I'm autistic and I’m reclaiming my time.
Photo Credit: Nick Fancher
Aggressive. Condescending. Egotistical.
For years, these words stuck with me, thrown by managers – not leaders – who didn't know me.
I’m #ActuallyAutistic.
Before my diagnosis last year, after a lifetime of struggles, challenges I couldn’t name, and endless attempts to do the things I saw those around me doing – I felt like a complete failure.
When I was writing documentation, I wasn't trying to be pedantic; I was helping teammates who’d said they found the lack of clear processes confusing. When I shared about a new investment, I was trying to show my buy-in, not saying, "Look at me."
But when it came from me, it was received differently – often leading to criticism or even punishment – and I could never figure out why.
Once, I went into what I expected to be an interview, and instead it turned into a dressing down for “three red flags” of my personality and why the job description was changing.
Before my autism diagnosis, dear reader, I thought that was ALL me.
Empathetic. Creative powerhouse. Leader. Those are the words I’m carrying forward. And autistic.
This isn’t exactly how I planned to share this with each of you, but given recent events, now's the time to use my voice. I was diagnosed last year after a lifetime of pushing against the current and not knowing why. Communication challenges, sensory overwhelm, anxiety – it was all there, but I never saw it in a way that made sense to me until I started researching autism.
Once I began learning about autism, leading to an assessment and diagnosis (& ADHD – once a high achiever, always a high achiever, I guess!), I haven’t felt this light – ever. Everything makes sense.
I am different, but OK.
"This explains so much!" If that was your thought, it was mine too. But it doesn’t mean the process of self-discovery and acceptance was easy, fast, affordable, or accessible, especially in a world that so clearly does not want a person like me to exist.
"Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light." – Brené Brown
I’ve always been autistic. It wasn’t in water or vaccines; it’s in my genes. And I do take Robert F. Kennedy's words seriously because I know someone out in the world does. You don’t get to claim you were misquoted when you were dehumanizing people, and then turn right around and continue to dehumanize them. Putting people like me on a list? Does that solve anything, or is it supposed to intimidate me? Because in my view, it does neither. I’ve always been right here, and these same folks who claim to know people like me rarely bother to speak to me, if at all. I did live in Appalachian Ohio, and I certainly never saw JD Vance.
Being autistic, in my world, feels like being water. It means constantly shapeshifting to the form of whatever vessel I find myself in, and still never quite fitting – making a mess, spilling, being messy and imperfect in the pitcher or cup or whatever other container is "the norm." It’s the feeling of a million little interactions, moments, stimuli that pull our attention in different directions, pull out our individual molecules, the hydrogen from the oxygen, and we still have to have that to the boss by EOD. It’s having all of these words and never being able to put them in the right order when it feels like I most need to say something plainly. It feels like saying something plainly and being told it was too blunt.
Masking is how many cope. Like changing your flavor to additives of others – you'll find many who still don’t quite like your taste because it’s not your authentic self, and you always feel at odds. For me, being autistic feels like fitting everywhere and nowhere, being wise and old and young and inexperienced. It feels like the ultimate contradiction.
Autism is loving yourself and being told it’s too much.
Like water, different neurotypes add so much nourishment to our communities, teams, and friend groups, yet too often the effort goes overlooked. Like water, we try to go with the flow, but when too much pressure builds, it leads to a meltdown – something I’ve even been shamed for at work when put under months of extended stress. That doesn't undo the garden of seeds I've cultivated anymore than anyone else's moments of extreme stress.
Unexpected tears in front of bosses, panic attacks every Sunday night, and trying to heal from obvious PTSD at the same time doesn’t really work. You can talk about productivity, but that doesn’t matter when a person’s brain is overloaded and can’t process additional information at that point. These are the things that stick with the humans on your teams – much more than swag.
That’s all part of me, not a choice. It’s how my brain functions, how my nervous system functions. To push against that day after day, to delight other people – whether small interactions at a counter in a store, a meeting, a Google Doc, or on social media – can be draining when I'm not properly supported in return.
Like water, my energy and ideas all pour from the same container. As an autistic person, I have to protect my water. I have to protect my energy, my resources, otherwise that mental capacity is drained by masking. That water can only be refilled with rest, regulation, and proper support.
2025 has been been an illuminating, sad, confusing, and hopeful time. For me, so many past experiences make sense in a new light – lessons, mistakes, all of it. There are times when I clearly misread a situation, others where I clearly lacked the support I needed. I'm sorry for both.
Yet the more I know about myself, the more I love myself. All I can do is commit to being even better going forward. In one workout, an instructor said something to the effect of: "You broke my heart… thank you… look at me now." I like that thought. 💖
Photo Credit: Nick Fancher
I know the courage I gain when others speak vulnerably. If my story lends a bit of courage to someone else right now, it’s not even a choice. For the folks who wish I would talk more but don’t want to hear what I have to say, I’m reclaiming my time. With the gifts I’ve been given, I can only hope to pay my blessings forward.
My mental health and well-being are mine. I turned down a $200k salary to prioritize myself, and my mission in life is to help everyone embrace their creativity, so we all can love and learn and grow and process grief through creativity in all its forms. Art therapy exists for a reason.
If you want to be sure your autistic and allistic creative teammates have the best support for their brains to generate actual innovative ideas, to ensure they aren't crying in between meetings, having panic attacks every Sunday night, and healing from years of PTSD – send me a message. We rise by lifting others up.
