06/19/2026
This, all of this.
PS: I love the dad’s puzzle piece tattoo. 😉🧩
Tomorrow morning, Skyler will undergo his third colonoscopy since being diagnosed with Crohn's disease in 2018.
It's a routine procedure designed to help his medical team determine whether his medications are working and whether his disease is finally under some control. Like every parent of a child with Crohn's knows, the scope itself isn't the hardest part.
It's the prep.
Today was cleanout day.
After nearly eight years of monthly cleanouts, countless medications, doctor appointments, procedures, and more bathroom trips & pull-up changes than I could ever count, you might think we'd have this process mastered. The truth is, it's never easy.
But today was different.
At 23 years old, Skyler was incredibly patient. As his stomach began churning throughout the day, he repeatedly sought me out and gently led me toward the bathroom—something he has never done before. He was communicating in the best way he knew how.
And as the hours passed and his digestive system emptied, something else happened.
The smiles increased.
The anxiety decreased.
The irritability softened.
He wanted to hold my hand.
He sat next to me on the couch.
Anyone who knows Skyler knows this is significant because sitting still beside someone is not typically his thing.
It was obvious that he felt better.
And watching him reminded me of something I've learned repeatedly throughout his life:
Autism is too often blamed for everything.
For years, we were told that Skyler's chronic constipation was simply part of autism.
"GI issues are common in autism."
"Unfortunately, that's just part of the diagnosis."
"Give him Miralax."
"Try daily enemas."
Over and over again, specialists treated symptoms without ever searching for the cause.
Despite years of debilitating constipation and obvious signs that something wasn't right, no one wanted to perform a colonoscopy. The assumption was that gastrointestinal issues were simply another box to check on the autism symptom list.
We were expected to accept it. To live with it. To stop asking questions.
But a diagnosis should never become an excuse to stop investigating.
Finally, in 2018, after years of being dismissed, Skyler was diagnosed with Crohn's disease.
His intestines were covered in painful ulcers.
He wasn't experiencing "autism-related GI issues." He had a serious autoimmune disease.
That diagnosis changed everything. Not only did it allow us to pursue proper treatment and begin healing the inflammation damaging his body, but it also helped us better understand many of the behaviors that had previously been attributed to autism.
The hitting.
The interrupted sleep.
The anxiety.
The irritability.
The sudden changes in mood.
Were those things manifestations of autism?
Sometimes, perhaps. But often they were signs of pain. They were Skyler's way of communicating that something inside his body hurt.
As a nonverbal adult, he couldn't tell us, "My stomach feels like it's on fire."
He couldn't explain cramping, bloating, nausea, or inflammation. His body spoke for him.
And once we understood that, everything made more sense.
Today, when those behaviors emerge, we don't automatically assume it's autism. Instead, we ask questions:
Could his Crohn's be flaring?
Is he constipated?
Is he uncomfortable?
Does something hurt?
We've learned to become detectives. We've learned to observe closely. And we've learned that behavior is often communication.
I wish more medical professionals understood that.
I wish more caregivers were encouraged to trust what they see rather than accepting blanket explanations.
Because autism does not make someone immune to other illnesses.
Autism does not prevent someone from developing Crohn's disease, migraines, anxiety, reflux, infections, allergies, or countless other conditions.
And autism should never be used as a reason to stop looking deeper.
The reality is that many autistic individuals—especially those who are nonverbal—depend on the people around them to notice subtle changes and advocate when something feels wrong.
Sometimes that means asking harder questions.
Sometimes it means pushing for additional testing.
Sometimes it means refusing to accept, "That's just autism" as the final answer.
As I watched Skyler today, smiling more and seeking connection after his stomach had finally emptied, I was reminded how much discomfort he carries when his Crohn's isn't cooperating.
I was reminded that many of the things we call "behaviors" are often messages.
And I was reminded how grateful I am that we kept pushing for answers all those years ago.
Because receiving a Crohn's diagnosis didn't just change his treatment plan.
It changed how we see him.
Now, when he's struggling, we don't assume he's giving us a hard time.
We assume he's having a hard time.
And that's a very different perspective.
One built on empathy.
One built on understanding.
One that allows us to look him in the eyes and remind him, every single time:
"It's not your fault."
And perhaps that's the lesson I hope more people take away from Skyler's story.
Don't stop at the diagnosis. Keep observing. Keep asking questions. Keep advocating.
Because sometimes the thing everyone is blaming on autism isn't autism at all.
