For weeks now, I’ve found myself drifting back to memories of middle school—those blurry, half-formed years that still manage to sting when I poke at them. I keep wondering: Did I even like my teachers? Did I have real friends? Did I sit with anyone at lunch, or did I pretend not to care when no one asked me to join them?
Middle school is strange like that equal parts foggy and unforgettable.
The one memory that always rises to the surface is the day a kid on the bus called me “Tammy Faye Baker.” It was sixth grade, and I had just started experimenting with eyeliner, the kind that smudged halfway down my face by second period. When he said it, everyone laughed. I tried to be tough, tossing a silly nickname back like it didn’t bother me. But when he turned around—when no one could see my face—I cried quietly into the window.
Even now, decades later, I still remember that hot, embarrassed ache in my chest. Middle school was scary. And hard. And lonely in ways I didn’t have words for back then.
Now I have a child entering that same maze of hallways, lunchrooms, and unwritten social rules—and the anxiety that rises in me is almost physical. It sits behind my ribs, whispering worries I can’t always quiet.
Sometimes, though, I feel an unexpected wash of gratitude for his autism. I know that might sound terrible. But in certain moments, it feels like a soft, invisible buffer between him and a world that can be unkind.
He doesn’t seem to notice the stares when he flaps his hands in excitement.
He doesn’t seem to realize that the birthday party invitations have stopped coming.
He doesn’t seem bothered when he sits alone at lunch.
Every afternoon, I ask him my usual questions—my quiet, motherly barometer of his heart:
“Was there a time you felt sad today?”
“Who did you eat lunch with?”
Sometimes he names a classmate, and I let myself breathe easier. But most days he simply shrugs and says, “Nobody.” And even though he doesn’t mind, those are the moments that break me open a little.
Because he is the sweetest child—full of smiles and spontaneous hugs for people he barely knows, radiating a kind of uncomplicated goodness most adults have long forgotten. I want the world to see that. I want the world to choose him.
This morning, though, something extraordinary happened. A friend sent me a photo—just a single, beautiful picture—and beneath it, a caption:
“Travis Rudolph is eating lunch with your son.”
I stared at the name, confused.
I typed back, “Who is that?”
He replied, “FSU football player.”
And right there, as I stood in my kitchen holding my phone, tears streamed down my face—big, messy, grateful tears.
Travis Rudolph, a wide receiver at Florida State, had visited my son’s school along with several other FSU players today. And for reasons I may never fully understand, he chose my son’s table. He sat with him. Talked with him. Shared a meal with him when countless others walk past without a second glance.
Maybe he noticed something in my boy’s quietness.
Maybe he just saw an empty table and sat down.
Maybe kindness is simply who he is.
But whatever the reason, it is a moment I will carry for the rest of my life.
Because today—this one, small, spectacular day—I didn’t have to wonder if my child ate lunch alone. I didn’t have to picture him by himself with his little lunchbox, staring at the wall or counting the minutes until recess.
Today he sat across from someone who, to many, is a hero. Someone who saw him. Someone who chose him.
Travis Rudolph, if you ever see this: thank you.
Thank you for giving a worried mom a moment of peace.
Thank you for noticing a boy who is too often overlooked.
And thank you for showing the world what kindness looks like when no one is watching.
You have made this momma exceedingly happy and you have made us fans for life.
Credit: Leah Paske
