* [CHAPTER 7](#chapter-7)

* [Cultivating Autistic Relationships](#cultivating-autistic-relationships)

* [Self-Disclose — When It Makes Sense To](#self-disclose--when-it-makes-sense-to)

* [Cultivating Unmasked Friendships—Find Your “Strawberry People”](#cultivating-unmasked-friendshipsfind-your-strawberry-people)

* [Communicate Clearly and Honestly](#communicate-clearly-and-honestly)

* [Letting Go of Neurotypical Expectations](#letting-go-of-neurotypical-expectations)

* [Values-Based Integration](#values-based-integration)

* [Finding (and Making) Your Community](#finding-and-making-your-community)

* [Self-Advocacy Organizations](#self-advocacy-organizations)

* [Online Groups](#online-groups)

* [Special Interest Meetups](#special-interest-meetups)

* [General Tips and Things to Look Out For](#general-tips-and-things-to-look-out-for)

---

It’s been years since he stopped working with Act Up and moved out of New York, but James Finn remains a highly engaged LGBTQ activist. From the small village in Michigan where he now lives, he regularly publishes articles about the latest legal and political attacks on LGBTQ rights happening throughout the world, and meets regularly with activist groups. He also helps manage one of the largest LGBTQ groups on Facebook. Sometimes, James’s direct, very Autistic style of communicating rubs his fellow activists the wrong way. He once deeply offended a fellow organizer by asking her to slow down and explain her plans more clearly.

“I had to actually come out and say, listen I honestly don’t understand you,” James says, “I know that other people in this conversation probably do. But I’m Autistic and I have a lot of trouble reading between lines sometimes; can I ask you to just slow down?”

On paper, James had done everything right. He’d stood up for himself, asked for the relatively simple accommodation he needed, and even explained why he was finding it hard to keep up. He was unmasking flawlessly. Unfortunately, it didn’t go over well—at least not at first.

“She said, I was gaslighting her and mansplaining,” he says with a sigh. “I just made myself vulnerable and she became hostile.”

Autistic people tend to love infodumping (sharing knowledge with other people as a means of bonding), we miss social cues that seem obvious to others, and we tend to speak in monotonous voices that are read as dry or sarcastic. A lot of us find the natural flow of conversation challenging, either interrupting people at the “wrong” times, or failing to jump in during a fast-paced exchange and being left out entirely. For these and other reasons, Autistic women (particularly women of color) are often viewed as cold or “bitchy,” and Autistic men are often mistaken for being condescending “mansplainers.” It’s a very challenging social minefield to navigate, because of course most women have been mansplained to before, and have been gaslit, and are understandably on edge when facing behavior that resembles it. Abled people who are oppressed along one identity, such as gender, don’t always understand they might wield a certain degree of power over disabled people who look very socially powerful to them.

The organizer was certain she was being mocked by James, or that he was asking her to re-explain her points in an attempt to derail her. No doubt men in activist meetings have used such tactics against her in the past. Luckily, there were other meeting attendees who were able to vouch for James’s character.

“Fortunately, a couple other people in the room spoke up and said no, he’s not joking, he’s pretty damn Autistic,” he says.

The other organizer wasn’t willing to trust James when he spoke about his own disability (it’s so rare that we are trusted and heard when we communicate our needs), but she did defer to the abled people who backed James up. The tension in the meeting was quickly disarmed. Without that support, James’s honesty and self-advocacy might have been punished.

James’s behavior is a perfect model of how to stand up for yourself as an Autistic person, and the response of his acquaintances are also a picture-perfect illustration of how to be an ally to Autistic people. Despite all of this, the interaction was still tense. I think it’s important to show an example of nearly everyone acting correctly, or at least understandably, with a somewhat unsatisfying result. Unmasking isn’t a universally positive experience; sometimes when we put ourselves first, we will frustrate and disappoint others, maybe even leave them feeling triggered or upset. It’s vital we learn to navigate interactions marked by conflict, and practice standing firm in the face of negative reactions from others. As long as we haven’t abused anyone or violated their rights, it’s okay for our actions to make others unhappy. After all, neurotypical people step on conversational toes and continue breezily along all the time. Neurodivergent folks should, at the very least, be given the latitude to be flawed, fully present humans as well.

In many ways, masking is psychologically similar to codependency, a relational pattern of seeking to manage or control the reactions and emotions of other people that usually results from abuse.[^7.1] Unmasking requires we stop relying on neurotypical people’s acceptance in order to guide how we should act—and that means sometimes doing the “right” thing even when we know it will rub others the wrong way. Most masked Autistics need a lot of practice developing a strong sense of discernment, which is essentially using our own beliefs and perceptions to guide our behavior, rather than deferring to everyone else’s fleeting reactions and impressions. Maskers tend to get very distressed when people are unhappy with us, because disapproval has been so dangerous and painful for us in the past. Many of us will do nearly anything to keep other people satisfied. Learning to tolerate the distress of upsetting someone is crucial to developing reliable self-advocacy skills.

Maskers are highly dependent on the opinions and feelings of other people. We bend over backward to make life easy for neurotypicals and the people we care about, we hide facets of ourselves that are distracting, weird, or inconvenient, and we become hypervigilant about tracking people for signs of disapproval. It’s normal and healthy to be considerate toward other people, but masked Autistics tend to devote so much energy to people pleasing that we have almost no cognitive space left to think about (or listen to) ourselves. It also impedes us from connecting with people in a genuine way. You have to really recognize a person’s emotions—good and bad—and respond to them honestly in order to forge a bond. Surface-level smiling and mimicry makes it harder to see and appreciate people in all their complexity.

Unmasking in public feels nearly impossible, because when we are around people, it’s as if we have no thoughts or feelings of our own. I’ve been in that position myself, so profoundly inhibited I had no idea what my genuine preferences were, unable to recognize someone had crossed a boundary or made me uncomfortable until hours after the fact, when I was alone and had space to reflect. Though I wish I could present unmasking as a singularly positive experience where you unburden yourself of all anxiety and venture out into an accepting, enlightened world, I know for a fact this isn’t the case. Often it will be nerve-racking and awkward. We have to choose to unmask because we recognize masking is hurting us, and that it is worth being subjected to neurotypical disapproval in order to claw our way out of that trap.

Sometimes unmasking means getting odd looks on the bus and working like hell to not let it keep you from stimming. Sometimes it means writing an email to a friend, days after an argument, to explain that you’ve just realized their words hurt your feelings. For Black and brown Autistics, unmasking is particularly fraught, as being visibly disabled in public can turn deadly. For many of us it will mean making hard decisions about where we feel most safe and accepted, and when and how we can unmask most effectively. There are a lot of competing forces at play when we bring our real selves to a social interaction, and a lot of risks that exist alongside the copious opportunities and benefits.

In order for unmasking to be sustainable and healthy for us, we have to put a lot of new coping strategies in our arsenal and have some truly supportive loved ones in our corner. We have to be able to manage conflict in our relationships and nourish the bonds we have with those who truly understand us. At times, unmasking means teaching our neurotypical friends and family to treat us better; in other situations, it may mean disengaging from those who aren’t ever going to be worth the effort. This chapter is filled with exercises and research that are all about crafting relationships that serve your emotional and psychological needs as an Autistic person—and learning how to navigate the public spaces and social interactions that aren’t as supportive and accepting as well.

When James explained that he couldn’t follow what was being said because he is Autistic, he was self-disclosing his disabled status. Research is mixed on whether Autistic self-disclosure is beneficial. As I’ve already discussed, some experimental work does show that when a neurotypical person realizes they’re speaking with an Autistic person, they exhibit less bias, and like the person more than if they hadn’t known. Realizing that a person’s awkwardness is actually just neurodivergence can make it seem more explicable and less “creepy.” However, psychologists aren’t sure this short-term benefit (observed in one-on-one conversations) translates to large groups or workplaces.

A recent study by Romualdez and colleagues asked Autistic adults about their experiences self-disclosing in professional settings.[^7.2] The authors found that while most Autistics “came out” with the hope of getting workplace accommodations and being treated more patiently, 45 percent said the decision did not benefit them. Though relatively few people in this sample reported being mistreated after coming out as Autistic, many confessed that it didn’t change anything about how they were treated, and only left them feeling more vulnerable. On the flip side, 40.4 percent of respondents said that coming out was a net positive, either because their supervisor was open to accommodating them or because coworkers were understanding and appreciative.

Additional research shows that the impact of Autistic self-disclosure really varies based on how knowledgeable a person is about the neurotype.[^7.3] When someone’s knowledge of Autism is shallow and stereotypical, they tend to react to self-disclosure in a highly stigmatizing, dehumanizing way. They may be startled to realize that Autism can even occur in adults, for example, and might blurt out the much-bemoaned, “but you don’t look Autistic!” Sometimes an Autistic self-disclosure is met with infantilization (even literally being spoken to in a baby voice), or with a ton of condescending reassurance about how smart they are, and how good they are at seeming normal. When an Autistic person comes out at school or work, they may suddenly be given a very wide berth, because people are terrified of saying the wrong thing or offending them. However, meeting an Autistic adult and having a positive interaction with them often opens up neurotypical people’s minds, and makes them more receptive to learning about Autism.

One avenue for practicing self-disclosure without risking IRL rejection is on social media. On social media platforms like TikTok and Instagram, Autistic teens and adults have gone viral with videos of themselves reacting to new music with their “masks” off. One such video depicting a nineteen-year-old Autistic woman stimming while wearing headphones became hyperpopular in July 2020; it’s been viewed by more than 10 million people and shared far and wide.[^7.4] Comments on the video are almost entirely supportive and curious, and the video’s creator, Jay, has followed up with numerous other short clips educating her followers about Autism acceptance. Writer and Twitter power user Nicole Cliffe came out as Autistic in 2020,[^7.5] after writing about her kids’ Autism in a compassionate way for many years prior, and has frequently used her platform to educate her followers about masking and compensation. Her followers have been immensely supportive, and many have come forward to share their own neurodiverse experiences. After decades of widespread misinformation, fearmongering, and stereotyping, the public is finally taking an interest in how Autistic people describe our experiences, and we finally have the outlets to ensure we’re being heard.

Of course, it’s not always a positive experience to be openly Autistic online. When a Black Autistic dancer that I know posted videos of herself stimming along to music on Twitter, she was met with harassment and accusations of “faking” her disability for attention. I can’t even cite her tweet anymore, because the deluge of harassment she received caused her to disable her account. It’s noteworthy a Black woman was treated as suspicious for doing the exact same thing Jay, a white Autistic, received praise for: being openly, happily Autistic online in hopes of educating others.

The decision of when and how to self-disclose puts Autistic people in quite a double bind. In order to be known, we have to come out, but we’re usually coming out in a harsh cultural landscape where it’s likely that people won’t actually understand us. By coming out, we help to counter ignorant images people have of our disability, but because those stereotypes are so pervasive and long-standing, it’s impossible for a single counter-example to undo all the harm that’s been done. Often, when a person from the majority group encounters information that runs against their stereotypes of an oppressed group, they respond by either discounting the information (for example, by saying “you’re not really that Autistic!”) or by subgrouping the people who deviate from stereotypes (for example, by telling them “you’re not like those other Autistic people, the ones who are really impaired. You’re one of the smart ones!”).[^7.6]

A lot of times, to self-disclose is to subject oneself to a deluge of invalidation and ignorance. The positive impact you make is not necessarily one you’ll ever notice or benefit from directly. Crystal has struggled with this since the day she got diagnosed. Despite the fact that her mother and grandfather were the people who blocked her from being assessed as a kid, they reacted to her diagnosis as if it were completely baffling and shocking. They even said that her Autistic traits were better left ignored, that everyone struggles to fit in and keep up. This is unfortunately a common experience for the first person to come out as Autistic in their family. Relatives who share undiagnosed Autistic traits may defensively dismiss the newly identified person, saying that their struggles are just a normal part of life. Of course, this speaks to their own lifelong experiences of suffering in silence. Resistance and bitter reactions may reveal the resentment family members feel about having not gotten the help or recognition they deserved, either.

For Autistic self-disclosure to really have an impact on someone, you need a mutually respectful, trusting relationship. They need to be willing to keep learning and revise their understanding of what Autism is as they go along. Recently, Crystal started dating Aaqib, an elementary school teacher who told her he knew very little about Autism in adults. At first he said all the typical, oblivious things people usually say when you come out as Autistic to them: Crystal was too pretty and poised to be Autistic, and Autism wasn’t a good enough “excuse” for her to forget dates they had planned. Crystal told Aaqib to step up and educate himself—and he did. He started watching videos by Autistic people, and bought some of the books Crystal recommended he read.

“I found one of the books I gave him dog-eared by the toilet at his house,” she says. “Like he actually read it. Which shouldn’t be a high bar, but my family never read any of the things about Autism that I sent to them.”

Aaqib has proven himself to be worth the effort of self-disclosure and self-advocacy; Crystal’s family has not.

I wish I could recommend that every Autistic person be loudly and visibly disabled in every area of their life. But I recognize how unrealistic and oversimplified such a statement would be. Though most of us are initially hesitant to self-disclose and sometimes have to overcome our anxiety and self-doubt, we also each know our own circumstances best. There are a lot of great reasons to self-disclose your disability to someone, and many equally valid reasons to avoid doing so. Here are some reflection questions to get you pondering how you’d like to navigate the issue:

* Who do I want to “come out” as Autistic to?

* Why do I want to come out? What do I hope will happen?

* What do I wish people understood better about me?

* How much energy am I willing to put into educating this person about what Autism “really” is?

* Do I have a specific “ask” that I’d like to make, such as a request for an accommodation or different treatment?

* Who “gets” me and can help advocate for me?

As these questions reveal, unmasking and coming out as Autistic are not one and the same, and neither decision is binary, either. You can be openly Autistic among friends and a select few trusted family members, for example, but not at large family gatherings or at work. You can choose to pour a lot of time into teaching people at your church about Autism if you think it will pay off—or you can just share the specific accommodations that you need, without delving into why. It’s always helpful to have a trusted advocate at your side as well.

It isn’t your responsibility to get everyone on the same page, or to subject yourself to judgment and stigma unnecessarily. For example, you may decide that it’s easier to tell HR you get migraines, and that that’s why you need a dimmer switch put on the lights. If saying you’re too sick to go out is easier than telling your friends you’re dealing with Autistic burnout, it’s okay to use that as an “excuse” to cancel plans. It’s also fine to come out slowly, first getting to know your unmasked self privately, then developing unmasked (or less-masked) relationships with the people who feel safest to you. A secure base of supportive people can help back you up when others doubt your disability, as James’s activist friends did. They can step in and help you manage sensory overwhelm or remind you to check in with your body for signs of distress. It’s much easier to believe that you deserve accommodation when you have people around you who act as though that is true. Here are a couple of affirmations to keep in mind when you are navigating the self-disclosure process:

* Autism is not something I need to apologize for.

* Other people don’t need to understand me, or understand everything about Autism, in order to treat me with respect.

* I am [coming out/asking for accommodations] for me, not for anyone else.

It’s vitally important that in addition to all the individual-level work we put into unmasking and demanding our needs get met, that we also find and cultivate supportive relationships with people who make it a lot easier to do so. That’s what the next exercise is all about—breaking down any tendency to people-please, and developing deeper relationships with what Samuel Dylan Finch calls your “strawberry people.”

In his writing about Autistic fawning and people pleasing, Samuel Dylan Finch describes how he used to push genuine friendships away. He associated loving a person with working hard to keep them happy. Conversely, if someone was consistently warm and giving, Samuel didn’t trust it. He didn’t think he could reciprocate real affection.

“I had this tendency to bail on [^7.the] friends, partners, acquaintances, whoever, that were the most generous, warm, and emotionally-available,” he writes.[^7.7] “For people-pleasers, we’re so used to working endlessly hard in relationships—it’s disorienting when we aren’t asked to.”

Samuel felt more at home in insecure, hot-and-cold relationships. He dated abusive people, was exploited by professional contacts, and neglected new acquaintances that had the potential to become something more. After years of this, he recognized he needed to rewire his brain’s social pathways. What felt familiar clearly was not good for him. So he sat down and made a list of the people who deserved his friendship.

“I made a Google doc of people who were ‘too nice’ to me,” he writes. “In my phone contacts, I put emojis by their names. I put strawberries next to people who were super loving. I put seedling emojis by folks who taught me things that made me think or grow.”

Samuel reached out to his “strawberry people” and told them that he wanted to prioritize his friendship with them. He admitted he’d discouraged their affection in the past because he’d been afraid of disappointing them. And from then on, whenever he got a notification on his phone and saw a strawberry or seedling symbol, he made sure to answer quickly, and enthusiastically. He didn’t cancel plans with these friends anymore or create artificial distance. He centered them in his life.

By and large, Autistic people don’t operate by social intuition the way neurotypicals do. Every notification we receive tends to be given equal weight, no matter how well we know a person or how we feel about them. This is particularly true for maskers, who can be so terrified of upsetting anyone that they seek to be equally friendly and responsive to everyone. It can be useful to outsource the social instincts that might come naturally to the average allistic person by labeling certain individuals as high priority, or turning off all notifications except for those from a specific group chat or app. Instead of having to make manual decisions about whom to respond to and in which order, the “strawberry people” system reinforces the idea that certain relationships are more important than others, because they help you cultivate a more solid sense of self.

Within a year of his making these changes in his life, many of Samuel’s “strawberry people” had become members of his found family. They had his back as he worked through therapy for PTSD and eating disorder recovery. The strawberry people even became friends with one another—Samuel writes that they all talk in a single group chat.

Developmental psychology research has observed that Autistic people often have insecure attachments to other people, beginning from a very young age.[^7.8] A person’s attachment patterns are shaped by their early relationships, particularly the stability of their bond with their primary caregiver. The quality of a person’s early attachments also tend to predict the quality of their later relationships, both romantic and otherwise, and their ability to accept comfort and emotional support from other people.

As developmental psychologists define it, a child with secure attachment uses their caregiver as a grounding, supportive “base” from which to explore the world. A securely attached toddler may venture around an unfamiliar playground a bit, fiddling with the playground equipment or trying to make new friends, for example, but they will return to their attachment figure periodically to check in and feel safe. When left alone, a securely attached child will experience sadness or distress, but they are quick to relax and feel soothed once their caregiver returns. As they grow up, securely attached children become adults who can bond with other people with relative ease, and who can handle conflicts and challenges in their relationship with a high degree of stability and trust.

There are several attachment patterns that developmental psychologists consider to be dysfunctional. For example, an anxiously attached child might be afraid to wander away from a caregiver for fear of being abandoned, and when left alone may experience extreme distress that they don’t easily recover from. In contrast, an avoidantly attached child may fail to engage much with their caregivers. Autistics have been observed to exhibit what’s called an anxious-ambivalent attachment style at rates that are elevated compared to the neurotypical population. People with an anxious-ambivalent attachment are difficult to soothe and reassure, and don’t see close loved ones as a safe, “secure base” they can find comfort in when lost or threatened. As adults, people who are anxious-ambivalent tend to get into patterns of intense emotional dependency, combined with insecurity. They yearn to be accepted yet doubt that they can be. When other people try to connect with us, we rebuff them without even realizing it.

It bears mentioning here that developmental psychologists define what a secure attachment “looks like” based on how it presents in neurotypical children and adults. Neurotypical children who are securely attached check in with their parents in a very easy to recognize way, using eye contact and vocalizations that many Autistic children might find unnatural. Furthermore, many of the signs of having an insecure attachment style are difficult to distinguish from neurodivergence (and from being traumatized after living in a neurotypical world). Avoidant attachment, for example, is marked by a child turning their back to their caregiver and failing to seek them out for comfort when distressed. While these behaviors can indicate a child doesn’t feel supported by their caregiver, it can also be a sign they’re Autistic and averse to touch, eye contact, or verbal communication.

From an early age, many Autistic people experience rejection and lack of understanding from our primary caregivers. We also may be punished or neglected because we have failed to seek out comfort in neurotypical-approved ways. Our attempts at connection, such as playing next to another person but not making eye contact with them (sometimes called parallel play), may be mistaken as a lack of social interest. An intense Autistic meltdown may be mistaken for us being incapable of being soothed, and taken as a sign of an anxious attachment pattern. For these and a variety of other reasons, many Autistic people do wind up feeling very insecure in our attachments to other people, or having our heartfelt attempts at connection rebuffed or misconstrued. Neurotypical attachment “rules” essentially make it impossible for us to be viewed as suitable for regular, healthy bonds.

One way that an insecure attachment style sometimes manifests in Autistic adults is feeling discomfort when receiving praise or attention. You may not even recognize the positive attention you’re getting is socially appropriate, because you’re so used to being mocked or picked apart, or else being swallowed up in intense or abusive relationships. It can be beneficial to get an outsider’s perspective to see if someone really is being “too nice” to you, as Samuel put it, or if you’re just so accustomed to mistreatment that niceness strikes you as suspect.

Here are some questions to help you reflect on whether you push secure attachments away.

* Are You Pushing Your “Strawberry People” Away?

* When someone gives you a compliment, do you feel like you have to downplay it?

* Are there people in your life who seem “too nice”? Who are they?

* Are you afraid of trusting people because they might abandon you?

* When someone gives you positive attention, do you feel creeped out?

* Are you afraid that kind, loving people deserve “better” than to be friends with you?

* When someone gets vulnerable with you, do you find ways to downplay it?

* Do you have a hard time showing people that you like them?

These questions get to the heart of the protectiveness and self-doubt that lead many Autistic people to keep our emotional distance from others. Most of us have a slew of good reasons for fearing people. When I was younger, many of the people who took an interest in me were women who wanted to help “teach” me how to be better at womanhood. Sometimes classmates and coworkers would cozy up to me because they wanted my help with their classwork or writing. I started assuming that if someone took an interest in me, it was because they wanted to fix me for their own amusement, or because they thought I was useful. I figured every compliment I received was me being “negged”—a tactic where people highlight your difference or offer a backhanded compliment in order to make you feel insecure.

It’s challenging for Autistic people to tell the difference between friends who genuinely like us, and superficial acquaintances who are responding favorably to our masks. One way to probe the difference, though, is to look at people who have stuck around when you haven’t been perfect. You won’t ever be able to relax around someone if their approval is conditional. Here are some questions I use to help distinguish between the people who are worthy of Samuel’s strawberry emoji, and those who are only interested in the agreeable, “fawner” me.

* Who do I feel comfortable expressing disagreement to?

* Who helps me think about my opinions and choices in a nonjudgmental way?

* Who tells me honestly when I’ve hurt them, and gives me a real opportunity to do better?

* Who treats me with respect no matter what?

* Who leaves me feeling rejuvenated or inspired?

* Who brings out the wild, playful side of me?

* Is there anyone I want to try being more open and unfiltered with?

When I think carefully about these questions, a handful of very thoughtful, reliable, nonjudgmental friends come to mind. Their affection is consistent, and it shows in small gestures, like remembering the details of stories I’ve shared. When we disagree, these friends try to understand my perspective, or reflect thoughtfully on why I might see things as I do. If I say something flippant and hurtful, they tell me for the sake of our friendship, but they don’t relish me feeling ashamed. They share what they want from me, ask for help when they need it, and don’t hold it against me when I fumble in my attempts to be there for them. These friends are also typically the people I can share messy emotions or half-formed opinions with, and who I feel comfortable being weird, petty, or silly around. Their support provides me a safe place to land when I’m angry, sad, or obsessing over some random thing a coworker said that I can’t yet make sense of.

On the flip side, I’ve found that I can identify who is not destined to become a “strawberry person” for me by pondering these questions:

* Who do I force myself to spend time with, out of a sense of obligation or guilt?

* Who do I feel I have to earn the approval of?

* Who makes me feel insecure and not good enough?

* Who do I find exhausting to be around?

* Who do I edit or censor myself around?

Often, the people who fall into this category are outgoing and do give me a lot of attention, but only in a surface-level way. They may show an interest in me, but their questions feel pointed, or like a test. Being around them doesn’t help me relax and unmask; it puts me on edge. Some of them are people whom I really find funny or interesting, but whom I’ve witnessed ostracize or punish others for making a single social error or single choice they disagreed with. One person who came to mind was an incredibly charming friend whom I’ve noticed only ever tells me in a vague way that I’ve disappointed them, but refuses to actually explain what I’ve done, or why. Another friend who came to mind is an older writer I used to look up to, but who persistently lectured me about how I was too cold, too intellectual, and too “arrogant” every single time we hung out. Even if some of her observations are right, I have never felt accepted or even liked in her presence. She’s not genuinely invested in my growth; she mostly seems to want to knock me down a peg.

The more time you spend with your “strawberry people,” the more socially fluent you’ll feel, and the less you’ll associate human contact with having to put on a stressful, phony performance. Quality time with nonthreatening people can also help you develop social skills that carry over into other relationships, too. Neuroscientists have observed that Autistic brains continue to develop in areas associated with social skills for far longer than neurotypical brains are believed to.[^7.9] One study, conducted by Bastiaansen and colleagues (2011), observed that though young Autistic people experienced far less activity than allistics in the inferior frontal gyrus (an area of the frontal lobe involved in interpreting facial expressions), by age thirty no differences between non-Autistics and Autistic people were evident. In other words, Autistic brains eventually “caught up” to neurotypical brains, in terms of how actively they processed and interpreted facial expressions as social data. Other studies have found that Autistic people over the age of fifty are comparable to allistic people, in terms of their ability to make sense of the motivations and emotions of others.[^7.10]

Researchers aren’t sure why these findings occur, only that they help to justify conceiving of Autism as a developmental disability or delay. For my part, I suspect that Autistic people get better at reading faces and understanding human behavior over time because we eventually develop our own systems and tricks for making sense of the world. We might have developed at the same pace as neurotypicals if we’d been given accessible tools earlier on. The social scripts and shortcuts that work for neurotypical people do not work for us, so we have to teach ourselves to develop social instincts.

Autistic people can get better at reading people’s facial expressions as we age, and with the more social contact we have. But we also deserve to live in a world where neurotypicals try just as hard to understand us. When we spend time with people who do not terrify us or make us feel socially threatened, we may be get more comfortable with eye contact, initiating conversations, and being assertive.[^7.11] As an Autistic person, you may never escape social anxiety entirely, and you might always be a bit reactive to the threat of abandonment. You also don’t have to learn to express yourself or connect with others in a neurotypical-approved way. If eye contact is painful and overwhelming for you, unmasking by refusing to perform eye contact is more important than getting comfortable with it. By engaging with healthy, supportive people, you can learn to open up and express yourself effectively—in a way that works for you. As you get more comfortable in your own skin, you may find that people are less threatening and confusing as an added benefit.

Autistic people usually prefer explicit, clear messages that don’t rely on tone or nonverbal cues. We like having specific expectations laid out for us, and being given many opportunities to ask questions and clarify meaning. When we share these needs with the allistic people around us, our relationships can open up, allowing for much greater depth and breadth of connection. When we accept the unique features and strengths of our communication style, we can also feel a lot less socially inept and disempowered.

Here’s a table summarizing some common Autistic communication needs. You can share this table with neurotypical people in your life or organizations that are aiming to be more accessible, or simply request some of these specific adjustments for yourself.

| Common Autistic Communication Needs | Overall Need | Some Accommodations You Might Request |

| ----------------------------------- | --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- | ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |

| Clear Expectations | • Specific plans with details about time, place, and what is likely to happen | • A clear “yes” or “no,” no euphemisms like “I’ll think about it” |

| | | • Meeting agendas that are handed out in advance, and then adhered to |

| | | • Reading materials, questions, and discussion topics being provided in advance of a panel, interview, or other high-stress public event |

| | | • Step-by-step, detailed instructions on how to complete a task |

| | | • Specific, measurable outcomes or goals. |

| | | |

| Explicit Messaging | • Not assuming people can use facial expression, tone of voice, posture, breathing, or tears as indicators of emotion | • Giving direct explanations of feelings: “I am disappointed right now because…” |

| | | • Recognition and respect of boundaries: “It doesn’t sound like Sherry wants to talk about that right now.” |

| | | • Not punishing or judging people for failing to read between the lines. |

| | | • Using clarifying questions: “What would you like me to do about this?” |

| | | |

| Reduced Sensory/Social Load | • Having no expectation of eye contact during intense conversations | • Giving space to talk about challenging topics while driving, taking a walk, or doing something with one’s hands |

| | | • Allowing people to express emotions and opinions via text, email, or handwritten note |

| | | • Giving people time alone to reflect on their feelings and beliefs |

| | | • Learning to recognize fawning, and signs of an upcoming meltdown |

| | | • Providing frequent breaks from socializing, or quiet spaces people can retreat to |

Just as we crave direct communication, we’re equally good at dishing it out—sometimes too good, in fact. Throughout our lives, masked Autistics are punished for requesting clarity, being blunt, or saying directly the things others would rather imply. Over time we learn to filter our self-expression. However, as adults with more life experience and self-advocacy skills under our belts, we can begin to examine our communication style, and turn our conversational quirks into advantages.

More times than I can count, I’ve spoken up during a work meeting to ask what the actual point of the meeting is. In both academia and political organizing, it’s quite common for people to call a meeting when they have a loose sense that something needs to be done, but aren’t sure exactly what that something is yet, or how to accomplish it. My overly analytic Autistic brain yearns for structure, and my social anxiety and sensory issues mean I want most meetings to end as quickly as humanly possible. So, when the conversation seems to have lost the plot and people are talking in circles, I tend to jump into an unofficial facilitator role. If someone dances around expressing reservations, I try to understand their perspective and voice my own concerns explicitly. If someone behaves inappropriately or is offensive without realizing it, I redirect when I can. Many Autistic people can skillfully put their “little professor” and masking instincts to good use in situations like these, taking the tools they once used to placate and deescalate and putting them toward more prosocial ends.

Last winter, I was attending a Diversity & Inclusion committee meeting at my university. As a quick getting-to-know-you icebreaker, the meeting organizer asked us to introduce ourselves, and then share the thing we missed most about our pre-pandemic lives.

This is a very insensitive icebreaker question. At that point in time, many of us had been isolated for nearly a year, and were desperately craving social contact, physical touch, and events to look forward to. It was a miserably bleak, lonesome winter, capping off an absolutely horrific year filled with death. I’m sure that several people in the meeting had lost loved ones to COVID. Of course, during a work meeting you can’t say that the thing you miss most about life pre-COVID is a beloved relative who died. You have to pick a sanitized, work-appropriate answer instead, like saying you miss eating at your favorite Peruvian restaurant. The dissonance made me feel ill. So when it came time to introduce myself to the group, I said this:

“Hi, everyone, I’m Devon, and I think I’ll pass on that icebreaker. If I get to talking about everything I miss from life before COVID, I’ll start to cry!”

People laughed sympathetically at my remark, which I made sure to deliver in a lighthearted tone. I didn’t want the meeting facilitator to feel criticized, but I felt it was important I highlight how uncomfortable his question had been. Masking and honesty weren’t opposing forces in that moment—one helped facilitate the other.

After I spoke up, other meeting participants opted not to answer the icebreaker as well. One person privately messaged me, thanking me for saying what I did. Later in that same meeting, I shared my dismay that the committee wasn’t considering a proposal, raised by many of Loyola’s Black students, to have police taken off campus. I admitted I found much of the Diversity & Inclusion committee’s goals (which involved things like counting the number of scholars of color listed on various course syllabi) somewhat insufficient, and thought we needed to do more to address police violence on our campus. As an Autistic, male-aligned white person who is valued for my directness, I knew I could get away with raising concerns others might not.

The first few times I asserted myself like this, I worried I’d come across as super rude. Instead, I’ve almost always been thanked. I have learned that many allistic people find clear communication to be a welcome relief. In the workplace, carefully dispensed Autistic candor can come in handy. Phrases like “No, I don’t have time for that,” “I’m uncomfortable with this,” and “What’s your budget?” cut through elaborate social performances and render vague matters far more concrete. I’m capable of being too blunt or saying the wrong thing at the absolute worst time, but for the most part I’ve figured out how to put my Autistic candor to work for me, after years of trying to hide it.

Though Autistic people have a reputation for being “bad” at communicating, the data shows that really isn’t the case. A study by Crompton et al. published in 2019 found that when two Autistic people were paired together to work on a task, they were very efficient social communicators. They spread a lot of knowledge and nuance in a short span of time, completed the task quickly, and connected to one another easily.[^7.12] However, when paired with non-Autistic conversation partners, Autistics were frequently misunderstood and not listened to. This study suggests that much of what researchers consider the “social deficits” of Autism aren’t really deficits at all; they’re just differences in our communication style that neurotypicals don’t adjust to.

When neurodiverse people push for more explicit messaging, everybody benefits. Vague, symbolic communication is harder to parse if you’re Deaf or hard of hearing, an immigrant from a different culture with different idioms, a nonnative English speaker, or a person with social anxiety. The more elaborate and symbolic a culture is, the more difficult people from outside the culture will find it to navigate. In some instances, this is done as a deliberate method of gatekeeping and exclusion. Academics are trained, for example, to write in a very dry, passive, and jargon-filled way, as a sign of our intellect and seriousness. Because it is hard to understand academic writing and it’s only really taught within the academy, being able to follow it becomes a sign you “belong.” But hard-to-understand writing is, by definition, less effective writing. Similarly, the business world relies on hyperspecific jargon and a variety of sports metaphors, which can leave those unfamiliar with its macho culture and communication style quite excluded. Tearing down barriers like these is essential to building a diverse, fluid community that is capable of evolution and growth.

I used to believe I was horribly inept for not being able to read between the lines of neurotypical speech. Now I realize most neurotypicals aren’t all that good at it, either. Non-Autistic people process complex situations intuitively and efficiently, but make a lot of errors. Just think of how many times you’ve seen a really confident, outgoing person misread a situation, interrupt another person, or say something offensive without seeming to realize it, or to care. There are negative consequences to such actions, but usually the allistic person who made the error doesn’t have to bear the brunt of them. It’s everyone around them who has to scramble to pick up the pieces, clarify the misunderstanding, or smooth over hurt feelings. One of the most liberating realizations I’ve made as an out Autistic person is that it’s not harmful for me to ask questions, interject when needed, or be honest about how I feel. When you tell people what you want and need, you actually stand a chance of getting it. You also free up other people to express their needs more openly, too.

“Going into a new roommate situation I’ll tell the person, I cannot always do the dishes,” Reese says. “Like they’re not going to be done, and you cannot expect that from me. If this is a problem, we cannot live together.”

Before finding out she was Autistic in her mid-twenties, Autistic writer and stripper Reese Piper had a very difficult time holding her life together. She was extroverted and sociable, and had gotten good grades in school, but she couldn’t seem to keep herself or her space clean or arrive places on time. Her clothing was often stained, and she got food on her face when she ate. She forgot to answer people’s texts and could only maintain a couple of close friendships at a time. Finding out she was Autistic didn’t fundamentally change any of that—but it did provide Reese with a context for why life had been so hard.

She says, “I have a disability and I’ve had a disability my whole life. Because it is a disability, I am entitled to some support, and admitting that is good.”

Prior to accepting herself as Autistic, Reese tried to hide all the visible “tells” of her disabled status. At the strip club where she worked, she could come across as personable and glamorous, and charm clients into buying a lot of dances. She was good at learning the social scripts. But she kept potential friends and romantic partners at a distance. She didn’t want them to see that her car was filled with trash, or that dishes were piling up in her sink. Keeping the world at bay was the most exhausting part of masking for her. Looking like a functional “adult” required a ton of concealment and panicked apologies. The most crucial part of her unmasking process has been openly admitting what she is and isn’t capable of, and letting people deal with it.

“I would be really embarrassed to bring someone into my car right now, because it is like a dumpster,” she says, “but if someone needs a ride, I’d say fuck it, let them deal with it, it’s not the end of the world. It’s only mess.”

For many Autistic people, including Reese, self-acceptance looks less like flawless and serene self-love and more like a “fuck it, let them deal with it” attitude that helps her shake off the desire to hide. She’s willing to be honest about who she is—even if it scares off potential roommates who would have been a bad fit. Slowly, she’s come to let go of neurotypical benchmarks for measuring her life.

Sometimes Autistic people believe that the end goal of unmasking is to overcome all internalized stigma and live completely free of shame. I don’t think that’s a realistic standard to hold ourselves to. Ableism is a pervasive social force, and one we can’t entirely escape; what we can do, however, is learn to observe it as a cultural values system that exists outside of us, and that often runs counter to our personal values. The voice in my head that tells me it’s pathetic that I don’t cook is not my voice; it’s society programming, speaking from within me, and I don’t have to listen to it. Instead, I can call forth the side of myself that loves reading, writing, dance parties, and video games, and acknowledge that if eating a lot of snacks and fast food gives me more time to honor that person, it’s a worthwhile trade. I can also take time to remind myself that I live in a world that exalts hyperindependence to a ridiculous, isolating degree. Throughout history and across many different cultures, most individuals did not cook for themselves.[^7.13] Food was prepared communally, or by specialized workers, because it was a labor-intensive, time-intensive task. Fast food and street carts have existed since ancient times! Traditionally, most private residences did not even have dedicated kitchens, because people were less isolated and the responsibility of food prep was spread across the community. It’s perfectly okay that I need help staying fed. If I were living in a time and place where individuals weren’t held responsible for all their own food prep, my struggles with such things wouldn’t be disabling at all.

Because we do live in such an individualistic world, many Autistic people have learned to make trade-offs and become comfortable with needing help. Most of us (neurotypical and neurodiverse alike) simply were not built to do everything on our own, and in order to lead fulfilling lives, we either need to enlist the help we need, or let some obligations go. This is highlighted in Autistic coach Heather Morgan’s work: she challenges her clients (and herself) to compare and contrast their personal values with how they actually spend their day-to-day lives.

“I’m a married mom with two kids, and between the four of us there are a bucketload of disabilities and exceptionalities that both limit my energy and increase my workload,” Heather writes on her blog.[^7.14] “I face a litany of competing voices and priorities all scrambling for my time and attention.”

Heather Morgan teaches, writes, coaches clients, and is completing a graduate degree in theology. She’s incredibly busy, and because of her physical disabilities she has to get a lot done while resting in bed. There simply isn’t enough time or energy available to attend to everything. But Heather has a finely honed sense of who she is and what matters most in her life, and that guides which tasks she prioritizes, what she says “yes” to, and what she lets drop.

Heather has taken herself through the Values-Based Integration exercise that she uses with clients, recalling core moments in her past that made her feel the most alive. She’s really drilled down into those key memories to figure out what made them so powerful, and articulated the three values that unite them: honesty, connection, and transformation. Those are the three qualities she prioritizes most above all else. And she makes it a regular practice to contrast those values with the rhythms of her regular life. For Heather, examining whether her life currently lines up with her values comes down to asking four questions, which I’ve adapted and built out into a reflection exercise below. To complete this exercise, you’ll want to have your own list of values from the previous Values-Based Integration exercises handy.

Is Your Current Life Guided by Your Values?

1. What am I doing right now?

* Consider: How are you spending your time every day? Try to keep a detailed record of how you spend your days for at least a week.

2. What matches my values and what brings me joy?

* Reflect: After you’ve kept a detailed journal of your activities for a week, look back and make a note of which activities line up with your values and which do not. You can assign each of your values a color, and use highlighters in those colors to mark which activities are values-consistent.

3. What are the reoccurring themes?

* Notice: Are there patterns in which activities feel the best to complete, or things you consistently look forward to? What unites the activities that are values-consistent and the ones that are not?

4. Let go of what isn’t yours.

* Get help: As Heather puts it, “What are you doing that could be done by someone else? What are you doing that doesn’t need to be done as regularly as you’re doing it—if at all?”

Exercises like these can really highlight the ways in which we’re “throwing” time away meeting the expectations of neurotypical people in our lives, or just trying to conform to a vague idea of what we think society wants from us. As soon as we’re able to create a little distance between these implicit demands and our actual selves, saying “no” gets a lot easier.

On her blog, Heather tells the story of one client who completed this exercise and realized he was spending two hours per night vacuuming the house and cleaning the stove not because he enjoyed it (or appreciated the outcome), but because his mother had raised him to do so. He stopped doing it shortly thereafter.

My friend Cody is an Autistic person with a trauma history, and a big breakthrough for him involved realizing he’ll never be able to get exercise the way society says an able-bodied person “should.” Anything that elevates Cody’s heart rate reminds him too much of his abuse. In his childhood, breathing heavily only meant one thing: that he was trying to escape a dangerous situation. His body is a finely tuned instrument of self-protection, but it isn’t well suited to any grueling physical activities. So he’s decided to make peace with that fact, and only pursue physical activities that feel good, like gentle warm-ups, treading water, or getting a massage.

I know countless Autistic adults who have decided that in order to lead healthy lives, they’ve got to let certain things go. Many of us (including me) give up on cooking, for example, because it is such a time- and planning-intensive task. Timing out one’s cooking and grocery-shopping schedules, prepping ingredients, remembering which ingredients you have, getting rid of leftovers in time, knowing days in advance which flavors and textures you’ll be able to tolerate—it can be so much more effort than it’s worth. Instead we let go of the burden entirely, and rely on ready-made snacks and fast food. Or enlist the help of a loved one to do all the meal planning and shopping. Staying fed and having time for what matters most to us in life is enough.

For many masked Autistics, learning in adulthood that you have been secretly nursing a disability all your life is quite the world-shattering experience. Adjusting your self-concept is a long process. It can involve mourning, rage, embarrassment, and dozens upon dozens of “wait, that was an Autism thing?” revelations. Though many of us come to see Autistic identity as a net positive in our lives, accepting our limitations is an equally important part of the journey. The clearer we are with ourselves about where we excel and where we need help, the more likely we are to eke out an existence that’s richly interdependent, sustainable, and meaningful.

A final (and I believe crucial) piece of this puzzle is resetting your expectations about what a normal or healthy Autistic life looks like. The best way to normalize your neurotype is surrounding yourself with other Autistic and disabled people, taking in the rich diversity of our community and learning to appreciate the many unique ways that we live.

“What most normal, kind of vanilla people don’t understand,” Tisa says, “is that the kink world is just full of Autistic nerds. People think it’s this scary, intense weird thing and it’s like…just a bunch of nerds learning about different kinds of rope and stimming by getting flogged and shit.”

Tisa organizes an annual BDSM convention in a midwestern suburb. She looks the way you might expect someone in that scene to look: long purple braids that go down to her waist, lots of black clothing, a bunch of piercings. She’s also a totally Autistic nerd. When she’s not busy worrying about the logistics of setting up a dungeon in a hotel conference center, she plays board games with friends and paints miniature figurines. Tisa says her nerdy social circles and her kinky ones overlap massively. Both groups are filled with neurodivergent people.

“Autistic people love to get lost into a Dungeons and Dragons campaign for five hours, and some of us also love you know, the sensory experience of getting tied up. Both those communities are for outsiders.”

Autistic people have built many niche communities from the ground up—both out of necessity and because our interests and modes of being are, well, weird. If you walk into any furry convention, anime club, BDSM dungeon, anarchist squat, or competitive video-game-playing circuit, I can pretty much guarantee you’re going to see dozens of Autistic people there, many of them in essential leadership or organizing positions.

Autistic people created the concept of fandom. In his book NeuroTribes, Steve Silberman describes how Autistic nerds in the early 1900s traveled across the country by car, on foot, and even by hopping trains in order to meet people who shared their niche interests.[^7.16] In the early days of science fiction, Autistic adults maintained the first fan magazines and traded fan fiction with one another by mail and radio.[^7.17] Autistic people helped to plan the first science fiction conventions, and were among the early Trekkies and fan fiction writers. Long before the internet existed, Autistic nerds found one another through personal ads in the back of magazines. Once the internet was up and running, Autistic people filled it with forums, chat rooms, massively multiplayer online games, and other social networks that helped them find community and organize.[^7.18]

It’s not just that Autistics tend to be obsessive about hyperspecific subjects, and have the technical skills necessary to build these networks.[^7.19] In fact, many masked Autistics focus instead on the social and practical aspects of connecting online and in person. They are often the ones to schedule the tabletop gaming sessions, tweak the forum settings until the site is easy on the eyes, and write the meeting rules that keep members from fighting.

“I am not the math-minded type of Autistic,” Tisa says. “I am the kind who thinks about people obsessively. What kind of venue will be the most comfortable for folks? What chairs are good for fat bodies? How can I keep this one person from having to interact with that other person they hate? That is the kind of stuff I make charts about in my head.”

When Autistic people are at the reins of event planning, we can craft environments that are tailored to our sensory and social needs, In small, mask-free subcultures that are created and maintained by Autistic people, we get a glimpse of what a society that truly accepts neurodiversity might look like. It turns out, an Autism-accepting world is broadly accessible to a wide array of people, not just Autistics. They’re often far more comfortable for everyone.

---

I used to shy away from nerdy communities, or from socializing with anybody who couldn’t hide their awkwardness as well as I could. I was trying my damnedest to seem as normal and neurotypical as possible and feared that if I even stood near someone who violated society’s rules, I’d be outed as the freak I secretly was.

I have met some particularly self-hating transgender people who exhibited the same attitude about befriending anyone they think makes our community look bad. They may resent very visibly trans people who put zero effort into “passing” as cisgender, for example, or claim that people who don’t experience debilitating gender dysphoria are only faking being trans for attention. It’s a horribly self-defeating attitude to have; it keeps us atomized, distant from, and resentful toward one another. Instead of building up the networks of support and organizing power we desperately need, our self-loathing drives us apart.

Though I recognize how destructive this attitude is for trans people, I used to feel that way about joining forces with fellow Autistics. It was the exact attitude I exhibited toward visible Autistics like my former classmate Chris. Around my peers, I made fun of him like everyone else did, and internally I obsessed over his mannerisms and movements. It’s only now, looking back with the benefit of hindsight, that I realize I liked Chris and was drawn to him. He was smart and interesting, and his body moved freely the way that it needed to. It captivated me, but I resented and feared those feelings. Internalized stigma curdled inside me, poisoned my feelings, and made me into a self-hating bigot.

In my late twenties and early thirties, as I finally began to accept my Autistic identity and meet other Autistic people, my misplaced hatred slowly dropped away. The first step was joining a local discussion group for genderqueer people. I didn’t intend to meet Autistics there, but I had recently discovered I was neurodiverse and quickly recognized some of my own traits in the other people present. Everyone was a bit shy and emotionally distant, yet they’d perk up at the mention of their favorite manga or philosophy texts. People were experimenting with unique styles and gender presentations, yet no one was criticized for looking “wrong” or failing to perform gender norms correctly.

The genderqueer group’s rules and procedures also seemed to be tailor-made for Autistic people and our communication needs. Moderators provided a specific discussion topic each week and articulated specific rules about how to know when to speak, how to respect other people’s boundaries, and what to do and say if someone accidentally said something offensive. Adults my own age came to the meetings with stuffed animals and other comfort items and participated without ever looking up or making eye contact. Some people arrived silently, curled up in cuddly heaps on the floor, and rarely said anything at all. Every few weeks the group had a “blanket fort day,” where we all worked together to transform the fluorescently lit meeting space into a cozy, fairy-light-decorated den lined with pillows and comforters. Even a few years prior, I would’ve been ashamed to bring myself to such a touchy-feely space, but I was in desperate need of more trans friends, and in the genderqueer group I felt at ease.

After a few months of attending this genderqueer group, the topic of Autism came up. I outed myself to everyone, and found out that many of the attendees were themselves neurodivergent, too. I learned from the organizers that the group’s policies and structure were created with the needs of neurodiverse people in mind. Throughout the many years the group had run, much of its leadership had been Autistic, or later discovered they were Autistic. No wonder it was the first public space I’d truly felt at ease in as an adult. I started hanging out with group members outside of the group itself, and found I wasn’t ashamed to be a visibly identifiable member of a “weird” crowd anymore. Instead, I felt accepted.

These experiences made me want to branch out, to meet other weird and neurodivergent adults who lived openly as themselves and wouldn’t look down on me. So I started attending Autistic self-advocacy group meetings at the Chicago Public Library. There, too, I felt instantly at ease. We all sat in staggered positions pointing in various directions, chatting while looking down at our shoes or into our phones. I felt no need to sit up straight, put my feet on the floor, and fake smiles and nods in order to keep the conversation moving. It was bliss.

The Autistic self-advocacy group I had attended was Autistics Against Curing Autism Chicago, which had begun as a chapter of the national Autistic Self Advocacy Network. Both versions of the group had been put together and run by Timotheus Gordon Jr., the Autistic researcher, self-advocate, and lover of football and Pokémon that I spoke with in Chapter 1. Much of Timotheus’s unmasking journey has been defined by his talent for finding and creating community spaces that allow him to be himself—and which free up other Autistics to be ourselves, too.

After a childhood and adolescence of presenting as a football-loving cool guy, Timotheus went away to college at the University of Minnesota. He joined a fraternity and made new friends there. He also began participating in slam poetry and meeting other nerdy people. Slowly he began to broaden how he saw himself, and find like-minded folks who could appreciate every side of him.

“My self in Chicago was the person wearing the mask,” he explains. “I had to be the student athlete who is basically the belle of the ball or whatever you want to call it. The person who is into everything that society has to offer. I had to be the cool guy. But I found out in Minnesota that I could be myself and still get a lot of attention.”

When he moved back to Chicago a few years later (after living in Atlanta for a bit, and connecting with the Autistic self-advocacy community there), Timotheus found he was able to deepen his existing friendships, as well as forge new ones. Now that he knew his full, openly Autistic self was loved and appreciated, he could actually build bonds he was fully present for. He was a talented writer and performer. A cool guy who could light up the room with an affable smile. An advocate for justice who knew how to organize and develop resources for fellow disabled people. And he was a nerd who could sit at home playing games and recharging for a day or two. He brought this same spirit of easygoing yet radical acceptance to the organizing he did for the Autistic community. He centered Black and brown Autistics in his work, and ensured that the spaces he created were actively, warmly welcoming toward LGBTQ people. With the help of other organizers, he helped push for CESSA, the Community Emergency Services and Support Act. This Illinois bill will establish a mental health response team to address mental-health-related 911 calls, instead of sending police or law enforcement.[^7.20] In his work, as in his social life, Timotheus has found a way to fully embody his values, and fight to make the city of Chicago a space where Black Autistic personhood is actually respected and cherished.

Around the time that I discovered the Autistic self-advocacy meetings Timotheus organized, I decided to make up for the childhood and adolescence I had denied myself and began attending anime and comic book conventions. There I found Autistic bliss all over again. Everyone was dressed in comfortable, eye-catching clothing. You could start a conversation with someone based on their costume, or a video-game-themed pin they were wearing. Panels were filled with interesting people who looked down at their hands while overanalyzing the plots of decades-old books that almost no one has read. Their unabashed passion stoked the fires of my own self-love.

It wasn’t just that these various groups were filled with weird people like me. They were designed to be comfortable for us. Anti-harassment policies made it clear how you were supposed to engage with other people, and what you were supposed to do if you witnessed violence, sexual harassment, or bigotry. At many cons, there were apps you could use to report a problem or harassment, so even if you were frozen in the midst of an Autistic shutdown, you could ask for help. Volunteers were posted at every corner, helping people navigate the space, explaining where to stand and what to do. There were sensory-friendly rooms, where anyone who was feeling overwhelmed could relax among dim lights, soft music, and snacks.

I couldn’t get enough of con culture, so I started attending even more events: Midwest FurFest, Anime Central, International Mr. Leather. That’s when I met Tisa, the Autistic BDSM organizer, and learned that neurodiverse organizers were at the heart of many of these spaces.

“People say that the internet is a world for Autistics, built by Autistic people,” she says. “But most IRL nerdy and kinky subcultures are, too. It takes an Autistic level of passion to put these things together. And a resolve to let one’s freak flag fly.”

It’s true that Autistic people are a driving force in many of these communities. At Midwest FurFest, there are multiple panels each year about Autism within the furry community, because the two identities overlap so much. The Brony (My Little Pony fan) community is famously dominated by Autistic children and adults. Netflix’s documentary about the subculture made a point of highlighting that fact,[^7.21] as have research papers on the therapeutic benefits of nerdy fandoms for Autistic adults and kids alike.[^7.22] The worlds of anime, manga, and comics are also heavily populated with neurodiverse people of all ages.

Disabled adults help curate the panels and build spaces around people’s sensory needs; they provide much of the programming, staff the booths, lovingly handcraft the goods for sale in the Dealer’s Dens. It’s hard to get a good estimate of just how numerous Autistic people are within these subcultures, but it’s clear that we have helped construct them from the ground up, both because we’re desperately in need of places to find belonging, and because geeky subcultures provide a great outlet for our hyperfocus and a means to express our difference without getting too vulnerable.[^7.23]

Research shows that when we are around fellow neurodiverse people, Autistics feel far more socially at ease.[^7.24] We also crave friendship and belonging to the same degree that allistics do.[^7.25] Though non-Autistic people mistakenly get the impression that we aren’t interested in socializing, most of us are fighting to find acceptance every day of our lives. When we spend time with one another, it’s far easier for us to get those social needs met in a way that feels genuine and easy.

As Reese Piper put it, “It’s neurotypicals who categorized autism as a social disorder.” Autistic people don’t actually lack communication skills, or a drive to connect. We aren’t doomed to forever feel lonely and broken. We can step out of the soul-crushing cycle of reaching for neurotypical acceptance and being rejected despite our best efforts. Instead, we can support and uplift one another, and create our own neurodiverse world where everyone—including neurotypicals—is welcome. In the final chapter of the book, we’ll discuss what such a world might look like. But before we discuss reshaping the world to make it more accommodating of us, here are some tips for finding community with fellow Autistics and other neurodiverse people:

If you are in the United States, Canada, or Australia, you can look to see if your area has a local affiliate chapter of the Autistic Self Advocacy Network by visiting this site: https://autisticadvocacy.org/​get-involved/​affiliate-groups/

In the United Kingdom, you can join the Neurodiverse Self Advocacy group: https://ndsa.uk/

Consider joining the Autism National Committee (https://www.autcom.org/) and attending their annual conference either physically or virtually.

Look for groups that describe themselves as self-advocacy groups or disability justice groups, and are run by Autistic people, for Autistic people.

If a group is focused on serving the allistic family members of Autistic people first and foremost, or supports searching for a “cure,” it’s most likely an unsupportive environment.

Avoid Autism Speaks, and any organization that has partnered with Autism Speaks.[^7.26]

Trustworthy organizations will be run by Autistics, and allow for a variety of different methods of participation, so that nonverbal Autistics and those with physical disabilities are centered.

On social media sites, peruse tags such as #ActuallyAutistic, #AutisticAdult, #AutisticJoy, #Neurodivergent, #AutisticSelfAdvocacy, and #Neurodivergence.

Though Facebook is a less active social media platform than it once was, I also recommend doing a cursory search for Autistic self-advocacy groups there, particularly ones local to your area, or for specific communities (Black Autistics, transgender Autistics, Autistics in eating disorder recovery, etc.). Private Facebook groups can allow for more in-depth conversations than some other social media sites.

On reddit, the group r/AutismTranslated is a great place for in-depth discussions, resource sharing, and exploring an Autistic identity. I also enjoy r/Aspergers and r/AspieMemes, and r/AutisticPride is very active.

Wrong Planet (https://wrongplanet.net/) is a long-standing forum for Autistic people, ADHDers, and other neurodivergent people. It’s an old-fashioned forum in its setup, making it great for slow, in-depth conversations.

As you search through tags and find accounts to follow, look for communities that center Black and brown Autistic voices, transgender Autistics, nonverbal Autistics, and that encourage healthy conflict and dissent.

Avoid groups and pages that are for non-Autistic parents of Autistic kids, accounts that infantilize Autistics or oversimplify our experiences, and accounts where individuals overgeneralize their experiences as representative of all Autistic people.

A great way to meet like-minded neurodivergent people is by joining communities devoted to a special interest you both share. Search online to find local comic book groups, D&D groups seeking new players, anime or cosplay clubs, foraging groups, hiking groups, or clubs devoted to anything that interests you.

If a cursory online search doesn’t turn up any groups you’re interested in, look for events and clubs run by your local library, bookstore, comic book shop, queer community center, gay bar, BDSM dungeon, park district, café, or collectible shop.

Though both platforms are less active than they once were, Facebook and Meetup.com are still useful places for finding groups that share common interests with you, as well as gatherings for those with social anxiety or who aren’t confident in their social skills.

Look for conventions related to your special interests that visit your area, and join online communities related to them. Often there is a robust local community that holds smaller meetups and events throughout the year.

Since groups devoted to shared interests aren’t explicitly for Autistic people, try to gather information on their accessibility policies. Though there are many Autistic anime nerds, for example, there is also a contingent of the community that is ableist, racist, and has alt-right leanings. This is true of almost any broad community; it may take some digging to find out which spaces are safe for you and align with your values.

It’s pretty common to feel awkward or out of place the first time you meet someone new or attend an event. Unless a serious red flag occurs, I recommend giving a new space three visits before you conclude it’s a bad fit.

Pay attention to who is encouraged to attend an event or access a space, and who is overlooked or discouraged. Are meetings in a neighborhood that’s easier for wealthy white people to access? Is the location accessible to people in wheelchairs?

While there is no such thing as a fully accessible group (because some people have incompatible or competing access needs), groups should do their best to accommodate both current and potential attendees. Are there nonverbal and asynchronous (that is, not live) ways to participate? Are the sensory needs of attendees anticipated (for example, with policies banning strong fragrances)?

As you get better acquainted with a group, take note of how conflict and critique are handled. Does leadership welcome critique and take it seriously? Are members able to handle heathy conflict and treat it as a source of growth, or is there a lot of pressure to “smooth things over” as quickly as possible? Does it feel like a space where you are free to change your mind on something or be wrong?

If you have been masked all your life, you probably will experience some anxiety in Autistic-centered spaces. You might even find yourself judging other people’s behavior. Remember that this is completely normal. Society has drilled very particular, often cruel rules into your head, and it can be jarring at first to see people violating some of them. Over time, you will get more comfortable with visibly neurodivergent behavior—and this will make it easier for you to open up, too.

[^7.1]: Gayol, G. N. (2004). Codependence: A transgenerational script. Transactional Analysis Journal, 34(4), 312–322.

[^7.2]: Romualdez, A. M., Heasman, B., Walker, Z., Davies, J., & Remington, A. (2021). “People Might Understand Me Better”: Diagnostic Disclosure Experiences of Autistic Individuals in the Workplace. Autism in Adulthood.

[^7.3]: Sasson, N. J., & Morrison, K. E. (2019). First impressions of adults with autism improve with diagnostic disclosure and increased autism knowledge of peers. Autism, 23(1), 50–59.

[^7.4]: https://www.distractify.com/​p/jay-will-float-too-tiktok#:~:text=Source%3A%20TikTok-,Jay%20Will%20Float%20Too’s%20Latest%20TikTok,Lesser%2DKnown%20Aspect%20of%20Autism&text=On%20July%2028%2C%20a%20TikTok,grappling%20with%20the%20sheer%20cuteness.

[^7.5]: https://nicole.substack.com/​p/a-little-bit-autistic-a-little-bit.

[^7.6]: Richards, Z., & Hewstone, M. (2001). Subtyping and subgrouping: Processes for the prevention and promotion of stereotype change. Personality and Social Psychology Review, 5(1), 52–73.

[^7.7]: https://letsqueerthingsup.com/​2019/​06/​01/​fawning-trauma-response/.

[^7.8]: Martin, K. B., Haltigan, J. D., Ekas, N., Prince, E. B., & Messinger, D. S. (2020). Attachment security differs by later autism spectrum disorder: A prospective study. Developmental Science, 23(5), e12953.

[^7.9]: Bastiaansen, J. A., Thioux, M., Nanetti, L., van der Gaag, C., Ketelaars, C., Minderaa, R., & Keysers, C. (2011). Age-related increase in inferior frontal gyrus activity and social functioning in autism spectrum disorder. Biological Psychiatry, 69(9), 832–838. doi:10.1016/​j.biopsych.2010.11.007. Epub 2011 Feb 18. PMID: 21310395.

[^7.10]: Lever, A. G., & Geurts, H. M. (2016). Age-related differences in cognition across the adult lifespan in autism spectrum disorder. Autism Research, 9(6), 666–676.

[^7.11]: Bellini, S. (2006). The development of social anxiety in adolescents with autism spectrum disorders. Focus on Autism and Other Developmental Disabilities, 21(3), 138–145.

[^7.12]: Crompton, C. J., Ropar, D., Evans-Williams, C. V., Flynn, E. G., & Fletcher-Watson, S. (2019). Autistic peer-to-peer information transfer is highly effective. Autism, 1362361320919286.

[^7.13]: https://www.jacobinmag.com/​2015/​05/​slow-food-artisanal-natural-preservatives/.

[^7.14]: https://poweredbylove.ca/​2019/​08/​19/​why-everyone-needs-a-personal-mission-statement-and-four-steps-to-get-started-on-your-own/.

[^7.15]: Adapted from the blog post above—questions and quoted portions are by Heather R. Morgan; additional writing/prompts are by me.

[^7.16]: Silberman, S. (2015). NeuroTribes: The Legacy of Autism and the Future of Neurodiversity. New York: Penguin. Chapter 5: “Princes of the Air.”

[^7.17]: http://cubmagazine.co.uk/​2020/​06/​autistic-people-the-unspoken-creators-of-our-world/.

[^7.18]: https://www.wired.com/​2015/​08/​neurotribes-with-steve-silberman/.

[^7.19]: https://www.cam.ac.uk/​research/​news/​study-of-half-a-million-people-reveals-sex-and-job-predict-how-many-autistic-traits-you-have.

[^7.20]: https://www.accessliving.org/​defending-our-rights/​racial-justice/​community-emergency-services-and-support-act-cessa/​; https://www.nprillinois.org/​statehouse/​2021-06-02/​illinois-begins-to-build-mental-health-emergency-response-system.

[^7.21]: https://www.imdb.com/​title/​tt2446192/.

[^7.22]: Pramaggiore, M. (2015). The taming of the bronies: Animals, autism and fandom as therapeutic performance. Journal of Film and Screen Media, 9.

[^7.23]: Autistic people tend to socialize around shared activities rather than emotional bonding: Orsmond, G. I., Shattuck, P. T., Cooper, B. P., Sterzing, P. R., Anderson, K. A. (2013). Social participation among young adults with an autism spectrum disorder. Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders, 43(11), 2710–2719.

[^7.24]: Crompton, C. J., Hallett, S., Ropar, D., Flynn, E., & Fletcher-Watson, S. (2020). ‘I never realised everybody felt as happy as I do when I am around autistic people’: A thematic analysis of autistic adults’ relationships with autistic and neurotypical friends and family. Autism, 24(6), 1438–1448.

[^7.25]: Cresswell, L., Hinch, R., & Cage, E. (2019). The experiences of peer relationships amongst autistic adolescents: A systematic review of the qualitative evidence. Research in Autism Spectrum Disorders, 61, 45–60.

[^7.26]: For a quick review of some of the issues with Autism Speaks, see https://www.washingtonpost.com/​outlook/​2020/​02/​14/​biggest-autism-advocacy-group-is-still-failing-too-many-autistic-people/.