“Misunderstood Creatures” by Arya Miller, 17
Growing up, I never needed a medical definition of autism; I had my brother, Liam. His world has always been full of contrasts. In school, he often struggled to understand the unwritten rules of social interaction, while on the swim team he was surrounded by friends who loved him for his humor and energy. Watching him navigate both spaces, one filled with barriers, the other with acceptance, has shaped how I see others and how I understand what it truly means to belong.
In school, Liam faced challenges that went beyond academics. Social rules that came naturally to others were often unclear to him. At times, teachers and classmates interpreted his honesty, questions, or restless movements as misbehavior. These moments were frustrating for me to witness because I knew they did not reflect who he was. Liam was not trying to cause trouble; he was trying to make sense of an environment that was not designed with him in mind. Growing up alongside him forced me to pay attention to how people treat others who are different. I began to notice the small, unfair moments in everyday life that many people overlook.
Outside of school, I saw a completely different side of him. On the swim team, Liam was free. In the water, he was graceful and confident. On the pool deck, he made teammates laugh with his jokes, celebrated with exaggerated “victory dances,” and smiled broadly whether he won or lost. The team valued him for who he was, and in that environment, his personality flourished. It showed me that the right space can bring out the best in a person. It also made me think about how many people never get the chance to be in that kind of space, one where they are accepted fully, without judgment.
Liam’s passions also set him apart. From the age of nine, he developed a deep love for reptiles. Over the years, he has kept an iguana, a snake, and a gecko. He spends hours researching how to care for them, building their enclosures, and talking about their habits. If anyone calls snakes dangerous or frightening, he quickly corrects them, saying they are simply “misunderstood creatures.” At first, I thought he was only talking about animals. Over time, I realized he was describing himself. That phrase became a way for me to understand him, and others, more deeply. People, like reptiles, are often labeled before they are understood. Living with Liam made me question my own assumptions and made me slower to judge others.
This sense of self is also clear in how he introduces himself. He never says just “Liam.” It is always “Liam Miller,” as though his full name is part of his identity that he wants remembered. I think this shows pride and certainty in who he is. It is his way of making himself known, of making sure people see him as a whole person rather than just a name they might forget. For Liam, introducing himself this way is an act of self-definition that says, “This is who I am, and I matter.” Watching him insist on being fully seen has made me braver about being seen, too.
After years without playing sports together, Liam and I both joined fencing. I loved watching him thrive in a new environment, building friendships and enjoying the competition.
However, when we tried a different fencing club, our excitement quickly faded. The coach treated Liam with open bias, scolding him for asking questions or wearing the wrong shoes, things neurotypical fencers did without consequence. She often relied on me to speak for him, as though he could not communicate for himself. Unfortunately, this was not the first time Liam had faced unfair treatment. But now, I understood these moments differently than I might have when I was younger. Instead of just feeling upset, I felt a responsibility to advocate for him. I recognized how important it is to speak up for people who are dismissed, and I began to notice when others around me needed someone to speak up for them, too. Thankfully, we found a better home in our school’s fencing club, where he is supported, respected, and able to succeed.
Growing up, I sometimes felt impatient when I had to help Liam with daily tasks like cooking for him or tying his shoelaces, especially since I am younger than he is. At the time, it felt unfair. But as I got older, my perspective shifted. Now, I take pride in doing small things that make his life easier or bring him joy. These moments are not about obligation anymore; they are about care. I have learned that helping someone you love, even in the smallest ways, is one of the most meaningful things you can do.
His habits are part of what makes him unique, and I love seeing them. One of my favorites is his nightly routine of walking around with his rock music headphones on, listening to Linkin Park and Oingo Boingo. He becomes so absorbed in the music that you cannot reach him until he stops, and when he does, his smile is wide and genuine. At first, I found it funny. Now, I see it as something more. In those moments, he is entirely himself, lost in something that brings him joy. It has made me appreciate how important it is for everyone to have something that makes them feel that way.
Liam may have difficulty reading social cues or understanding others’ emotions in traditional ways, but his compassion for animals is unwavering. His commitment to caring for creatures that others might fear has taught me that empathy is not about treating everyone the same; it is about understanding them on their own terms. Because of him, I have become more patient with people whose perspectives or communication styles are different from mine. I have learned to ask questions before making assumptions and to see differences as something to value rather than something to fix.
His journey has also made me think differently about confidence. Liam does not hide who he is. He introduces himself proudly, pursues his interests with enthusiasm, and enjoys what he loves without worrying about how it might look to others. Growing up around that has challenged me to stop holding myself back for fear of judgment. It has encouraged me to take risks, to try new things, and to speak up in situations where I might have stayed quiet.
Perhaps the most important thing Liam has taught me is that joy can exist alongside struggle. His life has not been free from obstacles, but he continues to find happiness in swimming, fencing, reptiles, and music. I used to think joy was something that happened when circumstances were perfect. Now I understand it is something you can create, even in imperfect conditions.
When I think about Liam’s journey, I see more than the challenges he has faced. I see the way those challenges have shaped me, into someone more empathetic, patient, and willing to stand up for others. I see how they have changed my definition of confidence and belonging. I see how they have taught me that difference is not something to fear but something to celebrate.
Liam has taught me to care deeply for others, to be confident in who I am, to have fun without worrying about judgment, and to take risks even when success is uncertain. If more people approached the world the way Liam does, with passion, humor, and loyalty, I believe we would all be better for it.