Together, in His World

I stood behind my son in a deep cave. A torch on the wall behind us was the only light, casting our long shadows down the tunnel ahead.

“What are we looking for?” I asked.

“Diamonds,” he said.

We continued forward, using our pickaxes to clear the stone blocks in our path. The deeper we went, the darker it became. Occasionally, we’d hit pockets of lava or veins of redstone. I mostly followed his lead—he knew where to dig, where to place torches, when to mine, and when to run.

Then I saw movement ahead. I hung a torch on the wall and, when it ignited, I saw a very large spider walking toward us.

“I hate spiders,” I sighed.

My son didn’t hesitate. He didn’t flinch. While I stayed back, cautious and reluctant, he moved forward.

That’s how it’s always been. In these games, in these worlds, he becomes someone else—bold, decisive, brave. He leads with purpose, unburdened by the hesitation that sometimes follows him in the real world.

I raised my head to see him at his computer, locked in, defeating the red-eyed monster. With the path clear, I looked back down at my iPad, and we pressed on in our quest.

It had been a while since we had played in the same physical space. Lately, he’s been focusing on his streaming “career,” diligently trying to build an audience on Twitch. He’ll come home from school, finish his homework and chores, head to his room, and close the door.

I’ll watch his stream. Sometimes he plays with friends. Sometimes alone. Sometimes we play together—but two floors apart, connected only by FaceTime or in-game audio. It’s something, but it’s not the same.

Today was different.

Minecraft is one of the few games where he takes the lead. He’s the expert—he builds the world, sets the rules, and guides the mission. He lights up when he shows me what he’s made—a house with hidden doors, a rollercoaster that goes through a mountain, or a massive Captain America shield reaching impossibly high into the sky.

In the real world, everything takes extra energy. Every day is a challenge that he doesn’t always show. The constant pressure to keep up, to interpret unwritten rules, to manage the invisible toll of his condition—most people wouldn’t notice it, but it’s there. And it wears on him. But in these digital spaces, he’s free. Confident. In control.

Sitting beside him, I kept glancing up from my screen. I saw how invested he was in keeping me alive, on task, and included. He was unusually chatty, explaining our next steps. His voice was proud. His posture relaxed. He was happy.

And I was, too.

We’ve been in a bit of a rut lately—living in separate spaces, our lives occasionally overlapping. I’ve caught myself worrying that the distance is permanent. That the doors he closes might stay that way. It’s easy to panic when that happens. To think it’ll take something big to bring us back together.

And maybe that fear comes from knowing what distance can become.

Because that’s what happened to me. I hid in my room, hands on a keyboard, eyes on a screen, building worlds in code. I created that distance—between me and my parents, who didn’t understand me, and my sister, who didn’t want to be around me. In my room, and in that world, it was easier. I was safe. And no one did anything to change it. So the distance became permanent.

But today reminded me: sometimes it only takes a moment. A small step into his world. A little curiosity. A shared screen. A diamond hunt.

Not to fix everything, but to find each other again.

Playing with Minecraft

“Daddy, watch this,” my son said. We were sitting next to each other on the couch, and he turned his iPad to face me. I looked over and saw a house made from square blocks of wood, stone, and glass. He moved his equally blocky character closer to the door and taped the screen. I heard the chime of a doorbell, and my son smiled.

The world of Minecraft.

We introduced him to the game a few years ago. Between his love of Lego and other video games, I was sure it would stick, but it never did. He couldn’t articulate why, but I suspected it was because of the game’s open-ended nature. With Lego, there is a plan. With Fortnite or a sports game, there is a goal, and there are rules. With Minecraft, a player has to come up with rules and goals on their own, and I think that was challenging for him.

Then, a few months ago, I noticed him watching YouTube videos about Minecraft. He would borrow my iPad to watch videos on it while he played the game on his device. He started to show me what he was building: hockey rinks, and skyscrapers, and elaborate homes with secret passages and trap doors. These creations would sometimes take hours to make, but he was into it.

One day, we were figuring out how to connect to the same Minecraft world so that he could play online with friends. Once my character appeared in his world, he asked if he could show me around.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“That’s iron ore, ” he replied. Then he built a furnace, and he showed me how to melt the ore down into ingots. We used the ingots to craft other items like pickaxes and swords. It was very involved, but he knew the recipes. He knew the materials, the creatures, and the mechanics.

I could see how proud of himself he was. He was the expert, and he was teaching me. So much of our life is the other way around. We have to remind him of basic things. Sequencing, processing, and retention continue to be a struggle. Even in Minecraft, he forgot some of the words. But it was reassuring to see that, with enough repetition, he could learn things well enough to be able to teach them to me.

I didn’t realize how badly I needed to be reassured. Even though we’ve made positive changes in the last few months with the new house and the new school, the tests show regression. I can see other signs in him that some things are getting harder, too. I’m supposed to help him, but I feel helpless. I’m supposed to protect him, but I can’t protect him from this.

But these moments we have where I see that look on his face fills my heart with joy. I know my love, my time, and my presence are what I can give him and what he needs from me. That is what will carry us through good times and bad. That is how I help, whether it is in person or in digital form in a world of his creation.

“There, ” he said. My character stood in front of his, fully armored and with a sword and shield. “Now, we are ready for The Nether.”

“What’s The Nether?” I asked nervously.

He smiled. “Don’t be scared, daddy. I’ll protect you.”