The Gift of Unconditional Love

Very often when I talk with parents of Autistic children, especially parents of Autistic children who are non-traditional communicators, one of their deepest and most abiding fears is that their child will never say the words, ‘I love you’ to them. It seems to many parents to be such a fundamental and profound need, to hear those words, spoken by their child, in their child’s own voice, like it is the ultimate proof of the bond between child and parent, the paramount evidence of shared devotion. And from the murmurings of sympathy I hear from other parents, many share this view.

And yet… I wonder about the visceral grief parents feel when they find themselves facing a future in which they may not hear ‘those words’. I wonder when words became so important, and when having a metaphoric voice became synonymous with having a literal one. Does a child who uses AAC (Augmentative and Alternative Communication) to say ‘I love you’ say it with any less conviction for not using their vocal chords? Does the fact that a child uses signing to say “I love you” undermine the depth of their feeling? Does a child who shows their love through their every communication and behaviour, but not with their words, feel that love any less?

It’s the last one, isn’t it, though? Because ultimately parents doubt their entirely subjective interpretation of their child’s intention in particular behaviours. Does their child’s smile constitute a declaration of love? Does a cuddle? Does their son’s preference for their company, above everyone else’s, speak to his love for them? Does it indicate love when their Autistic daughter seeks comfort from them, and believes that they can give it to her? What about when their child simply glances in their direction, to make sure they are still there? What about when their son trusts them, and them alone, to touch him, even though he anticipates that their touch will be excruciating? Is this love? Is it a declaration of love? Is it enough?

I would answer emphatically yes. Our children communicate their love to us every day, through their actions and behaviours. Sometimes that communication is obvious: my littlest likes to make his fingers into a love heart sign and then point to me. Sometimes it is more subtle and nuanced. When my eldest sits next to me, he likes to rest his foot on top of mine, just to show me that he is there for me, and to assure himself that I am there for him. Sometimes as parents, we just have to learn to read the signs better, and to trust our children that those signs are there. Because, for the most part, they are.

One of the few idioms I really understand is the one about ‘actions speak louder than words’. When I googled that, the first thing that came up was: ‘people say things and make promises they have no intention of keeping on a daily basis. You can tell someone you love him or her as many times as you want, but until your behavior coincides with that, the other person will probably not believe you’. And isn’t this the crux of it? For me, I’d much prefer to experience love from my child than to hear it. I’d much prefer them to show me that they love me — in whatever under- (or over-) stated, idiosyncratic, unique way that suits them — than to hear recited words on automatic recall. (Cue Extreme crooning ‘more than words’, and all that.)

And if that’s true for our children, then it is so for us as parents as well. Most of us offer our children the words ‘I love you’ regularly. But do our actions always reflect that declaration? By just saying ‘I love you’ to our children, do we make it so? Will our children see our love in our actions and interactions with them? Will they believe us?

Unconditional love. It’s what we expect of our children: despite our good days and bad, despite our crotchety moods and accidental mistakes, despite our loss of emotional control, that cutting edge to our tone when we’ve had a long day at work, our exasperated lack of patience, the odd moment of lapsed empathy or judgement … we expect that our children will forgive us unconditionally and love us nonetheless. My question, though, is whether we parents offer that same unconditional forgiveness and love to our children? Of course we love them in that biologically-charged kind of way, because they are our children, but do we actually like our children? Do we enjoy their company and find happiness in their presence? Do we really love them for the exceptional, joyous, wondrous beings that they are? Because, if we do, that means loving their Autism, too.

Recently, I was reading an academic article about parenting children with disabilities (not just Autistic children, but very apposite in an Autistic context). The authors lamented the way in which, after a child’s disability diagnosis, parent education often insists that interventions and therapies are inserted into every aspect of a child’s life, even into their home life. This intervention-focus negatively impacts on the way in which parents are able to express their unconditional love for their children. By overlaying ‘intervention’ and ‘therapy’ into every aspect of a child’s childhood, parents make the home an unnatural, performative environment. The authors argue that, over time, children internalise the message that they are not worthy or deserving of unconditional love as they are, that they must change, perform and mask in order to be gifted love. The message is not explicit, nor is not necessarily consciously intended, but children soon come to the understanding that they are unacceptable and unlovable as they are (Turnbull et al., 1999). For our Autistic children, they come to the understanding that — whilst Mum and Dad love them as part of that primal urge to love and and protect one’s progeny — they aren’t necessarily likeable as unique human individuals. They internalise the understanding that in order to be more likeable and more personally, profoundly lovable, they need to perform less-Autistically.

But our children have a right to know that their Autism is loved unconditionally too; they have a right to have their identities accepted and loved by their parents. More than that, actually: they have a right to have their Autistic identities appreciated and liked by their parents. Because loving, accepting and appreciating all aspects of our children, including their Autism, gifts our children a sense of intactness (a word I’ve taken from the Turnbull et al. article). ‘Intactness’ is the simple concept that all aspects of identity, of self, are valued as an integral and positive part of an individual. This concept of ‘intactness’ is a key one: all children should feel lovable (and likable) as themselves, authentic and unchanged… intact. The freedom to experience ‘intactness’ of self is essential for the development of healthy self-esteem and positive self-regard, and is based in part on a ‘parent’s ability to show pride and pleasure in the disabled part of the body, as one valid aspect of the child, and to communicate appreciation and respect for the child’s unique, often different-looking ways of doing things’ (Turnbull et al., 1999, p. 165).

If, as parents, we don’t value our children as whole and complete, if we don’t view our children as worthy of our unconditional and unqualified love, and if we don’t acknowledge and accept their value to our community, our children will grow up with the perception that they must change their essential selves to deserve our unconditional love.

And, of course, if they must change themselves to be loved, our love is not unconditional at all is it?

Let’s face it, if our children internalise a need to change to be loved, that is tantamount to them being unlovable as they are: Autistic. Unfortunately, ‘parents too often communicate to their child, directly and indirectly, that the disability should be hidden or altered, if not purged — the child should strive toward appearing as “normal” and nondisabled as possible’ (Turnbull et al., 1999, p. 166). This striving towards normalcy, the effort to conform to the homogenous ‘typical’, sacrifices a child’s intactness, their wholeness, their identity… It sacrifices their sense of self.

How, then, should we parent? I have written before about the important of investing in your relationship with your Autistic loved one (https://reframingautism.wordpress.com/2018/10/15/investing-in-relationships-the-core-business-of-parenting/). That is fundamental. But ultimately, I think we must approach parenting from our child’s perspective. We must offer them the kind of unconditional love that we expect for ourselves. And we must understand what is valuable by listening to the voices of other Autistic children and adults. We must develop a genuine respect for Autism and for Autistic individuals, as valued and valued, whole and complete, worthy of unconditional love, and deserving of unqualified inclusion. We have a responsibility to do better for our children and to embrace their intact identities. As parents, as a community, we have a duty to match our actions to our words, to demonstrate our unconditional love by embracing our children as they are, not as we’d like them to be. For our own children, and for each other’s. Our children deserve that.

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#TakeTheMaskOff (But What if I Don’t Know How?)

This afternoon I was describing the concept of Autistic masking to a close friend, who is not directly a part of the Autistic community. I explained that currently there is a robust campaign for Autistics to take their masks off, and to be who they are, authentically and genuinely, without censure, guilt, discrimination or repercussions.

I told my friend about the way in which, as an Autistic woman, I use masks to camouflage my less socially accepted traits and behaviours. Masking helps me to behave or perform in a way that is congenial and expected for the neurotypical majority, a way to let others experience my Autism more comfortably for them… although not necessarily for me. Masking allows me to compensate for my perceived deficits by constructing identities that are more conventionally satisfactory to those I am around.

Masking certainly isn’t solely an Autistic attribute: I think most people mask in different social contexts. I know my neurotypical husband demonstrates different qualities when he goes to work, or when he returns to his home town to visit his college mates, and undoubtedly this adaptation is a type of masking. But for me, I’m pretty sure the intensity and focus of my masking is different. It is the comprehensive and elaborate nature of my Autistic masking that makes it distinctive.

It should have been easy, then, to provide my friend with a kind of ‘compare and contrast’ between my masked self and my real self. But when I tried to use examples from my own life, I just couldn’t manage it.

It’s not that I don’t mask. On the contrary, I am an expert masker. But I am such an expert masker, and I have developed my masks to be disguises of such nuanced, subtle, finessed complexity, that I struggle to find myself… And as I contemplated writing this blog, it occurred to me: I don’t know who I am.

So many of the other Autists I have read during #TakeTheMaskOff campaign have some sense of who they are when their masks are laid aside and they present as their natural, authentic selves without affectation or artifice. But I don’t. I don’t know who I am. And despite my best efforts, I can’t identify where my masks stop and my ‘me’ begins. So, on the cusp of turning forty, I now realise that masking is so habituated for me that I have no sense of myself without them, no access to a ‘me’ sans masks.

I have spent so many years refining my masks, observing how others behave and speak and perform, and shading my masks into accurate and intricate devices for mimicry: the trappings of my social acceptance, disguising the quirks that might exclude me. I have spent so many years arranging my face, my responses, my outward emotions to fit the patterns I’ve observed in others, to present myself as the type of person I perceive others want me to be.

And now, now that I have a moment to strip that scaffolding away and show me as me, I can’t find her. She’s buried beneath the weight of expectations and artificial, learned pretension.

But then a part of me thinks that that’s reductive, and not a little unfair. Because some of my masks are comforting. They are reliable. They make me like myself. They let me be the sort of person I want to be for the people I love. I am a pleaser, a rule follower, someone who spends considerable time and energy making sure that I am making others happy. The ultimate good girl. And masks have  — absolutely and undoubtedly — let me be that person. So, I think that I have to recognise that some masks I wear for me, because I like to please.

Maybe that misses the point of the call to #TakeTheMaskOff. But some of my masks serve a distinct purpose that is not only useful, but essentially enriching, helping me to manage parts of me that might otherwise be debilitating and incapacitating (like my anxiety).

For example: I am an excellent public speaker. I enjoy speaking to a crowd. And I have spent years perfecting my public speaking mask to cover the queasiness in my stomach and the bile that sits in my throat. My mask translates all the energy that amasses in my anxious, flappy hands into animated gesticulating which people read as passion and charisma. I tweak my mask to fit my script, smoothing a furrow here, deepening my tone there, projecting empathy, channeling outrage… I put on my public speaking mask and I feel confident, articulate, insightful, valuable. I have something to contribute. I speak and people listen.

But then again, when I take that mask off, I feel relief. It is me in high performance mode, and I have no stamina for perpetuating that performance over extended periods. It is simply too exhausting. But even as the bile recedes and the nausea subsides, I swap one mask for another, more comfortable version. Less energy and maintenance required. But nevertheless, another mask.

In the past, when I visualised my brain, I used to see a complicated filing room, with scripts for every scenario I’d ever encountered, reworked for success. Now, alongside the rows of filing cabinets, all carefully categorised, I see a Game of Thrones-esque Hall of Faces – the bodiless skinned faces of my various masks that camouflage and disguise me. They are all me, ostensibly, but they are all subtly distinct, representing the shades and tones of my different personas. It isn’t scary, until I wonder which one is the real ‘me’. Until I realise I may have lost her in the rows of faces that are me, but not me.

Last night, as I lay awake, I could hear and feel my husband breathing on one side of me, my little boy on the other. They weren’t breathing in sync. There were snorts, and gushes of breath, murmurs and rumbles. Each exhale grated against my senses. I could hear the excess saliva in the slight gurgle, the minor nasal blockage in the undercurrent of a whistle.  It felt like every breath was a cattle prod to my ear drums, sending unpleasant jolts through my brain. I wanted to wrench off both my ears so great was the internal pressure I felt from those seemingly insignificant noises. I wanted to strike out, flee, break free from the suffocation of hearing that breathing. But I didn’t. I buried my needs, suppressed my desires, pushed them down to the remotest part of my being, smothered by my Hall of Faces.

It is similar at the dinner table. The noises of slurping, chewing, swallowing, the tinkle of fork against teeth, the gulp of water, the sloppy sounds of mastication… In those moments, if I visualise myself, I am a small child, curled defensively in foetal position, rocking, cupping my ears, waiting for the pain of the noise to subside. Pain perhaps isn’t the right word: it is an unbearable pressure that pushes to explode outwards. And through my masks I have taught myself to push that pressure down into an internal implosion, unnoticed by those around me, unremarked upon as I continue to present a façade of serene apathy.

Is that who I am? The trapped girl inside my mind, weighed down by an inescapable need to please, to bury herself in layers of acceptability and neutrality? Repressed. Suppressed. Inhibited. Intimidated by the need to be something other than myself, to stifle and internalise the inherent Otherness inside. I don’t know.

A few weeks ago, my Mum was watching old videos of me as a little girl of maybe eight or nine. It was my birthday party. I was happily playing party games with my friends, laughing, blithe and relaxed in the social context. My Mum noted how profoundly ‘typical’ I appear. Not Autistic. Not Other. Not isolated. And I wonder: was I masking then? Was I already developing this complex tapestry woven from threads I adopted from observing others upon which I now rely so heavily? Was I already binding myself to their comforting familiarity, living my life essentially vicariously? Having no sense of self, have I always just adopted the characteristics of those around me to ‘fit’ into the contexts I find myself?

I don’t know what it is to feel myself, but I know what I like – what I am like – when I am alone. And I really like to be alone, although I have rare opportunity for that. I like to listen to the same song on repeat for hours. I like to dance and move to that song, choreographing the perfect response to the music. I like to pace and speak aloud to myself to process what I’ve done, what I’m doing, what I want to do. Actually, I love talking to myself, and together with me, I have protracted and involved conversations aloud, debating, listing, planning, organising. I like my house to be just so, the cushions on the couch on the right angle, with the zipper facing down, beds made and wrinkle-free, towels hung up with the folds on the right, the bask facing out, tags facing in. I like to eat often and small, without reference to set breakfasts, lunches and dinners. I like to have a hot tea constantly in my hand. And I like to have the fans on, no matter the weather.

Are those preferences ‘me’? Is that ‘me’? If I gave myself more of an opportunity to explore that woman, would I find myself amongst the masks? I don’t know. I hope so.

Since we met, my now husband has told me that I am more tired than I should be. That probably sounds patronising, but it is more of a clinical observation of my state of being. I am constantly wearied, exhausted, chronically and acutely fatigued. Even when I am well rested, even when I have little happening, I come to the end of each and every day with a heavy sense of being utterly drained, shattered, spent. And as I have thought more and more about masking, I think I finally understand why I am always, permanently tired. The effort I expend to internalise and quell myself, and the commensurate effort I expend to don and maintain my masks, is immense. And that massive effort is exhausting, a gargantuan undertaking that depletes my vitality and undermines my energy. And how can I find the strength to find ‘me’, when I have spent all that strength on preserving my masks instead?

Ultimately, masking for me is liberating and debilitating in equal measure. I don’t know how to take my masks off. I don’t know how to live without masks. And they provide me with opportunities to be what I need to be for the people I love. But living a masked existence has robbed me of me. And I owe it to myself to try and find me. I owe it to the people I love to trust them enough to get to know me too. Even if I don’t  feel ready to #TakeMyMasksOff completely. Yet.

Autistic Pride Day: Celebrating My Autism

When I was a little girl, my family was caught in a cyclone. It wasn’t a severe cyclone, but I remember walking up a concrete ramp towards the local high school that was the evacuation centre, and the wind being so strong that it took all my Dad’s strength to keep me from being blown off and away. I remember the feeling of being buffeted and battered by the wind, of having to put my head and shoulders down and battle my way through that gale that pushed me back and up and off at every step.

I always felt that that cyclone was a good analogy for my life.

I wasn’t identified as Autistic until I was an adult. But in my analogy, I always thought that my Autism (or before my identification as Autistic, my difference, my social clumsiness, my awkward manner, my anxiety) was my cyclone, the force I was battling against, that made my life difficult and grueling and tumultuous and blew me off course.

I was wrong.

Now, looking back, I know that Autism wasn’t my cyclone at all. No. Actually, the cyclone was the isolation, and the loneliness, and the peers who couldn’t see past the difference to see me. The cyclone was the world that wasn’t – isn’t – geared to accept me as I am. Those are things that really pummeled and battered me, and kept me anxious and alone.

In reality, my Autism was my protector, my guardian, my shield. It was the part of me that filled me with joy, that satisfied me and made me content, that sheltered me. Autism was my friend, my companion, a bubble within which I could just be. Without censure. Without judgement.

When I was in high school, when I felt the brunt of my peers’ prejudice, my Autism gifted me a special friend in the form of my Maths teacher, who shared my passion for King John and his two Isabella wives. My teacher and I debated this much maligned King for many contented hours. Now, I imagine most 14 year-old girls would feel a certain peer pressure to eschew befriending an adult (especially their Maths teacher), but my Autism cared little for ageism or social expectation: it craved connectedness, shared interests, and quality conversation. That is the freedom of my Autism.

For most of my teenage years, I read between 10 and 20 novels weekly. My parents would take me to the local library every Saturday morning, and I would return my books from the previous week and borrow another pile that I would read into the wee hours of every morning. I loved – still love – books. With each book I read, I made new friends, and the characters would give me the companionship and acceptance I so desired. I suppose that might sound sad, but books allowed me to travel to the most wonderful, remote and fantastic places; I have travelled through time and space and I still count my fictional friends as some of my closest. My Autism gave me the capacity to imagine with an intensity and vividness that meant I could expand my reality beyond the mundane. That is the extraordinary capacity of my Autism.

For all of my life I have adored movement. I was fortunate enough to see Sylvie Guillem and Rudolf Nureyev dance in Giselle when I was a young girl, and I will never forget the visceral joy it gave me to see the complex grace of their motions, their symbiotic bond to the music. I felt their dancing within myself, with far more complexity and totality than simply watching implies. And now when I hear music – whether it’s Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet or Simon and Garfunkel or Wolfmother – I experience the melody and the emotion in my whole body. It is a delight that is difficult to describe, but each sinew, each ligament, muscle, and organ vibrates with the satisfaction of immersion. I experience an elation, an exultation, an ecstasy that is so much more than simply listening to music. That is the joy of my Autism.

I experience the world in technicolour. I notice each detail. Every smell. Each petal unfolding, each cloud forming, the subtlety of colour, the nuance of seasons. I see the texture, I smell the emotion. I don’t need to remind myself to stop and smell the roses, because my brain is so attuned not just to their perfume, but to admire the velvety beauty of their petals, the delicate thinning of the petals, the magnificent patterning, the blending of colour that defies description. Every time. Sometimes that intensity is overwhelming and challenging, but it is also wonderful. That is the beauty of my Autism.

I think my Autism is beautiful.

So often in this world, we judge people on their contributions – what they can offer, what skills they can supply to society – and we equate value with the promise of what can be given, what might be done. Often Autistics are maligned because our contributions are not conventional. When we are lauded it is often because we have some splinter skill that is desirable and has social currency. But I don’t judge myself – or my Autism – by such limited standards. My Autism isn’t valuable or beautiful because it will mean I contribute to society, conventionally or otherwise. It is not beautiful because I have savant skills that make me extraordinary. I am certainly not the next Albert Einstein or Daryl Hannah or Stephen Wiltshire. It is beautiful because it is. Just that simply. Because, for me, my Autism is my rainbow, my sunshine, suffusing me with colour and showing me the beauty in the world. It is a celebration.

And so, on June 18th, I think it only fitting to celebrate my Autism. Because it deserves it. Happy Autistic Pride Day.

The Importance of Identification

A few weeks ago, a mother asked me if she should tell her autistic son about his autism. Then last night, another parent asked if she should pursue an autism diagnosis for her son after his paediatrician raised concerns about ‘labelling’ him. My response to the latter question seemed to resonate with a number of people, so I decided to expand it into this blog. But when I contemplated exactly what I wanted to say, the two questions seemed intrinsically linked, so I am going to try to tackle them together here.

As an autistic mum of three autistic boys, I ask you to consider the questions — ‘should I pursue an autism diagnosis for my child’ and ‘should I tell my child about their autism diagnosis’ — without prejudice if you can. For many, the word ‘autism’ is burdened by stigma, misunderstanding, and stereotype. But how would you feel if I posed the same questions to you using different examples?

Would you seek a diabetes diagnosis for your diabetic son?

Would you tell your daughter about her cultural heritage?

Of course you would, because you and your child need to understand how to recognise and manage their needs, and because you and your child need to have accurate information about who they are so that their needs are met.

Of course you would, because cultural heritage is a vital component of identity, of defining and understanding who we are.

Of course you would, because the ‘label’ of ‘diabetic’, or a recognition of cultural heritage, helps to define your child’s experiences, their identity, and their needs. It offers them, and those around them, understanding into what they need to remain healthy and safe and happy.

Of course you would, because you understand that the ‘label’ doesn’t confine who they are: it isn’t the totality of their experience. Just as the label ‘parent’ helps to define you, it does not confine you to being only a parent, the label ‘diabetic’ or ‘culturally diverse’ defines an important aspect of your child’s life without confining them to only that label.

And of course you would pursue a diagnosis if your child had unmet needs arising from unidentified diabetes. Of course you would tell your child about that diagnosis because their health and well-being is at risk if you did not.

I’m not suggesting there’s a direct parallel between autism and cultural heritage or diabetes. The analogies are far from perfect. For one thing: unlike diabetes, autism is not a disease. It is, however, not unlike cultural identity: both are necessary and critical elements in embracing our authentic identities, and both are genetically inherited. But the point is not the exact analogy anyway, it’s more to bring our collective attention to the reality that so many of us approach autism with our own stigmas and prejudices. We would never dream of abandoning a diagnosis or withholding it — or, indeed, withholding information vital to understanding identity — if less stigmatized ‘labels’ were in play.

But actually, even the diabetes analogy is more fitting than you might think. Unrecognised or unidentified or unacknowledged autism may not be immediately life-threatening, but it does have a profoundly detrimental effect on well-being, and research shows that a lack of acceptance of an autism diagnosis leads to increased risk of depression. Consider this: Autistic children are around 30 times more likely to consider suicide than their typically developing peers, and lack of acceptance – feeling different, feeling isolated, feeling alone, feeling broken and wrong – is a huge factor in that statistic.

So, actually, we are talking about the health of our children. We’re talking about their happiness, their ability to be themselves, to be invited to be accepted as they are, in all their unique and wonderful glory. We’re talking about their potential to experience the sense of well-being that is a basic human right.

I don’t raise the suicide spectre to scare you, although honestly, those figures petrify me. I’m giving you impetus. I’m giving you the why… why it is so important to identify and acknowledge your child’s autism if such an identification is warranted.

If your child is autistic, then they are autistic. Whether you ‘label’ them or not, whether you actively seek to have them identified or not, doesn’t change whether they are autistic or not.

Your child was either born autistic — or not. And the identification process won’t make your child autistic if they were not born so.

Not ‘labeling’ your child won’t mean they aren’t autistic, it won’t make them any less autistic, it won’t neutralise or cancel out their autism. It simply doesn’t work like that.

So, the question is simply whether the ‘label’ is helpful or not. Or, preferably, if ‘identification’ (which is more value-neutral terminology) is helpful or not.

I would argue very strongly that it is.

Your child (and you as their parent), have a right to accurate, quality information that will allow you and your child to understand their needs and to advocate for those needs to be met. How can you support your child, and how can your child learn to self-advocate, if you – and your child — don’t know fully, holistically, profoundly, who they are? How can you and your child feel inclusion and acceptance if you deny them (and yourself) access to the community who share their neurocognitive processing?

Self-knowledge is the cornerstone of well-being, resilience, and self-determination, but you can’t have self-knowledge if you’re denied access to a part of who you are. How tragic, to deny a child their identity from a place of fear, with the vain hope that by not acknowledging, by not naming, by not recognising a fundamental part of that child – a significant part that makes them who they are – that that part might disappear or change or wither away.

If they don’t already, your child very soon will understand that they are different than their peers: respect that knowledge, embrace it, give them complete access to their identity: it is theirs after all. And autism is integral to who we are, it is fundamental to our identity… there is simply so much potential for damage in denying anyone so intrinsic a part of their identity.

But, no doubt some of you will protest that even if you don’t approach the word ‘autism’ with prejudice and stigma, that prejudice and stigma nevertheless exists. Labelling your child, you may argue, risks exposing them to a world that shuns and slurs autism as a tragedy, that misunderstands autism and excludes autistics. By giving your child the autism label, you may worry that you set them up for failure in a world that neglects them, ostracises them, refuses to accept and respect them.

That is true, to some extent. But as parents of autistic children, as the people charged with changing the world for our children, as the people who should love our children as they are and not as we imagined or expected them to be, it is simply not good enough to be passive. As parents of autistic children it is our mission – our raison d’ȇtre – to begin the social movement for change, or (to use a hackneyed phrase) to be the change we want to see. If we tacitly participate in the stigma, if we perpetuate it, if we ignore it and don’t attempt to challenge it, then we have indeed set our children up to fail.