Searching So Long

Asking Better Questions

For years, I felt like I was wandering in the dark. I’d tried everything I could think of to “fix” my son’s autism, from mainstream therapies to treatments that, looking back, make me cringe a little. Nothing had transformed him into the “normal” child I once thought I wanted. I was exhausted, and somewhere deep inside, I knew I needed to change my approach.

The breakthrough came when I started asking different questions—better questions that led to answers that actually helped both me and my son.

After wrestling with the new definition of acceptance I had discovered, I found myself facing significant internal resistance. It wasn’t easy to examine why I pushed back so hard against fully accepting my son’s condition. Through this uncomfortable self-reflection, I stumbled upon an important distinction between wanting and desiring. I wanted my son to be different, but did I truly desire the consequences of that difference? Would those changes truly benefit him or just ease my own discomfort?

This honest examination revealed something I hadn’t been ready to face—I hadn’t fully accepted my son or his condition. I had been operating from a place of conditional love, though I would have vehemently denied it if anyone had suggested it. Through this painful realization, I discovered something that changed everything: the incredible power of asking good questions. Better questions naturally produce better answers. When I asked, “How can I cure my son?” I got very different results than when I asked, “How can I help my son have his best possible life?”

Good questions direct my practice toward joyful ends rather than frustrating dead ends. They prevent me from wasting precious time, energy, and resources on paths that lead nowhere. Most importantly, they allow me to move forward with confidence instead of second-guessing myself constantly.

Once I fully realized the power of good questioning, I began to ask myself how I could make that skill even better. I was leveraging my own success, building on what was actually working. I wanted to both clarify my thinking and empower my practice—to find questions that would open doors I didn’t even know existed. So I started exploring what it means to ask truly empowering questions, and where that journey might lead. What I discovered transformed not just my approach to parenting my special needs son, but my entire life.

What Is an Empowering Question?

An empowering question produces an answer that breaks through limitations you weren’t even aware existed. I had no idea that my initial judgment about my son’s condition limited how I viewed him and how I behaved toward him. These limitations were created by incorrect answers I had accepted as fact—that autism was purely negative, that it needed to be “fixed,” that my son was somehow less than he should be.

By not questioning those assumptions and judgments, I remained forever bound by them. They colored every interaction, every decision, every feeling I had about my son and his future. An empowering question also produces an answer that draws on more resources within us than we realize we have. We are all capable of far more than we think. We believe our self-imposed limitations on time, money, and energy are real when they’re often just convenient excuses. When challenged with discovery and expansion, our minds can come up with uniquely empowering ideas that we never would have considered otherwise.

The best empowering questions produce answers that drive us toward positive results we’re seeking. What are you trying to gain or accomplish in your journey with your special needs child? Peace of mind? Joy? Contentedness? Happiness? It’s important to remember the point of the questioning—to drive you toward what you want to achieve, not just to find any answer.

Finally, an empowering question produces an answer that makes you feel happy and energized for action. If the answer you get requires enormous self-discipline or seems like a drag, you’ve probably asked a poor question. Consider the difference between asking, “How can I get this parenting challenge over with quickly?” and “How can I find more joy and satisfaction in parenting my special needs child?”

Who wants to push through the first approach? But the second opens up possibilities: I can focus on the joy I feel knowing my child is having a better life. I can notice small improvements rather than focusing on what’s still challenging. I can celebrate tiny victories rather than dwelling on setbacks.

Do you see the difference? One path drains energy; the other creates it. With this understanding of empowering questions, I started asking myself better questions about how I should view my son and interact with him. The answers changed everything.

What Questions Did I Ask Myself?

Once I had a new tool in my emotional toolbox, I was eager to start using it. I meditated on what questions I was currently asking and what better, more empowering questions I could envision. This is what I came up with.

What would be lost if he were miraculously cured?

This question turned everything upside down for me. I had been burdened by the hidden limitation that nothing could be good about my son’s condition. But nothing is 100% bad—even his limitations provide special opportunities for pleasure and joy that I might never have experienced otherwise.

By focusing my attention away from what I judged negatively, I suddenly realized there was a lot that I genuinely liked about who he is. I began searching for the unique goodness in our situation, and what I found surprised me.

My son loves meaningful hugs. Not the quick, obligatory hugs that typical teenagers give their parents, but deep, heartfelt embraces that communicate genuine love. He’s not ashamed of showing affection. He’s not pulling away to gain independence. He’s free to love openly and completely. He would not be comfortable with this level of physical connection if he were typical, nor would it be age-appropriate.

When I feel sad about the lack of deep conversations between us, I remind myself that for many parents, conversations with their teenage children are filled with conflict, sarcasm, or angry silences. My son has never yelled at me and told me I’m an ass—even when I’ve been one. He doesn’t punish me by withholding affection if I displease him.

My son appreciates the help we give him, and it shows in the little things he does. We don’t ask him or assign him tasks as chores—he looks for ways of contributing to the family on his own. He likes to clean up after dinner. He enjoys helping his mom with laundry and me in the yard.

I remember when he wanted to be independent and responsibly cut his own fingernails. On a couple of occasions, he cut them too short and caused himself pain. We gently reminded him that mommy and daddy would either supervise him or do it for him until he mastered the task.

You could feel that he recognized his own limitations. He felt self-conscious and embarrassed, but he knew he needed our help. Upon realizing his limitations, he asked for big hugs, told us he loved us, and looked for a way to repay our kindness. What typical teenager reacts that way when faced with their own limitations?

My son wants to live with us. Though he’s gone through phases of saying he wants to live alone, he doesn’t really want to be by himself. He isn’t capable of taking care of himself independently, but the desire for independence is still there. He wants to be as self-sufficient as he can be, and he tries hard to show that he can do things himself.

Unfortunately, he has real limitations. He can’t tie his own shoes, dress appropriately for the weather, cross the street without supervision, or understand money. But here’s the beautiful part—his desire for independence doesn’t stop him from accepting the help he’s given. He provides us with the opportunity to serve, and in that service, we find meaning.

How does my son make me a better person?

This question led to another: How would accepting him fully make me a better person? I had to admit that rejecting him had made me, well, kind of an asshole. Could accepting him become part of my own spiritual practice?

He taught me patience. There was no point in trying to push him or rush his progress. I developed the discipline of listening to him even when he repeats the same thing over and over again.

He taught me the absolute necessity of focusing on the positive. It was natural and easy to focus on the problems—it was also draining and made me deeply unhappy. Since there was so much that I could focus on that most would consider negative, I had endless opportunities to feel awful.

I learned the discipline of focusing on what works. At first, it was simple self-preservation—I couldn’t sustain the emotional drain of constantly seeing what was “wrong.” Later, I recognized the value of this positive focus and built on that discipline in every area of my life.

He taught me the profound joy of serving another, and he provides me daily opportunities to practice. Not because he’s lazy and asks, but because he genuinely needs the help. Through him, I learned acceptance and what it really means to love without conditions.

If my son were typical, I would not have been pushed to develop my spiritual practice in this way. I would likely have remained self-absorbed and mostly unhappy and unfulfilled. His differences forced me to grow in ways I never would have chosen but now deeply value.

I did worry—would I feel guilty about accepting him as he is? If I came to appreciate his unique autistic traits, would that somehow mean I didn’t want him to progress? I was surprised that this arose as a difficulty for me. It was as if finding joy with him as he is would cause me to hold him back and keep him down. If I found joy in his helplessness, would I work to sustain it?

These were unfounded fears, but they arose with a seriousness I needed to address. For a time, I did feel selfish for wanting him just as he was. I believed he wished to be different, neurotypical like others his age.

I was mistaken. I can’t feel shame when he doesn’t. I can’t feel shame for doing the right thing. I realized that guilt would only arise if I were making unnecessary judgments about him or myself—and that’s exactly what I needed to stop doing.

Shouldn’t I rejoice in how great my son’s life is?

My previous questions really focused on me—my feelings, my struggles, my growth. But putting myself in his shoes opened up a series of better questions still. Once I saw how beautiful my son’s life could be, and how wonderful I could make it for him, I felt nothing but excitement and joy.

I realized the simple pleasures I enjoy with him will be mine for a lifetime. It’s like living with Peter Pan—there’s a purity and innocence to our relationship that has a special kind of magic.

So I asked: What special joys in life does my son experience that would be lost if he were miraculously “cured”? This turned the focus away from myself and over to him. I began to understand that a cure wouldn’t be all gain—there would be genuine losses too. I had been so focused on fixing him that I failed to see the ways he was not broken.

If he suddenly became neurotypical, his life wouldn’t miraculously change for the better in every way. He hasn’t had a lifetime of neurotypical experience to serve as a foundation. He doesn’t have the social skills that develop naturally in typical children. He would always struggle to catch up and fit in, and he would become acutely aware of his own deficits. That awareness would likely make him deeply unhappy.

He would be expected to face the soul-draining grind of capitalism and the need to work to survive. His state and federal benefits would cease, but he isn’t prepared for full independence due to his current developmental limitations. This is one of the major challenges faced by higher-functioning autistic adults today.

Most significantly, he would not get the same joy out of the simple pleasures he enjoys today. He wouldn’t watch videos for 5-year-olds over and over again with pure delight. He wouldn’t spend hours in a pool or tub just playing with funnels. He wouldn’t sit quietly with daddy and just enjoy being present together without the need for words.

What questions would my son want me to ask?

This might be the most powerful question of all. What would I change about my son’s life to make it better? He doesn’t always know or realize what would make his life more enjoyable. It’s a question only I could ask on his behalf, and it opened up many answers that have improved both his life and mine.

How would improving my son’s life make my life better? Joy arises from the vicarious enjoyment in another’s pleasures. I live in a state of joy on a daily basis, entirely due to him. I also feel great satisfaction in the quality of life I create for him.

If I were my son, what would I want my father to do? I would want my father to provide a lifestyle full of fun activities. I would want a father who gives me what I want when it’s good for me and withholds it when it’s not. I would want my father to anticipate my needs. I would want only love and unconditional acceptance. I would want my father to ignore my foibles and praise my good choices.

I now model my life in response to this last question. While I often fall short, meeting his needs is my highest priority. Being there for him provides my life with purpose, joy, and satisfaction in ways I never could have imagined during those early days of grief and struggle.

The right questions led me to the right answers—answers that have transformed our lives completely. Maybe they can do the same for you.