Today, my 19-year-old son let out a fart so loud and so wet-sounding in public that three people turned around, one person visibly gagged, and I briefly considered changing my name and moving provinces.
Gross.
Mortifying.
And for him?
Absolutely nothing.
He didn’t blush.
He didn’t stammer an apology.
He didn’t plan a fake move to Nova Scotia.
He just carried on like nothing happened — because in his world, it wasn’t a big deal.
And honestly?
There’s a strange, almost enviable freedom in that.
My son has autism, significant intellectual disabilities, ADHD, anxiety, and an autoimmune disorder. His life is hard. Brutally hard sometimes. He fights battles daily that most people will never see.
But there’s one tiny, unexpected upside: he doesn’t care about the small stuff.
He farts in public and does not care.
He picks his nose and eats in front of everyone and does not care.
He wears the same shirt three days in a row because it’s comfortable and does not care.
The rest of us spend our whole lives worrying about how we’re being perceived.
We obsess over what strangers think of us in the grocery store.
We cringe at the memory of something embarrassing we did five years ago.
But him?
He’s blissfully unburdened by all that noise.
If I had farted like that in public, I’d have dug my own hole in the floor and disappeared forever. I’d be drafting my public apology on Instagram and adding “Flatulence Gate” to the list of things I relive at 3 a.m.
But him?
He just carried on eating his snack like nothing happened, because to him, it wasn’t shameful. It was… life.
And honestly, in that moment, I couldn’t help but think: maybe he’s got this part right.
Make no mistake: autism isn’t easy. It’s not a superpower, and my son’s life is anything but simple. He struggles, he hurts, he fights hard every day just to navigate a world that wasn’t built for him.
But sometimes, in the middle of all that struggle, there’s this tiny gift — the freedom of not knowing, of not caring about the small, silly, socially-constructed stuff the rest of us are shackled to.
And while I’m over here drowning in anxiety about how loud my sneeze was, he’s living his life, unfiltered, unashamed.
There’s a strange beauty in that.
A strange freedom I almost envy.
He teaches me that not every faux pas is fatal.
He teaches me that embarrassment is optional.
He teaches me that life is hard enough without carrying the weight of strangers’ opinions, too.
His life is hard — unimaginably so sometimes. But in moments like today, I see the power in his lack of pretense. I see a kind of freedom I’ve never had.
And maybe, just maybe, instead of feeling mortified, I can take a cue from him.
Maybe I can let go of some of the tiny, useless shame I carry.
Maybe I can embrace a little of that odd freedom, too.
So yeah — my son farted loudly in public today. Gross? Absolutely.
Embarrassing? For me, yes. For him, not at all.
And in a weird way, that’s a gift.
A lesson.
A reminder that while his life is hard, there’s still something beautiful about his ability to live unfiltered, unapologetic, and completely himself.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to unlearn 40 years of embarrassment and maybe buy us both a snack — because apparently, he’s not fazed.
