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When my brother and I summited Mount Quandary, a 14,000-foot peak in Colorado, I was afraid the other hikers would think I had forced him into finishing the climb. He was fresh to Colorado from sea level. He was breathing in deep, heavy gasps and was dressed only in shorts and a T-shirt for the almost-freezing summit weather. I am an avid hiker who is well adjusted to the altitude, and I was decked out in my regular gear. “We did it,” he gasped as the winds ripped across the mountaintop.

And a moment later, more firmly, “We can go down now, though.”

When my brother came to visit me in Colorado for the first time, he had planned a detailed itinerary that included “climb a mountain.” Ill-advised? Maybe, but he loves having a plan. Matt was diagnosed with high-functioning autism at an early age. Autism means a lot of different things to a lot of different people, but for many, it means having a strong preference for routine, predictability, and comfort.

Growing up, we didn’t always see eye to eye. When one sibling has autism and one does not, there are bound to be a few things (read: almost everything) lost in communication. Where he wanted to be alone, I wanted to run around with a big group of peers. He loved science fiction, and I loved running. Our personalities were different, and we fought often or simply ignored each other. There wasn’t much common ground between us beyond two parents and a home.

But in that sibling dynamic, we both learned a lot. My brother still played the big brother role and appropriately threatened all of my male love interests. When a kid in elementary school made fun of my brother to me, I hit him (just like any good sister would). We found common ground wherever it was to be had, and where we couldn’t, there was compromise. I would sit and watch “Star Trek,” and he would come to some of my races. We did these things with the understanding that, “I know this is important to you, even though I don’t understand why.”

I don’t always understand why he does what he does. I don’t know what motivates him, and I’m sure he doesn’t always understand what motivates me. At our worst as siblings, we dissolve into frustration and fighting. At our best, however, we honor our differences and are better for it. He watches my passion for baking, and buys me a pastry torch for Christmas. I watch “Star Trek” and “Doctor Who” and learn about universes I don’t understand.

So when he came to Colorado, we climbed a mountain together. This is our common ground — he hikes like a billy goat, and I’m an outdoorsy Coloradan now. Sure, he wasn’t dressed for the hike or ready for the altitude, but our strong will is genetic; it transcends any autism diagnosis. Half way up, I offered to take him back down the trail when he started breathing hard. He said, “No, I want to prove I can do it.”

And he did. We got there together, which is the biggest miracle of them all. Beyond the lack of communication and our differences, there’s a true joy to getting to the same place. Sometimes it takes a miracle, and sometimes it just takes a little extra push. However he and I find our common ground, it’s always an interesting road to the top.

Jessie Stanek has been involved with OAR since she began running for OAR’s fundraising team in 2009. After graduating with a bachelor’s degree in neuroscience from the University of Colorado Boulder in 2014, she joined OAR in Arlington, Va., as a summer intern working on sibling support resources. She co-authored three guides for parents and siblings of individuals with autism. Today, Stanek works as a lead medical assistant at a skin cancer clinic in Colorado. She is preparing for a career in medicine and will be applying to graduate school in the next few years.