Autism Dadcast

She spent her childhood in detention. Locked a teacher in a cupboard. Sat in corridors alone while everyone else learned. Missed the last six months of school because nobody wanted her there.She wasn't naughty. She was undiagnosed.Charlie was finally diagnosed autistic at 32 and ADHD three weeks before this conversation. By then, she'd already closed her business to become a full-time carer for her son AJ — non-verbal, tube-fed, PDA profile, sensory processing difficulties. A child the system repeatedly failed until she walked into school and said "help me or this kid's getting taken off me."Before his feeding tube, AJ didn't eat for six weeks. His lips were peeling. He was grey. His ribs were showing. He looked, in her words, dead. And still the support didn't come until she was already broken.Now she's raising three neurodivergent kids — all different, all on the spectrum, all requiring completely different approaches. She's also built Neurospicy, a clothing brand that refuses the puzzle pieces and the sanitised narratives. And she's planning something bigger: a sensory-friendly soft play hub where families like hers can actually exist in public without being stared at.This is what happens when no one catches you. And what it looks like when you decide to build the thing that should have existed all along.

Steven has no autistic children. No family connection. No commercial interest. He just watched a movie and couldn't look away.In January, he was driving his van on the M1, listening to a documentary called The Spellers. It's about non-verbal autistic children who learned to communicate by pointing to letters on a board. 48 minutes in, he pulled over and cried.The children in the film all said the same thing: "I'm in here."Since then, he's read over 120 books written by non-speaking autistics and their parents. He's watched every video he could find. He wakes at 4am to research for three hours before his day starts. He's joined 20+ autism groups. He's created a free resource site called Presume Competence.And he has one message for parents: the method has a 100% success rate. No one has ever failed.In this conversation, Steven explains what he's learned — not from professionals, but from the people who've lived it. He talks about optical dyspraxia and why your child might not be able to catch a ball. He explains why screens flicker in ways neurotypical eyes don't notice. He describes the six sensory buckets that overflow into meltdowns. He shares why swimming pools regulate, why routines matter more than we realize, and why time perception might explain everything.He sat with Paddy Curran, a non-speaker from Birmingham, and had a full conversation through a letterboard. Letter by letter. And he nearly cries just talking about it.The spelling board is the world's cheapest education device. The entire internet is built from 26 letters. Your child already knows them. They just need a way to show you.Steven's goal: a spelling practitioner in every town in the UK. Free resources. No cost to learn. Because if your child can point to a letter, they can say anything.This is what presumed competence looks like.

Luke has four children. Three of them are autistic. His youngest, Oscar, is non-verbal with PICA — he'll eat anything, including sand and his own faeces.For years, Luke and his wife managed. He gave up his job as an HGV driver because the phone calls from home couldn't wait two hours for him to get back from Hereford. His parents were their only support network — his dad had worked with disabled children his whole life.Then his dad died unexpectedly. And his mum said the words no one wants to hear: "I can't do it on my own anymore."Support workers came on weekends. Some were good. Others turned up 45 minutes late, by which point Oscar had stripped naked and was too dis-regulated to leave. One time, staff at a soft play centre had to tell the support workers that Oscar was naked — because they hadn't noticed.Eventually, Luke and his wife had to say the hardest thing a parent can say: we can't meet his needs anymore.They explored residential care. The council's response? They wanted to explore foster care first — because it was cheaper. No support systems. No respite for the foster family. Just school. Luke asked them directly: "Why do you think complete strangers are going to do a better job than we did for eight years?"They won. Oscar is now in a specialist residential setting with speech and language therapy, 24-hour support, and a chance at communication. Luke still has full parental responsibility. They see him every fortnight. They can bring him home whenever they want.But it doesn't sit right. It never will.Luke also shares the fight for his middle son's EHCP — tribunal, legal battles, a previous school that sent nothing but a date of birth when asked for evidence. That education costs £120,000 a year. Half a million pounds by the time he finishes secondary school.And he says something most parents won't say out loud: "I hate autism."Not everyone's autism. His autism. The one that means his family can't go to Christmas gatherings. The one that meant handing his son over. The one that doesn't fit the "superpower" narrative.This is what the system doesn't want you to see.

At 10 years old, during lockdown, Charlotte watched a BBC series about autism. She saw herself in it. So she did what most adults wouldn't — she researched it, gathered the evidence, and presented it to her parents.They didn't believe her at first. She didn't fit the stereotype. She wasn't a boy obsessed with trains.She was put on the pathway. She waited 3 years. She went through half of secondary school undiagnosed, unsupported, and struggling.When the diagnosis finally came, it wasn't a surprise. She already knew. It was just clarity — recognition from the outside.But the years without support took their toll. Charlotte developed functional neurological disorder. She had seizures. She ended up in hospital. She left secondary education with no GCSEs.And that's when she started her Instagram account.From a hospital bed, she began sharing her story. She found community. She found purpose. She started speaking out — first online, then at youth parliament, then at Westminster.When Gaz and Andy met her at a rally outside Parliament, she was 16. It was her first ever public speech. She'd never even put her hand up in class before.Now she attends youth parliament every week, sits with councillors and decision-makers, and advocates for the changes she never had.Her mom watches from the sidelines, proud of the daughter who diagnosed herself and fought her own corner when no one else would.This is what's possible when someone finally listens.

On this episode, we're joined by Sean for our first ever live Christmas special recorded in front of our community.We talk about what Christmas actually looks like with autistic kids — the pressure to make it magical, the year we realised they didn't care about presents, and why one parent picks up McDonald's on Christmas Eve to reheat the next day.Sean shares the moment his girls stood up and delivered speaking parts in their school play after years of sitting in the corner with a tablet. We get into schools that actually meet kids where they are, the ones that don't, and a story about a boy who got cut from his nativity because he's autistic.Plus — the spitting mystery that had everyone stumped until someone checked her back teeth.