“I love gymnastics,” she says, out of nowhere. “I want to try it again, I quit last year. It was too late at night.”

“I get that,” I say. “I get tired on school nights too. What is your favorite part of gymnastics?”

“The exercise,” she replies. I nod my head. “You like to be moving?”

“I want a flat stomach,” she responds. My heart skips a beat. No no no no. Please, no.

Tread carefully, I remind myself. “Hmmm” is all I can manage. She continues, lifting up her shirt an inch and pinching her stomach. “I do not want this icky fat on me,” she declares.

I think. She’s a wonderful, insightful, unique, verbal, chatty girl. She’s also 15. And a teenage girl. And on the spectrum.

I choose empathy. Even if my words are not processed, I know the feeling will be.

“I get that,” I say. She looks at me. “But you know what? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if there is fat on your stomach, or anywhere else.”

She is listening.

I continue. “I sometimes have thoughts like that. Many people do. But I remind myself… ”

She interjects, “It does not matter! You are beautiful! It is what is on the inside that matters!”

I know it’s a script. I don’t care. The fact that those are the words she is pulling, in this moment, means that hope and belief and self love are all what she is trying to convey, and convince herself of.

“YES” I answer. And she moves on to a different topic, done with this conversation.

It’s a start.