Corey Hatfield was born and raised in Colorado. She and her college sweetheart, Arin, have been married for twenty-five years and are the proud parents of five grown children, one of whom is autistic. Through many turbulent, overwhelming years of parenting, Corey encountered beauty to be the great healer of trauma and now feels passionate about sharing her journey with fellow strugglers. Rather than viewing suffering as a curse, she believes it to be a gift, capable of opening humanity to deeper levels of healing and growth. She and her husband now live on eighty peaceful acres in the Wet Mountains of southwestern Colorado. She also has just recently released her book The Light from a Thousand Wounds: A Mother’s Memoir of Finding Beauty in Life’s Darkest Moments—a read we’d highly recommend! You can learn more about Corey at www.coreyhatfield.com
When Corey Hatfield describes parenting her son Grayson, she jokes that she could use a bumper sticker: “All I really needed to know in life, I learned from autism.” Behind the humor is a story marked by screaming nights, medical misdiagnoses, shattered assumptions—and an unexpected encounter with beauty. In this conversation, Corey, an Orthodox Christian, writer, and mother of five, reflects on raising an autistic son, walking through a traumatic brain injury with another child, and finding a theology of suffering that helped in providing real and lasting healing. Along the way, she invites churches to trade projects for relationships, solutions for presence, and easy answers for genuine compassion. Ultimately, her story offers not a set of tips for “fixing” autism, but a deeper way of seeing God, ourselves, and one another.
Names mentioned:
Temple Grandin, George MacDonald, C.S. Lewis
Books:
The Light from a Thousand Wounds (Corey Hatfield)
The Princess and the Goblin (George MacDonald)
The Princess and Curdie (George MacDonald)
Radix: Corey, I really appreciate you taking the time for this conversation. Autism is something that’s increasingly affecting more people—and, as you’d know far better than most, it’s also becoming more openly discussed within the church. I think it’s important for people to understand not only how individuals experience autism, but also how families—mothers, fathers, siblings—learn to live with and support one another. There are so many theological and pastoral implications: how the church can be more supportive, how communities can respond with empathy and understanding. I’m really looking forward to diving into all of that with you.
But maybe to start, could you tell us a bit about your life and why you wrote this book?
Corey Hatfield: My husband and I have been married for twenty-six years, and we have five kids. Our fourth child, Grayson, is autistic. We got his official diagnosis just before his fifth birthday, but we knew from around six months old that something was different. He would scream for hours and was very unlike our other children. As he grew older, he became increasingly violent, and of course we had to adjust to that. It deeply affected our other kids too. I spent so much time caring for Grayson that, unintentionally, the others sometimes felt neglected—simply because he required so much attention.
So, I wrote this book first for my kids, so they could better understand their own lives. I also wrote it for myself—to make sense of our story—and for other parents or caregivers. Not just parents of autistic children, but anyone who cares for a loved one who’s suffering. Our oldest son, for instance, was in a rollover accident that left him with a traumatic brain injury.
Caregivers of any kind can feel incredibly isolated. I wanted to write something that could reach out to those people—the ones who know what that isolation feels like, who are tired of trite answers that don’t reach the real pain. People who’ve hit bottom and just need to connect with someone who understands. That was my intent. And it’s been really rewarding to connect with other parents and caregivers on a much deeper level through this book. I’m very grateful for that opportunity.
Radix: I sometimes see, in churches, people with different abilities—physical or mental—and notice how difficult it can be for them to feel included. We often assume that “normal” is the default, and so we shape everything, from services to programs, around that. But the church is supposed to be a body with many parts, each with different needs and strengths. Too often, churches aren’t easy places for people with disabilities—whether physical or neurological—to belong. That’s why I appreciate what you said: that your book isn’t just for parents, but also for pastors or congregations who want to understand.
If you could make a kind of “wishlist,” what would you want churches to know from your experience?
CH: That’s a really good question. My husband and I actually went to an Orthodox conference back in May, so this is something we’ve spent a lot of time thinking and talking about. These aren’t simple issues.
One thing I’d say is that people who are neurodiverse—or who live with physical handicaps or any other challenges—are not problems to be solved. They’re people to be loved.
That might sound simple, but it changes everything. Churches often, and with the best intentions, try to fix people’s problems. We create ministries or programs, and that’s not bad—it’s good and sometimes necessary. But even those efforts can sometimes become isolating if people start feeling like they’re the church’s “project.” In my own case, I didn’t expect the church to accommodate every one of Grayson’s needs, because autism varies so widely. In my book I say, “If you’ve met one autistic child, you’ve met one autistic child.” They’re all that different.
Grayson was loud—he screamed, he spun, he needed space to express himself. Another child on the spectrum might be the exact opposite—quiet, withdrawn, overwhelmed by noise. So it’s unrealistic to think a church could meet every possible need. I think the most important thing pastors and church members can do is simply to be sensitive to the individuals—the child, the parents, the siblings. Everyone in that family is affected differently. And rather than focusing on more programs or specialized ministries, I think the best thing a church can offer is genuine, organic relationship.
I’m not sure that fully answers your question, but that’s where my heart is.
Radix: I love that you bring up relationships. It seems like that’s becoming a more recognized theme—the idea that belonging and being part of a community matter as much as any program.
CH: Exactly. And I don’t want to say that ministries or accommodations have no place—of course they do. If someone uses a wheelchair, for instance, they absolutely should have full access to the building and the life of the church. But with the neurodiverse community, or those dealing with mental health challenges, the needs are so varied that trying to create a one-size-fits-all structure can be overwhelming.
What mattered most for me, as a mom, were the small, relational things. My life was already so chaotic that I felt abnormal much of the time. What helped was when another mom would say, “Hey, let’s grab lunch,” or “Let’s go out for a mom’s night.” I didn’t need a special program. I just needed someone to make me feel normal—to feel loved as an ordinary person, not as a “special case.”
Radix: What are some common misconceptions about autism that you’d want people to understand? That could be about your experience as a parent, or about Grayson himself—what he was or wasn’t like—since people often make assumptions.
CH: I think I mentioned to you in our earlier emails that I’m not a spokesperson for autism. I know one autistic person very well—my son—but I’m not an expert in anyone else’s experience. So I can only speak from our life.
For me, one of the hardest parts wasn’t what people said—it was what they didn’t say. You can tell by people’s glances that they know something’s going on, but you don’t know if they’re judging, curious, or just unsure. Over the years, I can’t recall anyone from our last church ever coming up to me and saying, “Tell me what it’s like to be Grayson’s mom,” or “What’s life like for you?”
There’s this unspoken discomfort. You start projecting what you think others are thinking.
Sometimes people do make comments that let you know exactly what’s on their mind—but mostly it’s silence. I think the best thing people can do is simply ask questions—to be curious, and to do it in a normal, human way. Of course that presupposes some kind of relationship, but still, curiosity can go a long way.
So while I can’t speak to “common misconceptions” in general, one assumption I did encounter was that, because my life was so full, people thought I wouldn’t want to be invited to do anything. They figured, Oh, she’s overwhelmed. She doesn’t have time for this. So I didn’t get many invitations—to join groups, to hang out, to just do normal things. I think they felt sorry for me. But pity was the last thing I wanted. I just wanted to feel normal. So if I could say one thing, it would be: don’t assume. Ask. Be curious. Enter into people’s lives, person to person.
Radix: So you’d probably radically agree that people should respond empathetically—not just with sympathy, but by actually entering into what someone is experiencing, as much as they can.
CH: Exactly. As much as they can. Curiosity might feel invasive to some people, so you do have to be sensitive. But for me, being the mother of an autistic child created this strange buffer between me and the rest of the world. I couldn’t fully enter into “normal life,” and my life was so extreme that other people couldn’t easily enter into mine.
I was just talking to a friend who has a young autistic child. She’s starting to navigate the school system, and she said she can feel other moms looking at her—they’re curious, but no one approaches her. So there’s this unspoken stigma. Whether people are being judgmental or just uncertain, you don’t know. But I think the direct approach is best. Just talk to us. It was, at least, for me.
Radix: In your book, you describe the difference between people who approached Grayson—and you—with a clinical mindset versus those who approached you as people. There’s the “problem to be managed” way, and then there’s the personal, human, relational way. And it seemed like what really worked for you and Grayson wasn’t the authoritarian or purely medical approach.
CH: Yes. Especially as a young mom of a child who was struggling, I already doubted myself. You’re a new parent—you don’t feel like you’ve figured anything out yet. So when an authoritarian doctor or school administrator comes in, it’s very easy to let your own intuition get overridden. If I could say something to parents in that situation, it would be this: you are the greatest expert on your child. You live with them. You see what others don’t. So you have to learn to be their advocate, because no one else can do that for you.
Doctors can be confident—pushy, even—telling you what’s wrong and what to do. But sometimes that doesn’t align with what you feel inside. One thing I had to learn was that if I didn’t feel right about a doctor, I needed to find another one. I needed to work with someone who recognized me as the authority in Grayson’s life and who saw our relationship as a partnership.
Whether it’s school, medical care, or therapy, it has to be collaborative. If you don’t feel your voice is being heard—really heard—then you need to find someone who will listen.
Radix: This might be a tricky question, but do you think it’s easier now for parents of neurodivergent children than it would have been, say, forty years ago?
CH: I would imagine so. Even in the last sixteen years, we’ve seen big changes. Grayson’s twenty now, and when he was little, things like gluten-free food or sensory accommodations were much harder to find. Now there’s more awareness, more products, more technological supports. iPads, for example, have been hugely helpful for many families.
It’s also more socially acceptable to talk about these things, though we still have a long way to go. For example, if you know Temple Grandin’s story—her mother was encouraged to institutionalize her. That was only about sixty years ago. So yes, I think we’ve come a long way in terms of the support available to parents.
Radix: You mention diet in your book—and that’s an area where people sometimes roll their eyes, assuming it’s all hype. But you describe your family’s experience in a way that really helps readers see the trial and error involved, and the hope in it. How did that process unfold for you?
CH: Well, we were very much in the Western medicine world at first. That’s how I was raised, and that’s where I was comfortable. So we started down the typical route: medication, some therapy. I didn’t even have a mental category for anything else. But we had a pretty disastrous experience with Western medicine. Grayson was initially diagnosed with pediatric bipolar disorder, and the doctor wanted to start him on lithium—at four years old. That felt like a very heavy medication for such a young child.
By what I can only call grace—or fate, or divine intervention—we ended up connecting with a more holistic, functional medicine doctor. And we discovered that Grayson had bleeding ulcers throughout his intestines, a Clostridium infection, and a hernia that was leaking stomach acid into his esophagus. His digestive system was a wreck. Once we figured that out—thank goodness we hadn’t started him on lithium—that new doctor urged us just to make a complete overhaul of Grayson’s diet, which, with five kids, felt almost impossible. I shed a lot of tears trying to plan meals and figure out how to cook in this new way. It was hard—really hard.
But once we started, it became obvious that diet was a huge part of the problem. The doctor described Grayson, at that first appointment, as looking like he was trying to crawl out of his own skin—bright red cheeks, rashes all over, completely agitated. After changing his diet, he began to calm down. He could sit still for short periods, and he just wasn’t so irritable or frantic. It made a world of difference. Even now, it’s still very noticeable when he eats something that doesn’t agree with him. Thankfully, he’s learned to monitor his own diet for the most part.
I’ve come to believe that we’re whole beings—body, mind, and soul. And when kids are struggling, we can’t treat just one of those parts. We have to care for all three if we want to help them truly thrive.
Radix: I’m not Orthodox, but I have Orthodox friends and a great respect for Orthodox theology. You’re talking about the importance of the spirit, soul, and body. So often within Protestantism, people tend to focus on one of those more than the others. But I think—correct me if I’m wrong—within Orthodoxy there’s more of a unification, an integration of all three. It’s not just about the spirit, but also about the body. So in general, there’s that joining together.
And maybe to continue the question—in terms of Orthodoxy, you talk about it in the book—in how was it helpful for you? What theological aspects were most meaningful in your circumstances, both then and now?
CH: Good question. So, originally we were coming from a pretty dogmatic background that was very pro–“head of the household” masculinity and not so pro-femininity. When I came into Orthodoxy, it was somewhat reluctantly, and I was pretty irritated and ticked off for a while—just to be honest.
But what changed my heart about Orthodoxy was its beautiful theology of suffering. By that point, I’d already had other Christians tell me that maybe I’d done something wrong and was being punished with a child like Grayson. People insinuated some awful things. On top of that, I struggled with self-hatred and believing I was worthless as a woman. So to be presented with an alternative way of seeing suffering—Orthodoxy doesn’t view sin as a crime to be punished, but as a wound in need of healing—was transformative. Suffering, in that view, becomes a kind of portal: if you can hold it open long enough, that’s the place where Christ enters in.
For me, to be in a state of despair and have that theology offered to me in the form of light and beauty—something I had never encountered in Protestantism—was life-changing. That was my heart’s entry into Orthodoxy. Over the years, it’s given me not just a way of coping with suffering, but a way of thriving in it, even finding beauty there. That’s the subtitle of my book: Finding Beauty in Life’s Darkest Moments. Being able to see that joy and sorrow are not opposites but can be held together—that’s something I write about often, that opposites can be two sides of the same coin, and that we can find beauty right in the middle of them.
Radix: In terms of family and relationships—especially around masculinity and control—did you find that Orthodox views on marriage offered a more balanced vision, where both men and women could flourish without one dominating the other?
CH: Yes. I mean, all you have to do is walk into an Orthodox church. On the left side of Christ, as you face the icons at the front, is Mary. A lot of Protestants think we worship Mary or give her an improper place, but really she holds the rightful place of womanhood—supporting women as strong, faithful leaders who can serve at the right hand of Christ.
And marriage, in Orthodoxy, is compared to the mutual dance of the Trinity. There’s submission, yes—but it’s in the sense of mutual love. It’s not hierarchical; it’s a dance—fluid and organic. My husband is my best friend, my favourite person, and Orthodoxy felt organic to us in how it extends that idea of marriage as a dance. So, yes—absolutely.
Radix: Interesting. Was there anything else in Orthodox teaching that helped you in raising your family?
CH: Oh, yes—so many things. It’s hard to narrow them down. But definitely the unity and integration of body, mind, and soul.
When our oldest son was in a car accident, he went into a coma and suffered a brain injury. He lost many memories and couldn’t recall the accident at all. If you treat a person only at the level of mentality, it’s hard to help them heal—because so much of trauma is stored in the body. So I had to learn what it meant not only to physically heal a body, but also to address the trauma in the body and the role of emotions. Those ideas make a lot of Christians uncomfortable—even Orthodox ones.
For whatever reason, emotions are something many Christians don’t want to feel or deal with.
But yes, the body–mind–soul integration of Orthodoxy was huge for us. I might think of more later, but that’s the big one that comes to mind right now.
Radix: The emotions thing is interesting. You touch on this in your book too. Despite coming from a rural background, my dad totally wasn’t one of those “boys don’t cry” types, thankfully—but culturally there’s still this suspicion of emotion. You can express feelings, but carefully. Especially sorrow—people see it as weakness.
In North America we prize independence, and if I don’t “have it all together,” I must be doing something wrong. One of the beauties of your book is the way it shows that expressing sorrow or struggle doesn’t make you less whole—it shows you’re fully human. So, in your writing—it sounds like you’ve been journaling for a long time, and you do it beautifully. Would you say journaling was helpful for you?
CH: A hundred percent, yes.
Radix: Did you start that from a young age?
CH: Yeah. I actually have journals all the way back to when I was in eighth grade. It’s something I’ve done fairly consistently—less so when my kids were little and life was busier—but it’s really how I make sense of things. It’s also what made it possible to write the book: having all those dates and details. So yes, a hundred percent.
Radix: Was that something that came naturally to you, or did someone encourage you to do it?
CH: I think it just came naturally. In eighth grade, it started as the typical “dear diary” kind of thing—with funny little poems that are pretty mortifying to read now. It was simple at first, but I think it just worked with how my brain processes life. I journaled all through college.
You mentioned in an earlier conversation about the multiplicity of various quotes in my book—well, a lot of my early journals were filled with other people’s words. I’d collect quotes that resonated with me, and that practice evolved over time. Journaling wasn’t trendy then; it was just my way of processing. Apparently, writing is how my brain works best.
Radix: Right, right. And while community with others is important, I think writing and journaling help us to know ourselves better. For me, when I do it—though I wish I did more—sometimes an idea will start small, then grow as I write. One thought leads to another, and soon you realize, Oh, that’s what I’ve been trying to understand. But that ah ha moment, takes some actual writing.
CH: Exactly. And even scientifically, there’s support for that. It’s similar to the concept behind EMDR therapy, which I touch on in the book. As your eyes move back and forth, you’re reconnecting the hemispheres of your brain—something trauma can fragment. Writing, with its left-right motion across the page, does something similar. Physiologically, it helps reintegrate parts of the brain. There’s actually a lot of research showing that handwriting, in particular, has deeper benefits than typing.
Radix: That’s fascinating. How did you first come across EMDR?
CH: It was a bit random, honestly. Years ago, I went to a monastery—something I wrote about in the book—and met a woman there who had been an orphan in Romania. I overheard her talking about EMDR, and for whatever reason, this little voice inside me said, Tuck that away—you’re going to need it someday. Years later, after my son’s accident, when I was beginning to recognize my own trauma, that memory came back. So I started researching EMDR and eventually found a therapist who practiced it.
Radix: And you’d recommend it to others?
CH: Definitely. Therapy in general can be helpful, but EMDR is particularly effective for reintegration. It treats the body more holistically—not just through recalling memories, but by helping release trapped emotions and sensations. It brings together body, mind, and soul in a really integrated way.
Radix: Mm-hmm.
CH: And if I can backtrack for a moment—about emotions. I think it’s really important, especially for Christians, to ask: Why did God give us emotions?
Emotions have gotten a bad rap. We tend to attach judgment to them. If we feel angry, we assume that means we are an angry person—and that we shouldn’t feel anger at all. But that thinking is wrong. I used to be that way, not allowing myself to feel anything. It led to me crashing—physically depressed and emotionally shut down. I’ve come to see emotions as signposts God gives us—like little indicator lights that something’s off. If we approach them with curiosity, we can learn from them, instead of letting them bottle up and explode later.
And culturally, I think this plays out in gendered ways. For men, there’s often a message that showing emotion isn’t masculine. For women, being emotional gets dismissed as hormonal or irrational. So both sides are told to suppress what they feel. A healthier response is to approach emotions with curiosity—ask what they’re showing us and why. We need to stop linking them to sin. Even Scripture says, Be angry, but do not sin. It doesn’t say don’t feel; it says be cautious about how we act in response.
Radix: I like what you said about curiosity, especially as it relates to emotions: that if we’re curious about why we feel what we feel, whether about ourselves, a situation, or someone else, we can actually learn a lot. Whereas if we just tamp them down—say, No, I’m not going to feel that way—or try to control them, we lose that insight.
I’m not a therapist, but sometimes CBT bugs me a little, the way it can be reduced to “Thoughts control your feelings. So, if you’re having bad feelings, just control your thoughts.” Like, no! It’s more complex than that, right?
CH: Right.
Radix: Again, I am not a therapist, and I am obviously oversimplifying, but that idea of just controlling your thoughts when you feel bad doesn’t quite sit right with me.
CH: Exactly. The suggestion there is that emotions are a problem to be overcome or set aside. But emotions aren’t bad—they’re God-given responses to what’s happening in and around us.
My husband and I talk about this a lot. It’s common in marriage for men to speak from a rational level and for women to speak from an emotional one. Those two planes are parallel; they don’t automatically intersect. You have to find a way to connect reason and emotion—to bring the mind and the heart together. Otherwise, you end up talking past each other indefinitely.
Radix: That’s a really good point.
In a separate vein: in our culture, we’re told it’s important to honor difference—and that’s true—but sometimes we talk about “difference” without really understanding what it means in someone else’s life. It’s a big question, but how did raising Grayson give you a deeper sense of what difference really is?
CH: That’s a good question. I think before all this, I was quick to attach judgment to differences.
If you think about it, difference implies comparison—there’s always a reference point. So if I’m judging a homeless person as “dirty” or “lazy,” I’m making myself the standard.
What Grayson taught me was to look at behavior without judgment. For instance, when you see a mom with a child melting down in the grocery store, it’s easy to think, That woman has no control; that kid needs discipline. Judgment kicks in fast. But the antidote to that is curiosity and compassion. People are complex. It’s hard enough to know ourselves well—how much harder to know someone else from the outside? The only way to get beneath the surface of difference is through curiosity and compassion.
Radix: That word curiosity has come up quite a few times.
CH: Yeah—it’s a big thing for me. We can’t enter someone else’s world with our own presuppositions, assuming we understand their life, especially when, chances are, they don’t fully understand it themselves. That’s why listening and asking real questions matter so much. It’s one of the reasons I admire what you do—taking time to ask and to truly listen instead of thinking ahead to your next comment. It’s a lost art in America, for sure.
Radix: Different people cultivate curiosity in different ways. I know a nurse who works in hospice—probably a saint—and I’ve heard beautiful stories from him and others who care deeply for people in different ways.
From your perspective, what practices help you cultivate curiosity—toward yourself, toward others? Especially since you mentioned earlier that judgment often comes from using ourselves as the standard. How do you nurture curiosity rather than judgment?
CH: A lot of people think perspective-taking means imagining how you would feel if you were in someone else’s shoes. That’s part of it—but real perspective-taking means understanding what life is like in their shoes, from their perspective.
So my answer is twofold. First, I’ve had to learn curiosity and compassion toward myself, which was really hard. Coming from a background of deep self-hatred—I mean this literally—if someone had come up to me on the street and said, “You’re fat, ugly, a horrible mother, a horrible person,” I wouldn’t have batted an eye. I would’ve said, “Yeah, I know.” That’s where I was starting from.
Learning to be curious and nonjudgmental toward myself took years—probably seven years of very hard work. Grayson played a big role in that. When your own life is chaotic, when everything’s falling apart, it’s hard to judge others. My heart softened. I found myself crying for people, deeply moved by their struggles, because I knew what pain felt like.
So I’d say it’s symbiotic. You have to learn curiosity and compassion toward yourself, and that naturally flows outward. Or, as with your hospice friend, sometimes it starts by learning to be compassionate toward others, and that eventually circles back to how you treat yourself. I’m not sure which comes first—it’s like the chicken and the egg—but the two are connected.
Radix: What a really sobering thought! To me, anyway—that if I’m to be truly empathetic toward another person, to see them as they ought to be seen, I actually have to have the right perspective of myself first. That’s a heavy obligation. That’s a responsibility. Yeah, that’s… that’s a big deal.
CH: Yeah. I think that at the core of a lot of us lies a deep belief—either that we are unlovable or that we’re not good enough. And if we approach the world from a place of feeling un-beloved or unworthy, it’s pretty hard to find that value in other people when we can’t find it in ourselves—when we’re not even capable of receiving love.
Radix: An off-script question: did you feel like Grayson received love in the same way your other family members did?
CH: No, and that’s something that continues to be challenging. With autism, a lot of times they have a very preferred activity. For Grayson, right now, it happens to be skydiving. And when he comes home, all he wants to talk about is his preferred activity—he’s not really able to engage in other areas. In that sense, the main way he’s able to feel loved is through engagement with those preferred activities. So if I were to give him $300 and take him skydiving, that would feel like love to him. But if I sat and talked with him or made him a nice meal, he wouldn’t feel loved in the same way my other kids might.
And I think this is actually a beautiful way of understanding how God loves us. Because I can’t expect Grayson to be at my level—to receive love the way I want to show it. I have to condescend in a way that feels loving to him. And I think that’s an amazing picture of what God does for us: He’s constantly condescending to our level.
But we invert that—we put pressure on ourselves to rise to God’s level in order to be lovable. So I’m kind of tying this in with your last question, but having Grayson… well, as I wrote in my book, I probably need a bumper sticker on my car that says, “All I really needed to know in life, I learned from autism.”
Radix: [Laughter]
CH: And this is one of those ways. I had very misconstrued ideas of who God was, and through having a child like Grayson, I learned—in a very practical, tangible way—who God actually is.
Radix: Wow. That is really, really, really interesting. Interesting isn’t actually the right word here…
CH: What are you thinking?
Radix: Some things are beautiful, and some things are interesting—and sometimes when we say interesting, we may mean beautiful, or we may mean something more like “rationally” interesting. Though our Western understanding of rational isn’t ideal either, because rational includes so much more than just the non-emotive, thinking parts. Anyway, that comment about learning who God is through Grason is both interesting and beautiful.
First, that idea of “condescending”—and I’m assuming you didn’t mean it negatively, because that word can carry a harsh connotation—what you’ve described is actually beautiful. You’ve learned that, in order to show affection and love to your son, you have to do it in specific ways. And when you went on to explain that God does that with us—that God is okay with taking that on Himself—that’s hugely freeing.
Freeing in an invitational way—not a lazy way. Not, “Oh, it’s okay, I can just stay how I am because God will always come down to my level.” No, no, no—it’s that God is that good and that loving. And because of that, I want to be as open as possible—as porous as possible—to God. I want to be open and willing to change in a way that allows God to express Himself most fully toward me, because that creates a kind of beautiful flourishing.
CH: Well, and I think even beyond God feeling burdened to condescend—and thank you for clarifying that word—what I mean is more like stooping low. You know when you’re near a little child and you stoop to their level so you can be face to face? That’s the image I have.
And so—not even that God is burdened to do that. Because certainly, as a parent, there were days I felt the burden of that kind of condescension. But on my good days, it wasn’t a burden—it was a privilege to condescend. So to take it one step further: God isn’t burdened by stooping low—He’s delighted to do so. When I, as an imperfect parent, stoop low to meet Grayson, I’m blessed just as much by the love he gives me, even though it’s so simple. It’s just beautiful. So if I, as an imperfect parent, can have that image of my child, how much more might God feel that way about us?
Radix: Right. Totally. As a little side note—are you familiar at all with George MacDonald?
CH: I love George MacDonald.
Radix: Okay, okay! Isn’t he just… I think, sometimes, for those Christians who’ve been hurt by damning theology—and I use that word intentionally, because it really is damning—
CH: Yeah.
Radix: —if they could have the kind of view that MacDonald offers… I mean, C.S. Lewis took it up too, and many others, but the way George MacDonald describes it—and when you used the word stoop—I thought of The Princess and Curdie books. In those stories, Macdonald says that great-great-grandmother stoops—and it’s this beautiful image of God stooping, not in a negative or patronizing way, but in a profoundly loving one.
CH: Yeah. Well—and the simplicity, you know—I think we tend to complicate religion. We make it about various theologies and dogmas. But the heart of true religion has to be love. If we can really understand the degree to which God loves us, then there’s no other option than to pass that love on to others.
When we get too caught up in the dogmas of religion, we lose sight of its heart. So for me, having an autistic child absolutely broke my heart—but it did so that it could be remade in a better way. So that I could pass on the love I’ve received through grace, through God, to other people. You have to become that conduit. But to become a conduit involves a kind of shattering and remaking—and that’s what, especially as Americans, we don’t want to go through. We avoid it at all costs, immersing ourselves in distractions to escape that process.
Radix: Mm-hmm.
If you were—you know, let’s say you go to church and meet someone who has some level of respect for you, and they’re going to have a child with autism—or they already have one, but the child is still young—what would you want to tell them? Having gone through all that you have, what’s your advice? It doesn’t have to be long, but what would you want to say right off the bat?
CH: I’d say, if they’re open and asking for advice, to look at their child in a holistic sense: body, mind, and soul. What does their body need? How can you address their diet? Is there medication that could help? Approach the child as a whole person. I try to be cautious with advice because parents in that position are usually inundated with it. I always said, if I had a dollar for every time someone asked, “Have you ever tried—?” I’d be rich. People say that all the time.
So first, I’d only offer advice if they asked. But more importantly than any specific advice—because parents become experts on their own kids, and they’ll figure out what they need—I’d tell them that they’re doing the hardest and most beautiful job in the world. To be patient and gentle with themselves, because it’s crazy-making.
And honestly, I’d probably just give them a big hug. Maybe sit down and cry with them. Because it’s actually way harder—some of the stories I’ve heard since writing my book are harder for me to hear than my own. One of the things our priest says that I love comes from the story of the Good Samaritan. When the Samaritan came upon the man, the Greek word used means that his “guts were spilled” for the other person—that’s compassion. I feel that much more deeply for others now. When I hear what people are going through, it just rips my heart out. It’s so painful to see your child suffer and feel like you can’t help them.
Radix: You’ve already said a number of beautiful things—but if you had all the pastors in a room and they had to listen to you, smiling (because when we’re smiling, we’re more receptive, what would you want to tell them?
CH: Maybe I can answer that with a story.
One of the most meaningful experiences I ever had with my priest—and this isn’t in my book—was a day I tried to go to church to talk to him. It was just the three of us: me, him, and Grayson.
Grayson’s behavior was so out of control back then. He kept trying to run behind the altar—which people aren’t supposed to do—and was flip-flopping on the floor, screaming. I couldn’t do anything with him. Eventually, I just sat down on the front pew and started crying. My priest sat beside me and asked, “What are your tears connected to?” He took the opportunity to be curious. And I said, “I’m just so tired.” My favorite thing he ever did was simply sit there with me in silence. His silence spoke more than any words ever could, because he was willing to sit in my suffering with me—without trying to fix it or explain it away.
So I’d say to pastors and priests: never underestimate what sitting with a suffering person can do. Just love them.
Radix: I think that’s probably a really good answer.
CH: Well, I think we’re such a scientific, rational society—we want to find solutions to everything. And that’s well-intentioned; it’s understandable. But when you start to appreciate the value of suffering… well, what I told my husband when we were going through all of this was, “If suffering is for my good and for my salvation, why would you wish it away? Why would you want to alleviate my suffering if it’s the very thing connecting me to Christ?”
If you see suffering in that light—if you see people not as problems to be fixed but as souls needing to be loved—then, to me, the only response is loving silence.
Radix: I’m just loving, the not fixed part.
CH: Mm-hmm.
Radix: You know, when I am talking to different people in different places I will ask about what’s important to them, or what they think of things happening in their area. And I’ve noticed, in conversations here in Berkeley—live or not live—that people often say one of the things they’d tell pastors, or one of the big problems in North American culture, is this idea of wanting to be fixed.
Shifting to our conclusion, sometimes you get to the end of something and think, “Oh, I wish I’d said this.” So, I’d like to give you a little space—was there anything you wanted to say that I didn’t bring up? Any final thoughts or words you’d like to add?
CH: Yeah. We’ve talked a lot about how people aren’t problems to be solved—they’re people to be loved. We’ve talked about suffering and how we often want to alleviate it instead of sitting with it.
I think one more thought I’d add is this: we often think the opposite of having problems is solving them. But maybe there’s a third option—a kind of remedy—and that’s beauty. Even in the midst of suffering, if we can open our eyes to beauty, it doesn’t fix the problem, but it helps us live with it. Maybe even find beauty in it.
So I’d encourage people to explore what beauty might look like in their lives—through music, art, creativity. When I was in the thick of all the chaos with Grayson, I found myself staying up late painting and decorating. For me, it was a way to redeem the chaos—to create beauty out of it instead of waiting for it to pass. So I’d just encourage anyone stuck in suffering or chaos to consider the role beauty might play as an antidote.
Radix: A beautiful and meaningful answer.
CH: Not easy, right? Not easy, but necessary.
Radix: Right. And this also touches on beauty itself—for people who think beauty, whether in nature or literature, is just peachy prettiness. True beauty isn’t kitsch. It’s thick, heavy, concrete—something unmanageable. It takes effort; it’s large, even overwhelming.
CH: I love that. Beauty can even be found in the darkness. We don’t have to wait for things to be “peachy,” as you say. Even in heaviness we can find beauty. In my book I talk about finding micro-moments of beauty—maybe not the glowing sunset, but tiny slivers that, when you start collecting them, can eventually become something bigger.
Radix: Yeah, yeah, that’s really cool. That’s really good for all of us to hear.
I’ll include links, of course—but where’s the best place for people to find your book? Do you write elsewhere or have places people can connect with you?
CH: Definitely. The book is The Light from a Thousand Wounds, available on Amazon. I also have a website—www.coreyhatfield.com—with a blog, video trailers, and other things. If anyone wants a signed copy, they can order directly from there, or send one to a friend who’s struggling.
Radix: Thank you for making a book that’s not just informational. So often books are simply portals for information—“I want to know about this topic.” A favorite Catholic philosopher of mine, Josef Pieper, wrote about curiosity: there’s a Latin distinction between curiositas and studiositas. The good kind of curiosity is ordered and formative; the bad kind is the TikTok/YouTube rabbit hole—lots of clicks, but you end up titillated, not transformed.
Your book is the opposite—it’s full of life. It has despair and hope. When someone finishes it, they’re a better person for having entered your experience. More empathetic, more seeing. It’s really good. So thank you for writing it, and for being you, because that made the book possible.
CH: Thank you. One reason I wrote a memoir instead of a self-help book for parents of autistic kids was because in AA meetings, they don’t allow crosstalk—only storytelling. They say that even if we’re very different, we find ourselves in each other’s stories. And that’s been true—people of all kinds have seen themselves in my story. It’s shown me how much more similar than different we are. It’s been a beautiful way to connect with people more deeply, and I’m very grateful for that.
Radix: Wonderful. Again, thank you so much—and all the best to you.
CH: It was so good talking to you. Thank you so much.