Autism Dadcast

He had the house. The job. The wife. Three kids. On paper, everything was fine.But by the time his son Mason was three or four, he was falling apart. Barely sleeping. Drinking too much. Finding any excuse to stay out longer. Supermarket runs for things they didn't need. One more round at the pub. Anything to delay walking through the front door.He wasn't a bad dad. He just didn't know how to be one — not for a child like Mason. Non-verbal. ADHD. Severe sleep issues. Smashing up the house. And a system that kept saying no.It took a huge row with his wife for something to shift. And it took a reckless, credit-card-funded trip to Disney World to finally understand what his son actually needed.Because in Florida, something changed. Mason — the kid who couldn't queue, couldn't wait, couldn't regulate — went on a roller coaster and came out a different child. Slept every night. Engaged. Calm. Two weeks of the son they always knew was in there.Then they came home. And within weeks, it all came back.This is what it's like to glimpse what's possible — and then have to figure out how to recreate it in a world that isn't built for your kid.Dan talks about the drinking, the guilt, the isolation, the fear of what happens when they're gone, and the relentless reality of raising a child who will probably need support forever. He also talks about hope. Because there is some. Even when it doesn't feel like it.

A mainstream school put their autistic son in a converted staff room and left him there for two years. They called it support.Alan and his wife Alex fought for a specialist placement. Now Magnus is in a school with just 15 children total - five per key stage, one SEN teacher, and four teaching assistants. The transformation has been staggering. He's reading full books out loud for the first time in two years. He's responding to "now and next" language. He understands cause and effect in ways he never did before.But getting here meant watching their son be warehoused in a room where nobody knew how to teach him. The staff were kind. The setting was wrong. And for two years, Magnus was left to his own devices while the system insisted this counted as provision.This conversation captures what "night and day" actually looks like when an autistic child finally lands in the right environment - and the quiet fury of knowing it should never have taken this long.Alan also talks about the hidden logistics of raising Magnus alongside his neurotypical twin sister Freya. The two of them have vastly different needs, and balancing those needs means separate days out, careful attention management, and accepting that equal doesn't always mean identical.Christmas in their household requires military-level planning. Presents hidden in locked cupboards and the boot of the car. Paper wrapped around the top of the stairs to buy an extra hour before the kids come down. Freya tears through her gifts in minutes while Magnus opens one, walks into the kitchen, and doesn't return to the rest for hours. They've learned to let him set the pace.There's also the sibling dynamic that nobody prepares you for. Freya understands Magnus is different. She's fiercely protective of him. When a boy at soft play grabbed Magnus, seven-year-old Freya - who does MMA - Sparta kicked him down the slide. Alan was proud. The other kid was crying. No apologies were offered.And then there's Anne, the next-door neighbour who deserves a shoutout. Magnus has a habit of bouncing on the trampoline and launching everything he owns over the fence. Once a week, Anne returns a carrier bag full of dinosaurs, Teletubbies, and number blocks. Her greenhouse is still standing. Somehow.This episode is honest, funny, and full of the details that only parents living this life would recognise. It's a conversation about what support should look like, what it often doesn't, and the small victories that make the hard days worth it.

She spent her childhood in detention. Locked a teacher in a cupboard. Sat in corridors alone while everyone else learned. Missed the last six months of school because nobody wanted her there.She wasn't naughty. She was undiagnosed.Charlie was finally diagnosed autistic at 32 and ADHD three weeks before this conversation. By then, she'd already closed her business to become a full-time carer for her son AJ — non-verbal, tube-fed, PDA profile, sensory processing difficulties. A child the system repeatedly failed until she walked into school and said "help me or this kid's getting taken off me."Before his feeding tube, AJ didn't eat for six weeks. His lips were peeling. He was grey. His ribs were showing. He looked, in her words, dead. And still the support didn't come until she was already broken.Now she's raising three neurodivergent kids — all different, all on the spectrum, all requiring completely different approaches. She's also built Neurospicy, a clothing brand that refuses the puzzle pieces and the sanitised narratives. And she's planning something bigger: a sensory-friendly soft play hub where families like hers can actually exist in public without being stared at.This is what happens when no one catches you. And what it looks like when you decide to build the thing that should have existed all along.

Steven has no autistic children. No family connection. No commercial interest. He just watched a movie and couldn't look away.In January, he was driving his van on the M1, listening to a documentary called The Spellers. It's about non-verbal autistic children who learned to communicate by pointing to letters on a board. 48 minutes in, he pulled over and cried.The children in the film all said the same thing: "I'm in here."Since then, he's read over 120 books written by non-speaking autistics and their parents. He's watched every video he could find. He wakes at 4am to research for three hours before his day starts. He's joined 20+ autism groups. He's created a free resource site called Presume Competence.And he has one message for parents: the method has a 100% success rate. No one has ever failed.In this conversation, Steven explains what he's learned — not from professionals, but from the people who've lived it. He talks about optical dyspraxia and why your child might not be able to catch a ball. He explains why screens flicker in ways neurotypical eyes don't notice. He describes the six sensory buckets that overflow into meltdowns. He shares why swimming pools regulate, why routines matter more than we realize, and why time perception might explain everything.He sat with Paddy Curran, a non-speaker from Birmingham, and had a full conversation through a letterboard. Letter by letter. And he nearly cries just talking about it.The spelling board is the world's cheapest education device. The entire internet is built from 26 letters. Your child already knows them. They just need a way to show you.Steven's goal: a spelling practitioner in every town in the UK. Free resources. No cost to learn. Because if your child can point to a letter, they can say anything.This is what presumed competence looks like.

Luke has four children. Three of them are autistic. His youngest, Oscar, is non-verbal with PICA — he'll eat anything, including sand and his own faeces.For years, Luke and his wife managed. He gave up his job as an HGV driver because the phone calls from home couldn't wait two hours for him to get back from Hereford. His parents were their only support network — his dad had worked with disabled children his whole life.Then his dad died unexpectedly. And his mum said the words no one wants to hear: "I can't do it on my own anymore."Support workers came on weekends. Some were good. Others turned up 45 minutes late, by which point Oscar had stripped naked and was too dis-regulated to leave. One time, staff at a soft play centre had to tell the support workers that Oscar was naked — because they hadn't noticed.Eventually, Luke and his wife had to say the hardest thing a parent can say: we can't meet his needs anymore.They explored residential care. The council's response? They wanted to explore foster care first — because it was cheaper. No support systems. No respite for the foster family. Just school. Luke asked them directly: "Why do you think complete strangers are going to do a better job than we did for eight years?"They won. Oscar is now in a specialist residential setting with speech and language therapy, 24-hour support, and a chance at communication. Luke still has full parental responsibility. They see him every fortnight. They can bring him home whenever they want.But it doesn't sit right. It never will.Luke also shares the fight for his middle son's EHCP — tribunal, legal battles, a previous school that sent nothing but a date of birth when asked for evidence. That education costs £120,000 a year. Half a million pounds by the time he finishes secondary school.And he says something most parents won't say out loud: "I hate autism."Not everyone's autism. His autism. The one that means his family can't go to Christmas gatherings. The one that meant handing his son over. The one that doesn't fit the "superpower" narrative.This is what the system doesn't want you to see.