This is Spencer. Spencer has a huge heart, a goofy sense of humor, a knack for solving problems, and a love of interesting facts.

Spencer also has autism.

Spencer has always had autism. But up until yesterday, there’s never been an official diagnosis, never been a piece of paper stating those words. And now there is.

One might wonder, if we knew all this time (and to be clear, we all, including Spencer, knew) why we’d wait until he was 23 to pursue a diagnosis. It’s a fair question. And the answer is complicated.

For one thing, it didn’t feel necessary to have a formal diagnosis. Having the diagnosis wouldn’t have changed how we treated him, wouldn’t have changed how we parented, wouldn’t have changed the decisions we made about school. Wouldn’t have changed who he was as a person. He was, is, and will always be Spencer.

Beyond that though, was the fear of starting to view him through the lens of a label. I saw too many people viewing their atypical kids through that lens, to the point that they were no longer people who had a diagnosis, but actually WERE that diagnosis. I didn’t want to be a parent who referred to her child as “my autistic son” or “my aspie daughter” when that information was irrelevant to the conversation at hand.

I learned a few things as time went on though. Having a label, official or otherwise, was not mine to claim. It was Spencer’s. It was his right to decide what he did and did not want to embrace and accept and share. It was his right to decide what importance he placed on the label, and what its presence meant to his identity.

I also learned that denying him the formal diagnosis would mean I was denying him services, support, and information that would be not only helpful but potentially life-changing. Especially as an adult, opening this door means he’s eligible for SSI and support and services such as job coaching and life skills training.

So now he has the diagnosis. And while we were all expecting it, it still kicked the wind out of me. It just felt real and official and BIG, along with its accompaniment of a host of new appointments and evaluations and hoops. So many hoops. (More hoops than there would have been if we’d done it when he was younger.)

While I’m resigned and optimistic, I’m also a little bit overwhelmed. Not because of the autism, but because of what it’s going to entail.

But Spencer? He’s the same as he was yesterday. Same as he was the day before. Having a diagnosis doesn’t change him from the unique and complicated and perfectly imperfect person he’s always been. He will deal with the next steps with the same formidable determination he’s dealt with everything else. He will rise to the challenges with strength and dignity and a sense of humor because that’s who he is.

For his part, he is glad to have the diagnosis, so I am following his lead on this. There will be bumps and missteps and headaches as we get the next steps sorted, but we’ll be okay.

And at the end of the day (day, week, month, year) he’ll still be perfectly Spencer.