My Chronicles of Autism - 2025 Is The Year We Achieved The Impossible

Last Christmas, I shared that my grandson, after several big and costly disappointments, had finally made a positive connection between Santa Claus and the idea that participating in Christmas might bring him joy.

It’s taken a while to get there. If you follow this blog, you may remember that just a few years ago, he rather spectacularly ousted Santa Claus and his many elves from their own grotto.

Last year, we made some gentle progress when he visited Mrs Claus for a Christmas story. But this year has been something else entirely.

He has loved the Christmas build-up. Together, we’ve enjoyed sharing experiences that many families take for granted. He’s been ice skating. He’s been to a Christmas light show. And, perhaps most wonderfully, he’s met Santa for the first time without screaming, and he was so comfortable he thought he might open every present in Santa’s sack!

But that’s not all.

Progress has arrived in other places, too. Something we once thought was impossible has finally happened.

He has sat in the dentist’s chair.

Now, that might not feel like a big deal to you, but let me take you on the journey, because it hasn’t been easy for anyone involved.

Year one: A routine check-up caused so much distress that the dentist examined his teeth in the car park. He simply wouldn’t and couldn’t enter the building.

Year two: The check-up took place in the reception area. Each time he opened his mouth to scream, the dentist peered inside. There was a lot of screaming, which ironically was helpful, as it meant the dentist could actually see his teeth. There was no chance the hand-held mirror was going anywhere near his mouth, but thanks to immense patience, we received a clean bill of health.

Year three: For the first time, we made it into the dentist’s room. Not onto the chair, but he did open his mouth, and he allowed the mirror in, briefly, with plenty of determined biting down.

Year four – 2025: We finally made it.

This was the year of full participation.

An enthusiastic pounce onto the dentist’s chair. A giggle as it moved up and down. Calm cooperation throughout the entire check-up. A clean bill of health. And sheer delight at receiving a Spiderman sticker as a reward.

It has taken four years to get here. Along the way, it often felt impossible.

It would have been easy to give up, to accept that the dentist just “wasn’t for him,” to hope for the best, and to spare everyone the stress. But we didn’t. We stuck with it, and we’ve reaped the rewards.

Not only are his teeth healthy, but he is proud of his achievement. He mentioned it again just yesterday, pointing to his teeth and proudly referencing his Spiderman sticker.

He knows he’s made progress. I know he’s made progress. And the dentist knows he’s made progress.

What once felt impossible four years ago now feels… normal.

And that, to me, is everything.

If you’re reading this and maybe you don’t know someone with autism, and even if you do, here’s my invitation to you:

Please remember that the progress you don’t see amongst the chaos of the moment often represents years of patience, repetition, compassion, and resilience behind the scenes. What looks like a “small win”, something you could easily dismiss, may in reality be a monumental achievement for that family.

When you encounter a child (or adult) who is struggling in public spaces, who seems anxious, overwhelmed, or “out of step,” choose curiosity over judgment. Offer them patience instead of pressure. Create room rather than expectations.  Our dentist has chosen to help my grandson; he’s adapted, he offers us the last appointment of the week (16:50hrs on a Friday), so the place is quiet, which lifts the pressure from me, and he’s chosen to be creative in delivering his service to my grandson, accepting he can’t follow their normal rules.

Our dentist recognises that inclusion isn’t built in grand gestures; it’s built in everyday moments, by people like him and his team who decide to be kind, flexible, and understanding.

And sometimes, the greatest gift you can give isn’t help at all, it’s simply allowing someone the time they need to get there.