The day we received Rohan’s autism diagnosis, I remember feeling a wave of emotions I couldn't quite name. Fear, confusion, and a deep, aching worry—how would I understand my son? How would I connect with him? I wanted to be the father he needed, but I felt completely unprepared.

In those early days, I found myself overwhelmed by advice, books, and well-meaning suggestions. "Try this therapy," "Look into that method." But what no one told me was that the best way to understand my child was simply to observe him, to meet him where he was, instead of trying to pull him into a world that didn’t feel natural to him.

Rohan has always had a fascination with gadgets. While other kids ran around the park, he was drawn to remotes, old phones, and circuit boards. He’d spend hours pressing buttons, watching lights blink, and figuring out how things worked. At first, I worried—shouldn’t he be playing with toys like other children? Shouldn’t he be socializing? But then, I stopped myself. Who was I to decide what ‘play’ should look like for him?

One evening, after a long day at work, I sat beside him on the floor as he examined an old tablet. He wasn’t speaking much, but his focus was unwavering. I hesitated, then asked, “What does this button do?”

For the first time in hours, he looked up at me. Then, he carefully took my hand and placed my finger on the screen, guiding me through an app he had somehow discovered and mastered. It was a simple moment, but it changed everything for me. I realized I had been waiting for Rohan to fit into my world when, all along, he had been inviting me into his.

From that day forward, I made it my mission to connect with him through technology. We built small circuits together, explored apps, and watched videos on how machines worked. Slowly, our bond deepened. He started showing me things instead of keeping them to himself. He even began using a speech app to communicate when words felt too difficult.

One particular day stands out—a day I count as a true ‘daily win.’ Rohan had been working on a small robot kit we had bought together. He was determined to make it move, but after hours of trying, it wouldn’t work. I could see the frustration in his eyes, the way he clenched his tiny fists. In the past, he might have abandoned the project or retreated into silence. But this time, he turned to me and, with a deep breath, said, “Papa, help.”

Two simple words. Words I had longed to hear in moments of struggle. He trusted me enough to ask for help.

That night, as he fell asleep beside me, clutching his now-working robot, I realized something profound. Autism hadn’t distanced me from my son—it had given me a new way to love, to learn, and to grow.

This journey hasn’t been easy, but it has been incredibly rewarding. That’s why I started a support group for fathers. Too often, we fathers feel lost, unsure of how to be involved. But I’ve learned that we don’t need to have all the answers. We just need to show up, to listen, and to embrace our children exactly as they are.

Rohan is my greatest teacher. And every time he reaches for my hand to show me something new, I am reminded that love isn’t about changing our children—it’s about changing ourselves to better understand them.