I’ve been an advocate for neurodivergent people for years, myself included. But especially for my autistic son. Countless psychological evaluations, IEP meetings, phone calls, emails to teachers and principals, and years spent advocating for the accommodations and support he needed.
But my son is an adult now. And sometimes, even after all these years, I find myself needing to relearn old lessons. We love hosting seasonal gatherings at our home, especially for Halloween and the winter solstice. And every time, I ask my son to help get the house ready for guests. It’s the same tasks every time. And every time, he looks at me blankly, waiting for me to tell him what to do next. So I give him one task, he completes it, and then waits for the next. I’ll admit, I’ve found this frustrating. These are things we’ve done together for years. Why doesn’t he just know what needs to be done by now? And then it finally occurred to me. Why haven’t I just made a checklist?
A simple, reusable list of everything that needs to happen before we have guests. Something he can reference independently instead of relying on me to direct every step. I asked him what he thought of the idea. His response? “I’ve been wanting that for years.” He’d never told me. And I’d never thought to ask.
Here I am, an autistic adult with ADHD, someone who has spent years advocating for accommodations and accessibility, and I’d overlooked something so simple in my own home. I know firsthand how helpful external structure can be. I know that executive functioning challenges don’t magically disappear just because a task is familiar. And I know that needing explicit instructions isn’t the same as being unwilling or unable to do something. Yet I’d fallen into the trap of assuming that because we’d done these tasks together so many times, he should just know what to do.
I’d been interpreting his need for direction as a lack of initiative. He’d been waiting for the structure that would allow him to take that initiative. And neither of us had communicated what we needed. The checklist benefits both of us. He gets clear expectations and the independence to work through tasks at his own pace. I no longer have to carry the mental load of remembering every task and directing each step while juggling everything else involved in hosting a party. It’s such a small adjustment, but it changes the experience for both of us.
This is something I think about often in my professional accessibility work, too. We sometimes assume that because a process seems straightforward to us, it should be equally straightforward to everyone else. When someone struggles, we may focus on what they’re not doing rather than examining whether we’ve given them the tools and information they need to succeed. Accessibility isn’t always about complicated technology or sweeping changes. Sometimes it’s about recognizing an unnecessary barrier and finding a practical way to remove it. And advocating for someone doesn’t mean we always know what they need. Even when we’ve known them their entire life. Even when we share some of the same neurodivergent experiences. We still need to ask. And we need to make room for answers we might not expect.
Sometimes the most meaningful accommodation is also the simplest. We just have to recognize the need for it.
