Success, Redefined

I’m not sure that parents typically celebrate their children eating pizza.

It’s often positioned as a “sometimes food” – a treat to be moderated, not encouraged. The scales usually tip towards limiting it, not cheering it on.

But life with autism rewrites the rules.

Unexpected, often unusual things become sources of constant worry. And sometimes, the biggest wins show up in the most unlikely places.

For years, my son Max had a long list of sensory sensitivities that made food exploration intensely challenging. Expanding his diet has been daily, delicate work. With persistence (and no doubt some luck), he’s made tremendous progress.

But many foods remained absolutely off-limits. In some cases, his aversion was so strong he couldn’t even be in the same room – let alone near a plate – without real discomfort.

Pizza was on that list.

Of course, every child has their preferences. For some, the list of no-gos is longer. But I’ve come to understand that pizza isn’t just pizza.

It’s family night without needing to cook. It’s the relief of being able to prepare something quick and easy after a day that took more from you than expected. It’s everyone being able to join in when his sister’s favourite food is on the menu.

And for Max, it also represented something else entirely: a crucial social opportunity.

At his school, “pizza day” is a regular event – a chance for the children to enjoy lunch together while raising modest funds for the PTA. It’s a highlight on the calendar. Kids count down the days until boxes filled with thick crusts and melted cheese are carried through the gates.

Max, on the other hand, dreaded it.

He feared the smell. He couldn’t sit nearby. And he was one of the very few who didn’t take part.

That kind of exclusion might seem minor on paper, but he felt it deeply. And it hurt.

We tried different workarounds: packing a special lunch, waiting until the scent had cleared before rejoining classmates, and so on. None of it worked. His sadness lingered well beyond the day itself. Pizza Day became a source of anxiety and anticipation in all the wrong ways.

Even so, I kept trying. Not because I cared whether he liked pizza, but because I knew he would, if only we could find a way past the fear. I wanted him to access not just the food, but the moment. The memory. The opportunity to be part of something with his peers.

But for a long time, it was a firm no.

Then one day, out of nowhere, there was a shift. At a weekend event, a new friend offered Max some ham. To everyone’s shock, he said yes. He ate it. He loved it. He asked for more.

And I knew what to do: strike again while the win was fresh.

We pivoted straight to pepperoni – a close cousin of ham, in my quick-thinking estimation. Shortly afterwards, we were two for two. And grinning.

Pizza, however, remained strictly out of bounds.

Until a month later, at a birthday party. I’d packed the usual “just in case” snacks, but this time I underestimated his appetite. Max came to me in distress: the only food on offer was pizza.

“Mum, I’m so hungry. But I can’t eat that.”

I felt the panic rise. This had all the makings of a meltdown – he was hungry, tired, overstimulated, and surrounded by a smell he loathed. I scanned the scene and weighed my options fast.

I sat him at the far end of the table, away from the worst of the smell. Then I peeled the pepperoni off a slice, quickly ate the pizza base myself, and handed him the meat with a casual, “Do you remember how much you loved this?”

“Pepperoni!” he exclaimed. “I hate pizza… but I love pepperoni.”

And then, in a way I couldn’t have planned for, something really lovely happened.

The other children, hearing his declaration, sprang into action.

“Max wants more pepperoni!”
“You can have mine!”
“Does anyone else have some?”

A procession of processed meat made its way down the table. Max beamed and devoured every piece. The kids laughed and cheered him on like a celebrity.

And for the first time ever, Max stayed in a room filled with pizza.

Not because the sensory triggers disappeared, but because the warmth of connection made the rest bearable.

Still, I wasn’t quite done.

I spied another spare slice and created a kind of reverse pepperoni sandwich – pizza base nestled between two slices of meat. I handed it over to Max without fanfare.

He ate it, then swallowed, then paused. I held my breath.

“Wow, that was delicious!”

“Do you know what that was? That was… pepperoni pizza.”

His eyes grew wide. He scanned my face for hints of deception or a joke. “Really?”

I nodded.

He raised his arms. Another announcement was coming:
“Guys, I have something important to say. I still hate pizza… but I actually love pepperoni pizza.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I texted my husband in all caps:

OUR SON JUST ATE – AND LOVED – PIZZA!

---

Success looks different in this version of my life than it did before autism entered our family’s story. It doesn’t always look like milestones, measurements, or medals.

But looking at that moment – Max at the table, included, full – I saw beauty and progress.

Max didn’t just try something new. He stayed at the table. He belonged.

It might seem small. But I’ve learnt not to overlook the understated, unexpected wins.

Sometimes, the biggest steps forward come disguised as a humble slice of pizza.

It’s success all the same.