My brother Michael leaves the best voicemails, is a great traveling companion and does a spot-on impression of our late grandmother. Michael is also on the autism spectrum, and has been my life’s best reference for loving someone who is neuroatypical.

Because he lives 1,000 miles away, though, my kids barely know him. We don’t visit Ohio, where Michael lives with my parents, frequently. My kids, who are 10 and 8, are missing out on getting to know a remarkable human being, and Michael only gets to be “Uncle Mikey” in a limited capacity.

I feel like I’m dropping the ball. As the sister of someone on the spectrum, my life has been enriched tenfold by understanding and embracing neurodiversity. I am more apt to notice that the texture of clothes or the volume in a room may bother Michael, or to take note of an oddball character in a movie that he would love. My husband is a mental health counselor and we share a deep appreciation for the gifts that neurodiversity offers, including a hypersensitivity to sights, smells, sounds or textures. But neither of us feels we are doing all that we can to impart this compassion and appreciation in our neurotypical kids.

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