Something that doesn’t get nearly enough attention in the autism world is glass child syndrome, the way siblings of kids with high-support needs learn to fade into the background a little.
Not because anyone means for it to happen.
Not because parents don’t care.
But because profound autism is loud, urgent, unpredictable, and often needs every ounce of attention in the room. And siblings learn early how to shrink themselves so the house can stay steady.
Jude doesn’t ask for much.
And maybe that’s why soccer has become so special for us. Yes, I love soccer, and yes, I’m thrilled he loves it too… but it’s more than that. It gives us time together where he’s not the “easy kid,” not the helper, not the sibling who adjusts. He’s just Jude. I’m on the sidelines, fully present, and he knows he doesn’t have to share me with crisis or attention.
Glass Child Syndrome at home
At home he sees me taking care of Charlie, and he’s learned to adapt.
He makes himself easy, even when he shouldn’t have to.
He steps in to help more often than I’d ever want him to feel responsible for.
And that’s the part that breaks my heart a little.
I tell him he matters just as much.
That I see him.
That he’s allowed to take up space, to need things, to be loud, to be ten.
But siblings learn the rhythm of a home long before they learn those words.
Jude is the opposite of invisible to me.
I notice every time he steps aside.
Every time he helps without being asked.
Every time he swallows a feeling because the room is already full.
Glass children aren’t fragile; they’re observant, patient, and resilient in ways kids shouldn’t have to be.
And that’s why moments like soccer matter so much.
One-on-one time.
A place where he gets to be the center. (Literally on the field too)
A space where his feelings don’t have to compete with anything else.
Kids like Jude deserve that space.
They deserve to be seen, heard, and held just as much as the siblings they love. 
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