The Power of Presence
On Supporting Autistic Meltdowns
By spring, my son Liam and I had established a pleasant routine of riding the e-bike to the library. Liam loved feeling the wind in his hair as we sped down the winding roads of Northwest Portland. At the library, he would carefully select his books and we'd head to checkout. One day, he grabbed a comic book from the adult section. My attempts to redirect him – first subtle, then bargaining, then bribing with ice cream – only made things worse.
My six-year-old collapsed on the library floor, his face red, breathing hard, wailing and kicking in the otherwise peaceful space. I managed to get him outside, but he was still screaming as I tried to get him on the back of the e-bike. Two blocks later, I had to stop. We sat on the stone steps of an apartment complex while he clung to my ankles, simultaneously holding on for safety and lashing out with bites and hits. I felt the familiar weight of embarrassment, hopelessness, and regret settle in. Why hadn't I just taken the book home?
When a meltdown strikes, the monotropic mind becomes "hooked" on a negative stimulus. This triggers the brain's fear center, the amygdala, launching the body into fight-or-flight mode. Stress hormones surge, increasing heart rate, blood pressure, and alertness. The intense focus prevents any shift in attention or access to coping strategies. Everything else – reason, bargaining, even ice cream – becomes irrelevant.
In that moment, as I sat feeling helpless and exposed, something unexpected happened. A woman emerged from her apartment and quietly sat beside me. She introduced herself as a special education teacher who had noticed us from her kitchen window. She didn't offer advice or suggestions. She didn't try to help manage Liam's behavior. She simply sat with us, offering silent support and solidarity.
This was exactly what we both needed. Not another marble jar or behavior chart. Not more strategies or consequences. Just the quiet presence of another human being who understood that sometimes, the only way through is through.
As Liam's storm passed, his body softened and his tears finally came. The woman gave me a hug before returning inside, saying only: "With your calmness and love, your child will flourish; you just need to give it time." My own tears fell then, carrying both sadness and gratitude.
Triggers for meltdowns can come from any sensory input, including our internal sensing system. Fear, sudden changes, loud noises, worry about the future – any of these can catch the attention of the autonomic nervous system. Even deeper threats to the psyche – fear of failure, unexpected changes, embarrassment, threatened relationships – can be particularly powerful triggers for this autonomically driven behavior.
What I've learned since that day at the library is that during these moments of crisis, our autistic children don't need us to fix or change their behavior. They need us to be their anchor in the storm. To sit with them, maintain our own calm, and trust that this too shall pass, offering the silent assurance that they are not alone in their overwhelming moment.
That special education teacher taught me more in those wordless minutes than countless behavior specialists had in hours of consultation. Sometimes, the best support we can offer is our steady, patient presence as we wait for the storm to pass.