Christmas on the Spectrum

 Every year, as the holidays creep closer, I feel this familiar knot form in my stomach. Christmas is supposed to be magical, joyful, full of excitement and wonder. But for us- for Wyatt.. it’s complicated. And every year, I find myself stressed and overwhelmed trying to capture even a piece of that magic for him.

Gift shopping is one of the hardest parts. There has never been that one toy Wyatt is drawn to at the store. There’s never been a single “special interest” we can follow to make gift-giving simple. Wyatt finds joy in things that don’t fit inside the holiday aisle at Target... music, inanimate objects, patterns only he can see. This week, his favorite thing is fixating on pictures on my phone. He’ll sit for long stretches completely immersed in one image, and if I have to exit out of it, the meltdown comes fast and hard. I’ve printed the same photo multiple times just so he can hold it, stare at it, feel grounded by it.

Sometimes it is a toy. I’ll catch him lingering on something and think, Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the thing. Then we get it for him…and the interest fades as quickly as it appeared. It’s like chasing smoke.. always almost within reach, but impossible to hold onto.

It is so hard to shop for someone who can’t tell you what they want.

But the hardest part of Christmas isn’t the presents. It’s the day itself.

What’s supposed to be a joyful, loud, bustling celebration is, for Wyatt, everything his nervous system fights against. The noise, the crowd, the change in routine, the expectations.. it’s overwhelming. Most holidays end with him slipping away to his room, shutting the door, and spending the evening alone. Meanwhile, the rest of the world is laughing, unwrapping gifts, clinking glasses.. doing the Christmas things that I always imagined my child would grow up loving.

And it is heartbreaking. Heartbreaking to watch your child struggle through a day that is supposed to bring joy. Heartbreaking to know the traditions you cherished don’t bring him comfort. Heartbreaking to see him retreat while everyone else gathers.

But it’s also a reminder... Christmas doesn’t look the same for every family.

And that’s okay.

For us, Christmas is quieter. Slower. Adapted. It’s printing out the same photo ten times if it means he’ll smile. It’s letting the wrapping paper stay untouched if he doesn’t want to open anything. It’s giving him space when the world is too loud, and reminding myself that his way of experiencing joy doesn’t have to match anyone else’s.

Maybe Christmas on the spectrum looks different. But different doesn’t mean less. It just means learning to find, and celebrate the moments of joy that do make sense to him.

And that’s the magic we hold onto

Kerri