How a Pile of Sticks on a Playground Taught Me What Real Independence Looks Like for Our Autistic Kids.

“The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.” – Eleanor Roosevelt

I have this quote taped to my fridge, right next to the grocery list and a crooked drawing of a rocket ship. On the hardest days (the meltdowns, the school emails, the 3 a.m. worry spirals), it feels like the only thing still holding me together.

Hi, I’m Pascale. Mom to one extraordinary 7-year-old boy who experiences the world in technicolor intensity.

For years I thought “independence” meant my child would one day tie his shoes without help, order his own meal, or ride the bus alone. Spoiler: it’s so much bigger than that… and, beautifully, so much simpler.

Let me take you to the moment everything shifted.

The Tuesday That Rewrote My Definition of “Possible”

It was one of those perfect late-April mornings: warm sun, freshly cut grass, the kind of day that smells like hope. I’d promised my son a trip to the brand-new playground with the giant pirate-ship sandbox.

We pulled up at 10 a.m. The place was already alive: kids shrieking down curly slides, parents juggling juice boxes and toddlers. My son froze at the gate, hands flapping hard against his thighs; my body tensed for the usual sprint back to the car.

But then he tugged my sleeve and said, clear as a bell, “Sticks.”

Half-buried in the sand was a forgotten pile of driftwood pieces. He marched straight over, plopped cross-legged in the sand, and began sorting them: longest to shortest, thickest to thinnest. I hovered nearby, ready to redirect or defend his space if another child came too close.

That’s when she appeared: a tiny girl with crooked pigtails and a purple dinosaur shirt. She crouched beside him and just watched for a full minute (an eternity in playground time).

“Can I build with you?” she asked softly.

My breath stopped. He didn’t look up, but he paused; that sacred half-second where the whole world waits. Then, without a word, he selected the shortest stick and held it out to her.

She took it. They built a wonky fence around a plastic turtle someone had abandoned. Ten minutes later another child joined. My son became the quiet foreman: assessing, selecting, handing out pieces like a master builder delegating tasks.

Fifteen minutes after that, he stood up, brushed the sand off his knees, turned to his little crew, and waved goodbye. Just like that, the project was complete.

In the car on the way home, I cried; not because he had “acted neurotypical for once,” but because he had led. On his terms. In his language. With his rules. For the first time I saw the outline of his future self: a person who chooses connection, who directs his world, who communicates volumes without ever needing to speak in paragraphs.

That pile of sticks showed me that independence isn’t about doing everything “like everyone else.” It’s about authoring your own story, even if the pen you use is a piece of driftwood.

Independence Isn’t a Finish Line — It’s a Garden

I used to treat independence like a checklist. Once he can do X, Y, and Z, we’ll be “there.” Now I see it as a living garden we tend together. Some seeds sprout in a week (zipping a jacket). Others take entire seasons (ordering food at a restaurant). A few need years of patient watering before they bloom. The goal isn’t a perfect garden that looks like the neighbors. The goal is a garden that is unmistakably his.

Here’s the roadmap I wish someone had handed me years ago:

Age Window	Tiny Seed You Can Plant Today	Future Bloom You’ll See
2–5 yrs	Hand-over-hand to push the elevator button	Choosing which floor — first taste of self-advocacy
6–10 yrs	Visual recipe card for making toast or cereal	Packing their own lunch or snack — executive function
11–15 yrs	Practicing “one sentence + wait time” on the phone with Grandma	Scheduling their own appointments or reminders
16+ yrs	Shadowing a barista or shop employee for 15 minutes (with supports)	Part-time job, volunteer gig, or supported employment

Three Micro-Habits That Actually Move the Needle

(You only need to start with ONE)

1. The 60-Second Choice Menu Every single morning, offer two picture or object choices for a routine task. “Brush teeth first or put on socks first?” Sixty seconds of autonomy = one drop of lifelong confidence.

2. The “I Do, We Do, You Do” Ladder Pick one self-care or household skill (pouring milk, folding laundry, wiping the table).

   • Days 1–3: You model silently.

   • Days 4–6: You guide their hands together.

   • Day 7+: They try alone while you cheer from the doorway. Fade your presence like a dimmer switch — slowly, kindly, predictably.

3. The Future-Me Letter Once a month, sit together with a blank card or piece of paper. Ask: “What would make Future-You really happy?” Let them scribble, draw, type, or dictate one goal. Seal it. Open it six months later. Watching their own dreams come true in their own handwriting is magic.

   
   

Your Turn

What’s ONE independence goal you’re holding in your heart for your child right now? Maybe it’s tying shoes. Maybe it’s buying a cookie with a laminated card. Maybe it’s simply choosing which shirt to wear without a meltdown.

Drop it in the comments below or send me a message.

Every fiercely independent autistic adult was once a kid who got to choose the blue cup instead of the red one.

With love & driftwood, Pascale Bloom with Autism 🌱

P.S. If this post lit even the tiniest spark for you, please share it with one parent who needs the reminder that today’s microscopic choice is tomorrow’s big, beautiful freedom. Together we grow.