I came across a word recently that stopped me in my tracks.
Takiwatanga.
It’s a Māori word from Aotearoa — New Zealand — and it means “in their own time and space.” It was gifted by Māori communities as a way of describing autism. And honestly, the moment I read it, something in me just… exhaled.
Because that’s it. That’s exactly it.
A Different Way of Looking at Things
When Matthew and Blake were younger, everything was clinical. Diagnoses. Assessments. Reports full of words like deficits and delays and disorder. And while I understand why that language exists — and I know it opens doors to support and funding — it never once captured who my boys actually are.
Takiwatanga does something different. It doesn’t ask what’s wrong. It asks what’s different about their time? Their space? Their rhythm?
That shift in perspective feels like someone finally opened a window.
Autistic people aren’t behind us. They’re not ahead of us either. They’re just moving through the world differently. In their own time. In their own space. And once you truly accept that — really accept it, not just say you do — it changes how you see everything.
What “In Their Own Time” Actually Looks Like
For us, “in their own time” has looked like so many different things over the years.
It’s looked like Matthew taking ages to process what someone has just said to him — not because he wasn’t listening, but because his brain was working through it properly, turning it over, making sense of it in his own way. It’s looked like hitting milestones on a completely different timeline to the one in the parenting books (those books, by the way, can absolutely do one). It’s looked like rocking, bouncing, stimming — movements that from the outside might look odd, but are actually his nervous system doing exactly what it needs to do to cope.
It’s not a race. It never was. I just took me a while to fully believe that.
What “In Their Own Space” Actually Looks Like
This one I really get. Because I’ve watched my boys need space in ways that the world doesn’t always make easy.
Crowded rooms. Loud restaurants. Busy supermarkets. Public toilets that are basically a sensory assault course. There have been so many times over the years where I’ve watched one of them reach their limit — not because they were being difficult, but because their nervous system was genuinely overwhelmed. And the looks we’d get from strangers didn’t exactly help.
But here’s what I’ve learned: that need for space isn’t them shutting people out. It’s them protecting themselves. Regulating themselves. Surviving in a world that wasn’t really built with them in mind.
When you stop fighting that need and start honouring it instead, everything shifts. The meltdowns reduce. The trust builds. And your relationship with your child becomes something so much stronger than it ever could’ve been if you’d just kept pushing.
Why the Words We Use Actually Matter
I’ve thought about this a lot. Because the language around autism — especially when your child is first diagnosed — can really shape how you feel about it. About them. About everything.
When the word is disorder, your brain goes looking for something to fix. Naturally. That’s just how it works.
But when the word is Takiwatanga? You’re not looking to fix anything. You’re being invited to understand.
Imagine if every autistic child grew up hearing: “You move through the world in your own time and space — and that’s completely okay.”
How different would that feel? How different would they feel?
From Trying to Fix, to Actually Connecting
This is the bit that hits home for me the most.
So much of the early years of raising autistic children is spent trying to figure out how to help them fit. Into school. Into social situations. Into a world that runs at a pace and in a way that doesn’t come naturally to them.
And I’m not saying support isn’t important — it absolutely is. But Takiwatanga challenges us to also ask: what if we adjusted the environment instead? What if we slowed down? What if we created spaces that actually worked for them, rather than constantly expecting them to mould themselves to spaces that don’t?
That’s the move from correction to connection. And in my experience, connection is where everything good happens.
A Wee Reminder — For Any Parent Reading This
Your child is not late. They are not broken. They are not wrong.
They are doing life in their own time and their own space.
Takiwatanga.
And when you learn to meet them there — with patience, with compassion, with a willingness to let go of the timeline you’d imagined — you don’t just help them.
You grow too. I promise you that.
