There’s a moment I keep coming back to. It wasn’t dramatic—no big announcement, no clear turning point—just a quiet conversation in our home after our twins were diagnosed with autism. I remember my reaction being immediate, almost optimistic. “Oh, this is great. Finally we will get some support.” My husband’s response was just as immediate, but completely different. “We can’t tell anyone.” And just like that, we realized we weren’t just navigating an autism diagnosis—we were navigating two different worlds.

I’m from North America, but I’ve spent a significant part of my life in Latin America, and my husband is Latino. We always knew that being in an intercultural marriage would come with its own complexities. What we didn’t expect was how much that would deepen when we stepped into parenting children with autism. There are layers here we didn’t even know existed until we were living them in real time.

When we spent time in Latin America in March 2025, I saw something more clearly than I ever had before. Disability—especially something like autism—is still deeply stigmatized. Not in a loud or confrontational way, but in a quiet, “we don’t talk about this” kind of way.

So instead of saying “autism,” we found ourselves softening the language with our own family. “They’re just a little more energetic.” “They’re quirky,” or, “Sorry about that, we’re working on behaviour.” And to be fair, those things are true—but they’re also not the whole truth. It’s not that the twins' autism doesn’t exist, but that our family comes from a culture where support is often reserved for those with very visible, severe disabilities. And everyone else tends to fall somewhere unseen—in the middle.

Then we came back to Canada, and the experience felt almost like the opposite. Here, there is language, awareness, diagnoses, frameworks, and more and more accommodations showing up in schools, workplaces, and even churches. That is a gift, and I don’t take it lightly. But I do find myself wondering if the pendulum will swing. 

As more people name neurodivergence and advocate for support, systems are trying—really trying—to catch up, and sometimes that catching up comes with its own kind of tension. There’s uncertainty, fatigue, and even a quiet resistance that doesn’t always get named out loud. And once again, families like ours find themselves in the middle, just trying to understand their child, just trying to show up, just trying to do the next faithful thing in front of them.

That’s where we are. Still figuring it out.

We’re figuring out how to talk about autism within our immediate family and with relatives who genuinely don’t see our children as autistic because they don’t have what they would consider “visible” markers of disability beyond stimming. We’re learning how to hold space for two cultures at once, neither of which fully holds the whole picture.

I remember one day when our son was so overstimulated that what should have been a simple choice —whether or not to wear noise-canceling headphones—turned into a full-blown standoff. I understood his need for them, but I also understood what it meant for him to stand out. And so we found ourselves doing this delicate dance of trying to honour both the support he needs and the culture within which he has to operate. It’s not always graceful. Sometimes it looks like deep wisdom, sometimes it looks like advocating, and sometimes it looks like negotiating with a small human while silently questioning all your life choices.

And as we’ve been walking this out, I’ve started to notice something else. There is often an intercultural dynamic to how disability is understood, named, or hidden. I’ve seen it across different communities—where disability is kept private, softened, or simply unnamed. 

Because disability isn’t always visible. Sometimes it’s a diagnosis, sometimes it’s chronic illness, sometimes it’s something invisible—mental health, trauma, neurological differences. Sometimes it’s the person who looks completely “fine” on a Sunday morning and is carrying far more than anyone realizes. 

And that raises a quiet but important question: what does disability support in church actually look like? Not in theory, not in mission statements, but in the lived experience of someone who is tired, stretched, navigating something complex, and still choosing to show up. Do they feel seen? Do they feel safe? Or do they feel like they have to explain themselves—or worse, hide parts of who they are just to belong?

I don’t think we’ve fully answered those questions yet. I know we haven’t in our own family. My husband and I have had two years of working with our kids since their diagnosis, and while we’ve grown so much, there are still moments that catch us off guard. Even our older boys are trying to figure out how to talk about their brothers—how to say, “I have autistic siblings,” in a way that feels true and kind and not defining. We are all learning together, sometimes beautifully and sometimes awkwardly.

But one thing we are clear on is this: autism, however it is understood, will not be something that creates shame in our children’s lives. We are holding the tension between awareness and stigma, between support and overwhelm, between naming something and not always knowing what to do next. And maybe that’s exactly where many families (especially families with a culture blend) are—right in that tension, doing their best with what they have.

I do believe this, though. When the church makes space for stories that don’t fit neatly—stories that are still unfolding, still messy, still being understood—that’s when we move even one step closer to real belonging. Not the kind that looks polished, but the kind that feels like an exhale.

On April 18, we’ll gather 100 women, and some of us will sit right in the middle of this question—what it looks like to create churches where people living with disability are not just present, but truly belong. And for those who won’t be in the room, there are still ways to be part of that work. Sometimes it’s as simple, and as profound, as choosing to see, choosing to care, or choosing to honour someone whose story has quietly shaped your own.

Because when it comes to disability, this isn’t about having it all figured out. It’s about choosing, together, not to look away and to keep leaning in, even when it’s awkward.