I’ve written often about my son Owen, but I also have two other incredible kids: Peyton, 15, and Kendall, 13. Diabetes affects them too, and of course, I worry they may develop it someday. But this story isn’t about diabetes. Today, it’s about Peyton.
Peyton is on the autism spectrum and has ADHD. That combination gets a lot of attention these days, but I’m not here to weigh in on debates. What I can tell you is this: it hasn’t destroyed our family. That doesn’t mean it’s easy, or that Peyton’s challenges aren’t real—they are. But his story is one of growth, resilience, and a few surprises.
Social situations are hard for Peyton. Reading cues, picking up on nonverbal communication, and responding with the expected “social-emotional reciprocity” (say that three times fast) don’t come naturally. For years, he was mainstreamed in school, but despite his effort, it just wasn’t working. Enter Hill Top Preparatory School—a school for neurodivergent kids. I was nervous about the change, but the transformation has been nothing short of amazing. The road ahead is long, but Hill Top feels like exactly where he belongs.
As a former interscholastic athlete, I had dreams. Of course I wanted my kids to play sports. I mean, when a dad sees his kid throw a ball, who doesn’t secretly imagine them going pro—or at least breaking Dad’s old records? (For the record, it’s humbling when your teenager already throws a tighter spiral than you ever could.)
And here’s the kicker: Peyton has real athletic talent. He can throw a football on a dime or sink baskets with better accuracy than I ever had. Coaches would drool over those skills. But his social challenges made team sports a poor fit. In one early attempt, he grew frustrated when teammates missed shots, and his blunt, matter-of-fact observations didn’t exactly build team chemistry. (“Hey, you’re terrible at this” may be accurate, but it’s not the pep talk coaches are usually looking for.)
So, we shifted to individual sports: golf, archery—places where his love of physics could shine. He has this uncanny ability to adjust quickly, like missing the bullseye once and then nailing it on the next shot. But even here, frustration when things didn’t go his way was tough to overcome. Honestly, I had decided that sports were not going to be his thing.
Hill Top Prep, though small, has a thriving athletics program focused on building both skills and social confidence. Last year, Peyton joined the fitness club in the fall and nature walks in the spring. They weren’t competitive, but they gave him a chance to connect with others in a low-pressure setting.
Then came the surprise: at the start of his sophomore year, Peyton said he wanted to try out for cross-country. I was thrilled. Running can be magic for kids with ADHD (I know from experience), and I hoped he’d feel the same.
The team was small—about ten runners—but the culture emphasized personal achievement over competition, something we should all strive for but rarely do. Peyton rose quickly as one of the top runners, and his coach even encouraged him to step into a leadership role. That was new territory, but he leaned into it.
This past Tuesday was his first meet. The course looped around the school grounds a few times, competing against other small local schools that serve children with different needs. Peyton went out hard—too hard, honestly. Every new runner does it. He was eventually passed, but he held strong, finishing fourth overall and first for Hill Top. His time? 18:09 for a little over three miles. For those keeping score at home: that’s fast. For Peyton, though, the clock didn’t matter. What mattered was the pride on his face.
And then came the real victory. Instead of frustration or an outburst—things we’ve battled with in the past—he turned around and cheered for the other runners. My 15-year-old son had just run the best race of his life, and his first instinct was to support others. I’ll admit it: I cried.
No anger. No frustration. Just pride, resilience, and joy.
For those that are blessed to be able to, sports don’t look the same for every kid—and maybe they shouldn’t. I once dreamed about Peyton (or Kendall, or Owen) being the star of a team, sinking the winning shot at the buzzer. But Peyton taught me that sometimes the bigger victory is simply staying in the race, even when you go out too fast, and finding the strength to cheer for others when you’re exhausted yourself. That’s not in the playbook, but it should be. And I should know this, but it’s good to have it reinforced.
Sometimes success doesn’t have to be about winning. It’s about showing up, doing your best, and encouraging others along the way. Peyton reminded me that maybe we should stop saying “sometimes” and start making that our everyday goal.