years ago I would have walked right past them without another thought. Now I stop. Not because I've suddenly become fascinated by lines.

Because one little boy taught me they were always there.