His headphones don’t hide who he is; they help him shine, and his name isn’t a slur, it’s Finn. The message popped up under a sweet Instagram video of her seven-year-old son: “He’s wearing earmuffs, it’s warm out, so I’m guessing…”, and then a slur. His mom stared at the screen, stunned. In the five years since his autism diagnosis, she’d dealt with confusion and assumptions, but never a word like that aimed at her child. First, she cried. Then the tears turned into anger, and fear for a world that can still be so careless.
If the commenter had asked, he would’ve learned the “earmuffs” were noise-canceling headphones. Her son, Finn, gets overwhelmed by sound; the headphones help filter the chaos so he can focus. They’re not a costume, joke, or tool that lets him join the world a little more comfortably, in any season.
What hurt most wasn’t just the ignorance, but how it erased who Finn is. There are so many words for him: boy, son, brother, first-grader, seven-year-old. And if you knew him, you’d add even more. He’s sharp as a tack, with a near-photographic memory. He read before he could chat easily, and he can replay whole scenes from a show or a game with spot-on detail. He’s a ham, too, quick with a joke, generous with giggles, the kind of laugh that lifts a room. He’s affectionate and social in his own way, big on snuggles, quick to say “hi,” eager to learn your name and slap you a high five. He explores the world up close, wanting to touch, see, and understand how things work. He’s fearless about new places, always making lists of where he wants to go next.
He cracks eggs like a pro in the kitchen, pours his drink, and builds a sandwich. He dresses himself, bathes, brushes, and hangs up his clothes. He communicates in many ways, speaking, writing, typing, and sometimes “scripting,” borrowing lines from his favorite shows to tell you exactly what he means. And yes, he’s autistic. That isn’t a flaw; it’s a fact. Even if he couldn’t do any of those things, he and every child would still deserve kindness, patience, and respect.
His name was Finn, after his mom’s grandfather and her family name, Serafin. His middle name is Marley, because while she was pregnant, she sang “Don’t worry about a thing” to the baby who would complete their family. They chose names that stand for courage and compassion, men who loved fiercely, fought for peace, and left the world better. That’s the bar. That’s the hope she carries for him.
One day, his story will be told like a small legend. A child was born who taught people it’s okay to be different. He showed his parents “I love you” in a thousand other ways before words came easily. He taught his siblings to defend what’s right and meet differences gracefully. When experts said “never,” he kept proving “not yet.” He showed that learning has many paths, that walls can come down, and that the world is easier to live in when we choose to listen with our eyes and hearts. He let his scars, seen and unseen, spark empathy. He sprinkled kindness and awareness with his family like confetti, celebrating victories that many overlook but matter deeply. In doing so, he helped others believe in themselves.
Here are the facts the trolls never see. Finn Marley St. Aubin was diagnosed at 2½ with severe, level-three, nonverbal autism. People warned he might never speak, engage, play, read, write, count, attend public school, ride a bike, play sports, have friends, or live independently. At eight, he’s busy shattering those “nevers,” step by step, day by day. Progress isn’t a straight line, but it’s his line and moving forward.
To the stranger behind the comment: learn before you judge. Ask why the headphones help before you laugh at them. Consider that the child you mislabeled has a rich, whole life, full of strengths you may never have. He’s not your stereotype. He’s Finn, reader, explorer, comedian, chef’s helper, list-maker, door-opener, and lightning-fast early-morning adventurer. He is loved. He belongs. And to every parent who has heard a word like that aimed at their child: your rage and heartbreak are real, but so is the quiet revolution you lead each day. Your advocacy matters. Your joy matters. Your kids are watching, and so is the world.
