Posted by Eric Wilson
Aidan was seven when he asked the question that stopped me in my tracks.
We were at Target, and I was rushing through the aisles with my usual efficiency—grabbing items from our list, calculating how much we were spending, mentally rehearsing the next three errands we needed to run. Classic neurotypical multitasking that I thought made me productive.
Aidan had stopped in the toy aisle, completely absorbed by a display of bouncing balls. Not wanting them, not asking for them—just watching them with the kind of complete attention I hadn’t given anything in years.
“Aidan, we need to go,” I said, tugging gently on his sleeve. “We have more stops to make.”
He looked up at me with those clear, direct eyes that always seemed to see more than they should, and asked: “Pappa, why do you always think about the next thing instead of this thing?”
I opened my mouth to give him the responsible parent’s answer about time management and efficiency. But something in his question hit me like a physical force.
Why did I always think about the next thing?
Standing there in Target, surrounded by toys and my son’s infinite patience, I realized something that would change everything: Aidan wasn’t the one who needed to learn how to pay attention.
I was.
The Teacher I’d Been Missing
For seven years, I’d been so focused on what Aidan needed to learn—social skills, communication strategies, ways to fit into a neurotypical world—that I’d completely missed what he had to teach me.
His autism, which I’d spent thousands of dollars and countless hours trying to “manage,” wasn’t just a collection of challenges to overcome. It was a different way of experiencing reality that, in many ways, was more honest and present than my own scattered approach to life.
While I was mentally three steps ahead, calculating and planning and worrying, Aidan was fully here, completely absorbed in whatever had captured his attention. While I was filtering every experience through expectations and comparisons, he was encountering each moment with fresh eyes.
That night, I found myself watching him during his evening routine. He spent twenty minutes arranging his stuffed animals in a precise pattern before bed—not out of obsession, but with the same careful attention a master craftsman gives to his work. There was something almost meditative about his focus, something I’d lost somewhere in my adult rush toward efficiency.
When was the last time I’d given anything that quality of attention?
The Gifts Hiding in Plain Sight
Over the following weeks, I started paying attention to Aidan’s attention. What I discovered challenged everything I thought I knew about autism and intelligence.
His honesty was relentless. When someone asked how he was doing, he gave real answers. “I’m worried about the fire drill at school” or “I’m excited about the pizza we’re having for dinner.” Not the social scripts most of us learn to recite automatically.
His sense of justice was unwavering. He couldn’t understand why people said things they didn’t mean or made promises they didn’t keep. His moral compass pointed true north while the rest of us had learned to navigate by more flexible standards.
His ability to find joy in simple things was extraordinary. A particular texture of fabric, the way light reflected off water, the precise sound of gravel crunching under his feet—Aidan could find genuine delight in experiences I’d trained myself to ignore as insignificant.
His memory for what actually mattered was perfect. He might not remember to bring home his homework folder, but he remembered every meaningful conversation we’d ever had, every promise I’d made, every moment when I’d been fully present with him.
Most remarkably, his acceptance of reality was complete. When something couldn’t be changed, he adapted without the emotional resistance that consumed so much of my energy. When it rained during outdoor plans, he was disappointed but immediately shifted to indoor alternatives. When his routine was disrupted, he grieved the change briefly and then engaged with what was actually happening.
The Frequency Difference
Using what I now understand as the vibrational levels of consciousness, I began to see that Aidan naturally operated from higher frequencies than most adults:
While I was stuck in Level 4 (Fear) about his future, his social skills, his ability to function independently, Aidan was living in Level 7 (Acceptance) of exactly who he was in each moment.
While I was caught in Level 5 (Desire) for him to be different, more typical, easier to parent, he embodied Level 8 (Peace) with his own nature and interests.
While I operated from scattered attention pulled in four directions—worrying about his diagnosis (North), comparing him to neurotypical children (South), regretting that I hadn’t caught signs earlier (West), and anxiously planning his interventions (East)—Aidan’s attention naturally rested at center, fully present with whatever was in front of him.
His autism wasn’t a lower level of functioning. It was a different frequency entirely—one that bypassed many of the neurotypical patterns that create suffering.
The Shame of Missing It
The hardest part wasn’t recognizing Aidan’s wisdom. It was acknowledging how long I’d been blind to it.
I thought of all the times I’d tried to redirect his intense interests instead of joining him in them. All the moments I’d corrected his “inappropriate” honesty instead of appreciating his authenticity. All the hours I’d spent researching ways to make him more like other children instead of learning how to see the world through his eyes.
I’d been so busy trying to bring him up to my level that I’d missed the fact that in many ways, he was already operating above it.
The grief hit me in waves. Not grief about his autism—grief about my blindness. I’d spent years seeing his differences as deficits when they were actually gifts I’d been too scattered to receive.
The Attention Compass Awakening
That Target moment became my introduction to what I’d later develop as the Attention Compass. Aidan’s simple question—”Why do you always think about the next thing instead of this thing?”—pointed to the fundamental difference between scattered and centered awareness.
His autistic brain wasn’t broken or limited. It was naturally aligned in ways that neurotypical brains, with all their social conditioning and learned anxiety patterns, rarely achieve.
While my attention scattered constantly:
- North into identity concerns about being a “good enough” father
- South into comparisons with parents of neurotypical children
- West into replaying moments I’d handled differently
- East into anxious planning for his uncertain future
Aidan’s attention rested naturally at center, fully engaged with whatever was present. His autism included challenges, absolutely—but it also included a way of being present that I’d forgotten was possible.
The Question That Changes Everything
Three months after that Target revelation, Aidan asked another question that cut straight to the heart of everything:
“Pappa, why do grown-ups think being worried about tomorrow helps today?”
I had no answer. None of my adult explanations about responsibility and planning and future preparation made sense when faced with that simple truth.
Worrying about tomorrow doesn’t help today. Planning obsessively doesn’t improve presence. Scattered attention doesn’t create better outcomes than centered awareness.
My (then) seven-year-old autistic son understood something about consciousness that I was just beginning to glimpse: that presence is a superpower, and most adults have trained themselves out of it.
That night, I made a decision that would transform our entire relationship: instead of trying to teach Aidan how to think like me, I was going to learn how to be present like him.
Coming in Part 2: What neurotypical parents can learn from autistic thinking patterns—including how their concrete, present-moment awareness can teach us to escape the anxiety loops that most adults accept as normal. We’ll explore why autism isn’t something to overcome but something to learn from.
In Part 3: How accepting your child’s autism transforms your own relationship with difference, and the practical ways to shift from fixing your child to receiving their wisdom while still supporting their needs.
Parenting an autistic child and wondering what you might be missing? Email me at eric@theattentioncompass.com. Sometimes the greatest teachers come in the most unexpected forms.
Eric Wilson helps parents discover the hidden gifts in what they thought were only challenges. His approach shows how autism can be a doorway to deeper presence and authentic connection when we learn to receive rather than just manage.