There's a story I loved as a child about a cricket who ended up in Times Square. In the chaos of the busiest train station in the world, he played music so beautiful that commuters stopped rushing to listen. But first, someone had to be still enough to hear him.

And here's the thing about that moment — once one person stopped, others noticed. And then more. A small stillness can ripple outward. Unnoticed, hidden, beautiful things can be seen and felt when we give ourselves permission to pause.

That's what this space is for.

I'm a mother of three children on the autism spectrum. Throw in some dyslexia and OCD. I started writing about my children a long time ago, mostly to make sense of things. What came out reminded me of something valuable. Story after story pointed to the same truth: the behaviour we judge most harshly is usually the behaviour that most deserves our curiosity.

• The child who hides under the lunch table isn't being defiant, his brain doesn't feel so screamy down there, and his legs aren't trying to run away.

• The boy who goes on strike against library books isn't disengaged, he's furious that the books say be yourself while the classroom says sit in a row and be the same.

• The one who holds a CD instead of accepting a hug isn't being cold, he just experiences comfort differently than you expect.

• The girl sitting quietly is not ignoring, she is recalibrating.

These are real moments from our life, mostly written when my my kids were young. And they changed how I see everything. And I'll keep reminding myself and everyone: