There were two reasons I was grateful my friend David took JP to the movies.

The first is that JP loves terrible movies.

Okay, maybe they aren’t terrible. But they are usually the kind of movies I spend two hours watching while periodically checking the time and wondering how it has somehow only been eleven minutes since the last time I checked.

So when David offered to go with him, I was thrilled.

Have fun, boys. Godspeed. I’ll pick you up when it’s over.

But there was another reason I was grateful.

JP is twenty now. He’s autistic, incredibly funny, quick-witted, and one of the most wonderful people I know.

But most people never get the chance to know that version of him because of his debilitating social anxiety.

He doesn’t drive. He doesn’t easily make plans. He doesn’t text someone and say, “Hey, want to go do something tonight?”

If JP goes somewhere or does something, it’s typically because I make it happen.

He has two friends who love him well, and I’m incredibly grateful for them both. But they have school and jobs and lives that are getting busier because, well, that’s what happens when you’re young.

That’s one of the parts of raising a neurodivergent child that people don’t talk about enough.

They grow up, too.

The birthday candles keep adding up. Friends get jobs. People go to college. Everyone starts driving themselves around and making their own plans. The world expects independence, but the things that made social situations difficult at twelve don’t magically disappear at twenty.

Sometimes they get harder.

JP was excited about going to the movie with David all day. Then, right before it was time to leave, he almost fell apart.

But he went. And he made it through the movie.

When I picked him up, he told me they had fun. I could tell because he was talking non-stop, ninety miles an hour.

He even talked to David. At least a little.

That might sound like a small thing. Trust me, it’s not a small thing.

JP’s dad doesn’t live in town, so male role models are scarce. There’s something about watching another man choose to spend time with your son – not because he has to, not because you’re paying him, not because it’s part of a program, but because he likes him.

So there I sat in my car, watching them walk out of the movie theater. Oh hey, hi, it’s me, Helicopter Mom.

Two guys who had just watched a movie. That’s it. Nothing extraordinary happened. There was no grand gesture. No breakthrough moment. No inspirational movie soundtrack playing behind them. They just went to the movies. But I teared up anyway. Surprise!

When you have a child whose world can become very small because of anxiety, you notice the people who help make it a little bigger. You notice the people who aren’t bothered by the quiet. The people who are patient and understand that the conversation might not come.

The people who hold space.

That’s what made me so emotional.

David got to see a little more of the JP I know. The funny one. The quick-witted one. The guy who has plenty to say once anxiety loosens its grip long enough to let him say it.

As his mom, I wish I could make the whole world see that guy.

I can’t.

I can’t take away his anxiety. I can’t manufacture friendships for him. And as much as I want to make the world easier, I know I can’t facilitate every part of his life forever.

That’s the part that scares me.

As I sat in the movie theater parking lot and watched my son walk out beside someone who chose to spend the evening with him, my heart was full.

Maybe JP’s world won’t always be as small as I sometimes fear it will be. Maybe there will be people willing to meet him halfway.

And maybe, every once in a while, it’ll happen over a movie I’m very grateful I didn’t have to watch!