I’ve been thinking a lot about inclusion lately.
Not just for children with autism.
Not just for children with visible differences.
But for all children with different needs, abilities, temperaments, and learning styles.
Inclusion isn’t a trend.
It isn’t a “nice add-on.”
And it isn’t something we do out of charity.
It’s something we do because every child belongs.
Today, August was allowed to bring his bears to Sunday school so they could “learn about Jesus” too.
To most people, that might seem small.
To us, it wasn’t.
It meant he felt safe.
It meant he felt understood.
It meant someone saw his need for comfort — and made room for it.
That’s inclusion.
As a mom of a child with autism, I’ve seen both sides of this.
I’ve seen spaces where August is fully welcomed — where accommodations are made quietly and naturally, where headphones don’t draw stares, where patience is extended without making him feel “other.”
And I’ve seen spaces where inclusion feels conditional.
Where a child is welcome — as long as they don’t disrupt.
As long as they don’t need too much.
As long as they fit.
But here’s the truth:
Inclusion isn’t about convenience.
It’s about dignity.
And this doesn’t just apply to autism.
It applies to:
• Kids with anxiety
• Kids with ADHD
• Kids with physical disabilities
• Kids who learn differently
• Kids who are shy
• Kids who are loud
• Kids who struggle socially
• Kids who struggle academically
Every child carries something.
Inclusion means we don’t rank whose needs are “big enough” to matter.
It means we teach our children to notice difference without fearing it.
To make space instead of shrinking it.
To ask questions kindly.
To extend friendship intentionally.
And sometimes inclusion looks simple.
It looks like:
• A teacher adjusting seating.
• A church welcoming comfort items without hesitation.
• A parent explaining differences to their child instead of shushing curiosity.
• A friend inviting the child who struggles socially to sit with them.
Inclusion doesn’t require perfection.
It requires awareness.
It requires adults willing to model empathy.
It requires communities willing to flex.
It requires patience.
As parents, we can’t control every environment our children enter.
But we can raise children who make space for others.
That matters.
Because one day, our kids won’t just be the ones needing inclusion.
They’ll be the ones offering it.
And that’s the kind of world I want August — and Sawyer — to grow up in.
August, Always 