Posts by Peggy
Lifequake and the chance to level up
Come September, Sam will celebrate his second year in California. He says Modesto is finally feeling like home. Some of that, I think, comes from doing things for the second or third time. We’re enjoying the second season of minor league baseball and concerts in the park. We renewed our vehicle registrations. And the dog days of summer have begun again—not as hot as Texas and with a pool nearby.
Sam says the move was a little traumatic. Bruce Feiler calls disruptive changes ‘lifequakes’—changes that wipe away important, familiar things and leave us feeling lost or unsafe. Sam and I felt that disruption. But, we also saw our lifequake as an opportunity to level up.
Humans are always learning. Behavioral cusps are an important learning/behavior change that create future learning opportunities. Gamers might recognize the phenomenon and call it “leveling up.” In young children, learning to imitate or to ride a trike may be a behavioral cusp. Finding and making the most of a cusp can save time and resources at any stage of life.
After Sam put in for a company transfer, our family understood big changes were coming. Sam had built a good life in Texas, surrounded by people he loved and a community he cherished. Yet he saw the state’s political storms and their resulting destruction. He may have chosen it, but the change was still a lifequake.
I volunteered to serve as moving manager. Alan Ginsberg’s first thought, best thought came to mind. Keep things simple: load up the truck and head out, Beverly-Hillbillies style. However, that plan didn’t ease our anxieties about leaving a community after 30 years. Nor did it make room for ways to level up. Then I remembered another great writer, Anne Lamott, and her family’s wisdom in tackling big things bird by bird.
Working through this lifequake one bird at a time allowed us to breathe through anxious moments and think more deeply about what comes next. When we were young, my husband and I tended to leap and wait for the net to appear. We often made good choices, but that blind faith still took a toll. By breaking the transition into steps, Sam and I could tap other people’s wisdom and experience. We found more options with natural—and often more affordable—support along the way.
For example, for the first few months in his new job, Sam rented a room from a homeowner who’d set up her extra bedrooms for traveling nurses. I flew out with him to help him get settled. When we arrived, the auto transport company had already dropped off his Chevy Bolt EV (with his bicycle packed in the back). We stocked his micro-kitchen, set up laundry privileges, and practiced driving the route to work. I flew back to Texas knowing that the homeowner was there, and a nurse was across the hall, should Sam need support of someone nearby.
Over the next two months, he solved all kinds of just-moved, daily-life problems on his own. We checked in often by video call, even as he was proving to himself that he was okay on his own. He’d recognized that he had leveled up. Yet with that, he’d also made space for good, long-term choices for both of us.
In her memoir, Year of the Tiger, Alice Wong described the connections between disabled people and their attendants as both vulnerable and resilient. The work they do together has value, which is a radical notion in our capitalistic world. “Our relationships and well-being are linked. How we treat each other is a reflection of the kinds of world we want to live in,” she wrote.
I hadn’t ever thought of myself as Sam’s attendant and wasn’t about to start. In fact, I’d begun to wonder whether moving was optional for me. Wasn’t the goal of parenting to have children set out on their own? Still, Wong and other disability writers were describing beauty in the rich, layered reciprocity of our fullest human relationships. That resonated with me. “We are stronger together,” Wong wrote. Instead of the old tropes, I started thinking about what was important and what came next. Knocking about our big house in Texas with just the dog to keep me company, my thoughts started traveling in circles.
Then, I remembered a city council meeting that I’d covered a few years before. Council deliberations had been going for hours. They were stuck. One member, a retired elementary school principal, did his best to bring fresh perspective before the body voted a stalemate. Calling up wisdom from his father, he offered an accessible, elegant way to intellectual honesty: let the reason be the reason. City councils focus on delivering basic services. However, sometimes the members, especially the ambitious ones, bring more gamesmanship than intellectual honesty to their decision-making. This fellow’s words created a shift and a robust discussion followed. The council settled the matter.
We have an inborn urge to move that comes to us from the natural world. We see it when a living thing is stuck or trapped. In addition, many birds and other animals migrate by tapping an energy that comes from within. The Germans call it Zugunruhe, or “migration anxiety.” Biologists think of this energy as a natural part of the life cycle. They first believed that the restlessness was present only in migratory species. But they have since discovered the responsible hormones, triggered by changes in daylight, are present in non-migratory species, too. In addition, we humans consider the freedom to move about as fundamental.
I let the reason be the reason. Sam and I were better together. It was November. I felt the Zugunruhe. It was time to go.
(Note: This essay is based on an excerpt from what I hope will be my next book on becoming an ally, a shift that can be tough for many disability parents. Also, the audio version of my current book with Shahla Ala’i-Rosales is on sale for a few more days on the Kobo.com platform)
Living with autism and The NY Times story about services
At last month’s Applied Behavior Analysis International conference, people were talking about autism treatment and billing controversies in formal sessions and around the water cooler. The New York Times spotlighted the trouble for families living with autism, especially for those receiving services based in applied behavior analysis. One source summed it up: the science is beautiful, but the industry is ugly.
The autism field has known about these problems for a while. The business grew with little government oversight or regulation. Private equity owns some clinic chains now. The Office of the Inspector General is auditing Medicaid payments for autism services. The first round of audits (in Colorado, Maine, Indiana and Wisconsin) found many improper payments. Federal officials announced that they will audit more states. Medicaid opportunists seem to have found a new fishing hole to drain.
Families advocated for years for autism services. The partial or complete loss of payment assistance is a clear and present danger. While these battles rage, families living with autism still need help. No doubt, some parents read the news and came away with questions they never thought they’d have to ask their child’s provider. For some, the answer will be devastating: their child is out of school, receiving expensive babysitting masked as a program and with little hope of meeting their child’s long-term, educational needs.
Living with autism: what to know, who can help
When Shahla and I sat down to write our book, Responsible and Responsive Parenting in Autism: Between Now and Dreams, we knew these questions were out there. Parents might need more information, and more confidence in their own observations, to keep autism services on the right track. They still hold responsibility for their child, and they have the power to steer treatment—even as experts do their expert thing. In our book, we laid a foundation within the first few chapters, explaining in clear language what good science, services, and collaboration look like, how to spot trouble, and how to fix it, including how to leave if it becomes necessary.
To make it relatable, we likened a good practitioner, using evidence-based strategies, to a chef preparing master recipes. Not only does the practitioner understand the science of what they are doing, but they also understand the conditions they are working under. A successful practitioner continually adjusts their teaching with the child, just like the chef that adjusts their preparation of the ingredients. Practitioners will assess each child, talk to the family, and learn about their lives. Good practitioners know the short- and long-term goals. They design programs for each child. A good practitioner will implement the intervention, monitor, and tweak the program until it works. In addition, the child and everyone around them will be happy with the program and the progress.
In inexperienced hands, a proven recipe can get poisoned. And any therapist can still end up with a poor outcome if they are expected to deliver services under poor conditions. We outlined some of those conditions:
The practitioner had no mentor.
A practitioner who hasn’t seen the recipe modeled or the outcomes of a master practitioner has no idea what they are aiming for. They haven’t witnessed dramatic change in a child. They don’t know how the timing and sequencing of reinforcers work. Because they haven’t seen success, they have no idea what is possible for our child. They have no one to imitate. Their expectations and our child’s outcomes remain minimal.
The practitioner doesn’t set up the environment for success.
They don’t understand the basics of motivation or how to arrange the teaching environment to work with our child. This can be hard to spot, but if we see therapists restraining our child in coercive and punitive ways or just letting our child wander, they probably don’t know how to arrange an environment for learning. We all behave differently in different environments. Progress depends on what is required of us in each environment and how we feel about those requirements. That’s no different for our child.
They start without an assessment of where our child is and the environment around them.
They don’t know our child’s preferences, current skills, meaningful environments, or any of the possibilities for the child or the environment. Before designing a program that helps our child play with other children, for example, a skilled analyst will observe and know whether our child is looking at and watching other children, whether they are approaching other children, whether they share interests and a play repertoire with other children, whether they can shift their play activities around other children, and more. The unskilled analyst, however, won’t do this kind of assessment. They won’t be able to select goals that are grounded in the child’s needs. They won’t start where our child is, and they won’t take them where they need to go. They won’t assess the child across meaningful environments or work toward a graceful balance of changing the environment and the child for progress. Again, this may be hard to spot, but if our child is being taught with the exact same program as every other child, that’s a troubling sign. In the worst cases, our child will learn ways to escape the subpar teaching situation, and some of those escape techniques can be disturbing or hurtful to their well-being.
They don’t have the right support combinations.
If the assessment is right, then our child will require increasingly less support to learn, and the help, such as prompts, can be removed. If what our child learned depends on eternal prompts, the recipe isn’t working. In the example of learning to play with others, our child’s foundation for learning stands on rickety stilts when the analyst must always recruit the other children and continually shift our child’s play activities every time a play session begins. That said, the rules about prompts aren’t hard and fast. A skilled person knows how to balance such potential dependencies with desired outcomes, weighing both with our child’s well-being.
They are not responsive to our child.
Almost everything about behavior analysis relies on observing the child’s response—both their emotions and skills, followed by the clinician’s impeccable timing and fluent responses to keep the happy learning going. If the practitioner does not have command of these techniques, they will get less-than-favorable results. Remember the baker who understood how to whip the butter, sugar, and eggs for the lightest pound cake? A behavior analyst with fine-tuned sensitivity to our child and deep understanding of reinforcement can use what they know to produce exquisite behavior change.
They don’t make alterations or substitutions based on conditions.
When conditions change from the protocol, they don’t know how to change what they are doing, respond to our child differently, or alter the materials or the environment for success. They can’t solve problems that emerge without warning or handle variations not accounted for in the recipe. A good cook who understands food chemistry and has sensitive taste buds can respond to conditions and make substitutions. When a good behavior analyst understands the mechanisms of behavior change, has seen strong outcomes, and loves happy learning, they will usually work to solve problems until they achieve progress. When an essential ingredient is missing, both the cook and the behavior analyst expect a bad outcome and know that they must adjust to a different recipe.
They don’t have a community of both peers and masters to support their continuous improvement.
A community that models new techniques, teaches new ways to apply principles, and finds shorter paths to success can make a big difference in professional expertise. Collaborating with another clinician to teach a child results in learning better, faster ways to teach. In Shahla’s early career, she learned many fundamentals from her community of practice. She saw that progress was faster and more joyful when the team got together during the week to review progress, brainstorm, and solve problems. They learned how to adapt recipes to children’s needs. She learned simple but important lessons from her community. For example, she learned that spending a half-hour every few weeks scoping out day care supply closets and watching the kids during their hour of free playtime made a significant difference for a particular child. Translating those observations, she then replicated toys and activities for imitation programs that the team was fashioning outside of playtime. This prepared the child for the time he spent with other children at the day care and for the road ahead.
They don’t recognize that applied behavior analysis is a science, not a group of therapeutic practices.
This concept confuses not only parents but also some therapists. Therapy is an interaction between a person who needs relief, healing, or help in improving and the person who guides the relief, healing, or help. A pill can also be therapy. Exercise is another type of therapy. In applied behavior analysis, therapy is a love- and science-based interaction where two or more people are engaged in an interaction. Their interactions change one another. A therapist acts and the individual responds. The individual acts and the therapist responds. The therapist reinforces that response or changes the conditions. If the individual doesn’t respond as desired, the therapist must change what they are doing. Good program staff use their clinical knowledge of scientific methods, the principles of proven research recipes, but they also gather evidence (data) on their clients’ emotional and behavioral responses, to evaluate and tailor their recipes, techniques, and tools.
Author and parenting expert Glenn Latham offered an elegant way to think about this need for continual adjustments. In An Angel Out Of Tune, he likened our parenting journey to a cross-country road trip listening to AM radio. As we pass through regions, we lose the frequency of the local stations. We keep our eyes on the road as we drive, but continually and responsively adjust the dial to stay in tune. Likewise, a skilled therapist continually adjusts to find the evidence and respond to our child lovingly and with flexibility.
Excerpt From: Shahla Ala’i-Rosales, Peggy Heinkel-Wolfe. Responsible and Responsive Parenting in Autism: Between Now and Dreams
Autism parents want to respond with joy
My co-presenters at the ABAI 2026 conference are co-authors of the “joy curriculum,” anchoring autism intervention with the fundamental understanding that parents want to respond to their children with joy. Learn more here.
My written remarks that kicked off our session follow.
Good evening, and thank you for this opportunity to speak to you as a parent, and answer a few important questions from a parent’s perspective. My son is a middle-aged adult with autism. He was diagnosed as a preschooler in the early 1990s. I am journalist and writer, so you may know me through my books.
Or not, and that’s ok.
Tonight, I hope to answer two questions that are part of this panel’s focus. First, answering how our family found acceptance and joy. And second, offering a few of our family’s strategies for navigating autism, fostering independence, and managing emotional challenges
Finding joy, and acceptance
One of the best books I read in college was from the career center, Richard Bolles’ classic job-hunting guide, What Color is Your Parachute? He recommended listening carefully to a hiring manager’s question—because there likely was a fear behind it. Since then, I’ve often listened for the fear behind a question.
Today’s first question asks an autism parent how they found acceptance. For me, the answer is straightforward: I love all my children fiercely. With our oldest, that meant recognizing the responsibility to raise him as best we could, and learning how to meet that responsibility in a loving way. But I remember feeling some of the fears in that question, such as:
- I’m struggling to accept my child’s disability and worry that means I am unloving and unlovable
- If accept my child as autistic, I might limit their options for the future
- My acceptance doesn’t matter when the world around my child doesn’t care
When a question signals a fear, the answer is going to be different. Fears are flags, signaling poor conditions around us. It can be hard to stop and take breath when we are afraid, but with that pause, we can better see what the fear might be signaling. Do we need more information? Do we need to connect to different people? Are we missing a resource? Probing our fear with these kinds of questions can help us find better answers. And, those better answers usually quell the fear or shame and let our love and humanity and acceptance shine through.
We are human, and it’s in our nature to look for the easier answers. We want to conserve our resources and move ahead in a sustainable way. But reaching for a quick solution can also be risky business, especially in parenting.
A swarm of information followed my son’s diagnosis and treatment, and we heard the hidden messages, including the big idea that autism is a disease or pathology. So, it’s no wonder that families get sidetracked.
Responding with joy
We wanted to respond to our son with love and joy, just as we did with our other children. Thankfully, science is making its own progress, so some of those earlier, more damaging messages about autism are starting to lose their grip.
The research describing neuro-divergence and autism in four broad categories is particularly helpful. To our family, this new framework feels far more robust, and better reflects our lived experience. My son’s growth and development was broadly affected by his autism, but this new framework feels easier for us, and for the world around him, to respond with joy.
We were busy when my son was young, and we made mistakes, but we also found a lot of good information considering the times. We surrounded ourselves with good people, and, for the most part, made good decisions. As an example, a preschool teacher once urged us to “extinguish” one of his “perseverative” behaviors. We considered it. But as we translated those science-y words to plain language, they lost their power and persuasiveness.
Trusting joy’s inner drive to navigate autism
Our son was growing and changing every day. We wanted to trust his inner drive. Some things he did appeared to have a purpose, even if we didn’t understand it. We wanted to focus on where he was and responding to him with joy, while still making sure we were going in the right direction.
Recently, I stumbled on some science that explores this big idea about trusting that inner drive. It’s called the many-wrongs principle. In the mid-1960s, biologists noticed that birds maintained a stunning level of integrity on their migration routes, especially when considering a bird’s individual capabilities for navigation. More recent research is finding that that our individual inner drives plus working together is key—and this isn’t just true for birds. Did you know that triathletes use the many-wrongs principle to guide their open-water swims? It’s really beautiful to see it at work.
Joy sparks independence
How each of us views dependence and independence can differ within a family, community, and culture. In addition, most children have a little spark in them that fosters their independence, strength, and resilience. Sometimes, when we are parenting and we need a little more cooperation from the kids, we might call that little spark “obstinate.” That emotion is signaling that we may need to tread carefully.
My son had to comply with a lot of requests from adults to learn new things. We, and his teachers and therapists worked intensively, deliberately, purposefully, and fast. He made great progress, but all that work also made him vulnerable to learned helplessness. We kept an eye out for it and addressed it when it showed up. But more importantly, we discovered that those times and places where he seemed the least flexibile were often the best places to build his strength and resilience. By the middle of high school, he was participating in his IEP meetings and we started stepping back to become his ally instead.
Pivoting to joy in tough times
To the final question, when we are caught in an emotional moment, then what?
Detaching from the situation can improve our ability to observe what might be happening. We can take stock and find another way through. Detaching might be easier for you all, in a professional role. But even as a parent, when we can detach, we can see our child with increasing clarity, and perhaps select a different response. Here’s one last big idea: attachment and detachment aren’t opposing forces. In fact, I think professionals and parents working together can create more powerful spaces where we are both attached and detached. These spaces create more chances to respond with joy and reinforce our loving connections to one another.
Our son has tapped this wisdom, too. Sam has watched people – family members, friends, strangers – do things when they were afraid of him. He recognized that people weren’t always going to approach him with an open mind or kindness. Sam generally moves through the world in a calm, gentle way that seems to help others keep their fears in check. Sometimes that makes me really sad, but the truth is, we can only control our own feelings.
To me, acceptance feels like a magical mix of resistance and going along, like riding the rapids or flying a kite. The task in front of us may be a little daunting at first, but once you’ve got the hang of it, hot dang, it’s fun.
Fixing it, family words, and joy
When my son, Michael, was two years old, he came up to the video camera while I was taping poolside. Sam’s swim lesson disappeared as Michael’s little face filled the view. Then, in his tiny voice, he said, “I fix it, I fix it.” He brought up the dangling lens cap and snapped out the light.
After that, “I fix it, I fix it” became the family catch-phrase. Michael texted the other day to share another fix-it story. His own 2-year-old son had joined to help make his bed, saying “I fix it!” Michael’s heart soared, as did mine.
The story called up lessons learned as Sam worked with speech therapists: language and meaning are deeply intertwined. Language grows and changes at the cultural level, within communities, and in individual families. Family words can grow deep roots and connections, even when idiosyncratic and fun.
In addition, we find joy and purpose in lending our time, talent, and treasure to make things a little—or a lot—better for someone. We care for each other by fixing things. However, even we see something out of whack, we should take moment to make sure we understand what needs fixing.
Joy in autism parenting
In a few weeks, I’m speaking at a conference of behavior therapists. I am part of a group of parents invited to participate. I’ve spoken at parent conferences, but this is the first time I am speaking to professionals—a group of people trained for fixing it.
Some autistics have been pushing back on “fixing” autism. The controversy tells us we have a lot of work to do, particularly with our social expectations and autism acceptance. Still, young autism parents (and us old-timers on occasion) can get caught in the middle. We want to respond to our child with joy—the way I did when Michael “fixed” my camera and he did when his own son “fixed” the bedding.
In my talk with professionals, I hope to communicate this fundamental importance of responding to our children with joy. Parents may need help meeting their responsibility to raise a child with autism, but let’s arrange things, or change things, so that a parent can tap that joy. That’s fixing it.
You can find more information about the event here, which includes both in-person and online registration.
Federation test
This is a test to see if I’m federating again
Fostering independence
How each of us sees independence (and dependence) can vary within a family, community, and culture. Most children have a little spark in them that fosters their independence, strength, and resilience. (We might call it obstinate when we are seeking a little more cooperation!)
The way we all—teachers, parents, therapists—worked with my son as he grew up required his compliance in learning new things. Years of intensive, deliberate, purposeful, and fast work made him vulnerable to learned helplessness. We had to keep an eye out for it and address it when it showed up.
But we also discovered that the situations where we believed he had the least flexibility were actually the best places for him to build his strength and resilience. By the middle of high school, he was participating in his IEP meetings and we started learning how to step back.
Learning how to shift from caregiver to ally is worth another book (and I’m working on it.)
***
I’m part of a group parents talking about joy and acceptance to behavior therapists in San Francisco. If you’d like to hear more, register here. You can also read more in Responsible and Responsive Parenting in Autism: Between Now and Dreams.
Cultural messages about autism
Our culture sends messages about autism, sometimes overt, sometimes hidden, that autism is a disease or pathology. That message is tough on parents.
First of all, it’s human nature to look for the easier fix. We want to conserve our resources and move ahead in a sustainable way. But we also understand that grabbing for a quick solution can sometimes be risky business, especially in parenting.
It’s no wonder, then, that some autism families get sidetracked looking for solutions. Recent science has pivoted, however, and now describes neurodivergence and autism in four broad categories. In other words, science is becoming more accepting, too.
Even among children whose growth and development is broadly affected by their autism, the solution has always been to pivot toward their learning and connecting. That work keeps families on surer footing and creates room for everyone to respond to their progress with joy.
Autism acceptance and trusting your parenting skills
Calling April “autism acceptance month” helps both families and our broader culture. We needed more than awareness. In the swarm of information that follows a diagnosis, many parents hear that hidden message: autism is a disease or pathology. Of course, such a message will sidetrack families.
Like all parents, we responded to our son’s progress with love and joy. Thankfully, science is making its own progress. That means some of the more damaging messages about autism are losing their grip.
I began to understand this as I was writing my first book, See Sam Run. I recalled a pivotal moment from Sam’s early childhood. His preschool teacher had urged us to “extinguish” one of his “perseverative” behaviors. We talked it over. As we translated those science-y words to plain language, they lost their power. We let him be.
Our son was growing and changing every day. We wanted to trust his inner drive. Some of the things that he did appeared to have a purpose to him, even if we didn’t understand them. We wanted to respond to him just as we would any another child: focused on where he was and responding to him with joy as he showed progress.
The science of human learning is catching up. We are learning that we’d made the right choice. There’s some new science exploring this big idea about nature and our inner drive. They call it the many-wrongs principle.
Finding acceptance
One of the best books I read in college may have been a paperback from the career center, Richard Bolles’ classic job-hunting guide, What Color is Your Parachute? He recommended listening carefully to a hiring manager’s question—there likely was a fear behind it. Since then, I’ve often listened for fear buried in a question.
For example, as the parent of an adult with autism, I’ve been asked how I found acceptance. My simple answer is: I love all my children fiercely and with my oldest, that also meant recognizing the responsibility to raise him as best we could, and learning how to meet that responsibility in a loving way. But what if there’s a fear in that question, perhaps something like:
- I struggle to accept my child’s disability and worry that means I am unloving and unlovable
- If accept my child as autistic, I’ll limit their options for the future
- My acceptance doesn’t matter when the world around my child doesn’t care
In other words, when the question signals fear, the answer is different. Our emotions can flag poor conditions around us. When we feel afraid, we can take a breath and see what our emotions are signaling. Do we need more information? Do we need to connect to different people or resources? Better questions lead to better answers–letting love and acceptance shine through.
Autism Acceptance Month, and San Francisco news
Friends,
On Sunday, May 25, I’m speaking at a conference of behavior therapists in San Francisco. I am part of a group of parents invited to participate. I’ve spoken at autism parent conferences over the years, but this is the first time I’ll be speaking to professionals.
Fellow disability families know the value of another family’s experience. When an autism parent asks a question, they can know I’m in their corner as we find an answer or resource. During this panel, we will also show that when professionals and parents work together, we can focus on joy.
To celebrate Autism Acceptance Month, I’m rolling out parts of my talk here on the blog.
You can find more information about the event here, which includes both in-person and online registration.







