Autism: Where Small Talk Goes to Die

Welcome to today’s episode, where we’re adventuring into the wide, wild world of autism- because let’s face it, there’s a lot of misinformation out there. We’ll start with the DSM criteria, which is basically the official list of things that make up autism, and guess what, bestie: it’s not as cut-and-dry as some would like you to believe. It’s more than a checklist of behaviors that doctors check off while making you feel like you’re reading a manual for assembling Ikea furniture. Then, we’re going to talk about how autism is portrayed in the media, which, let’s be honest, is usually about as accurate as a toddler trying to draw a giraffe. From the "quirky genius" stereotype to the idea that all autistic people are somehow socially awkward or lack empathy (newsflash: that’s absolutely not true), the media’s version of autism could use a serious overhaul. And then, we're going to set the record straight on what autism is not. It’s not just a “disorder” or “something to be fixed,” and it’s definitely not the one-size-fits-all caricature the media loves to sell. Autism is diverse, complex, and unique to every individual, and we’re here to break it all down for you. So grab a seat, and let’s unpack the truth about autism- straight up, and no filter.

Okay, now that we’ve torn off the intro wrapper, let’s talk about autism—minus the pity party, fear-mongering, or “Rain Man” reruns. Let’s get one thing straight right out of the gate: autism isn’t some mysterious, tragic puzzle waiting to be solved. It’s not a quirky character trope, a childhood tragedy, or something you can diagnose based on someone’s eye contact and preferred snack foods. It’s a neurodevelopmental condition—yes, that’s the clinical term—but more than that, it’s a whole different way of experiencing the world. One that’s often misunderstood, mislabeled, and way too often, minimized.

Whether you're autistic, wondering if you might be, or just trying to not be wildly ignorant about the people around you—this is for you. Because the goal isn’t to make autistic people fit better into the world... it’s to make the world suck less for autistic people.

Alright, let’s break down this sparkly gem of DSM-speak into something that doesn’t feel like it was written by a committee of robots on decaf. Autism Spectrum Disorder—aka ASD—is what we call a neurodevelopmental condition, which is basically a fancy way of saying your brain was wired a little differently from the jump. Not better, not worse—just operating on a different frequency than what the world has labeled as "default settings." And while society loves to treat "different" like a glitch, spoiler alert: it’s not.

The “persistent challenges in social communication and interaction” part? That doesn’t mean autistic people are antisocial robots who hate eye contact and live under rocks. It means the unspoken rules of social life—the ones neurotypicals seem to download like an automatic software update—can feel confusing, exhausting, or totally irrelevant. Stuff like small talk, reading between the lines, or knowing when to laugh at someone’s joke (even if it wasn’t funny) might not come naturally. Not because autistic people don’t care—but because their brains aren’t set up to process that stuff the same way. Imagine trying to play charades while everyone else is secretly reading from a script. Yeah. That.

Then we’ve got the “restricted, repetitive patterns of behavior, interests, or activities.” This is the part people love to boil down to “oh, they just really like trains.” And yes, maybe they do. But it’s more than that. It’s about finding comfort, regulation, and joy in routines, in repetition, in diving deep into specific interests instead of skimming the surface of a million things just to seem "well-rounded." Whether it’s lining up objects, rewatching a favorite show on loop, or hyper-focusing on ancient Roman aqueducts (because why not), these patterns aren’t random—they’re meaningful. They’re self-soothing. They’re a way of engaging with a world that often feels overwhelming and unpredictable.

So no, autism isn't some tragic collection of deficits. It’s a different operating system. The problem isn’t the system—it’s the fact that the user manual was written for an entirely different model of brain. And maybe instead of forcing autistic people to mimic neurotypical behavior like emotional ventriloquists, we could just... learn how to speak their language, too.

Let’s talk about how the DSM-5 rolls out the criteria for Autism Spectrum Disorder—because wow, do they love a list. Basically, for someone to get that official ASD diagnosis, it’s not enough to just not vibe with small talk or be obsessed with a niche hobby. You’ve got to hit multiple checkboxes across two main domains: social communication difficulties and restricted or repetitive behaviors. It’s like the world’s worst game of Bingo, except instead of a prize, you get misunderstood by your peers and gaslit by the education system.

Starting with A: Persistent Deficits in Social Communication and Interaction—this isn’t about being shy or awkward. It’s deeper than that. We’re talking about challenges that show up across multiple settings. Not just “oh they’re quiet at parties,” but more like “this person’s brain does not naturally download the social software updates everyone else seems to get overnight.” For example, Social-Emotional Reciprocity—which is a clunky way of saying, “conversations don’t work the same here.” Maybe there’s less back-and-forth banter, less sharing of emotions, or a total “meh” response to someone’s story about their cousin’s wedding. It’s not coldness—it’s a different way of engaging. Some folks don’t instinctively know that “How are you?” means “Please lie and say ‘fine’ so we can move on.”

Then we’ve got nonverbal communication deficits—which means reading or using body language, facial expressions, or tone of voice can be tricky. So yeah, that “they looked at me weird” thing that neurotypicals obsess over? That might not even register. Or it might register way too much. Either way, the signals are getting crossed. Maybe there’s a flat tone of voice, a lack of eye contact, or expressive gestures that don’t quite match the vibe of the room—and yet again, people assume that means someone’s being rude, bored, or disinterested when they’re just... being.

And of course, the cherry on top: difficulties with relationships. Not because autistic people don’t want friends, but because decoding the constantly shifting rules of social life is like being thrown into an escape room with no clues and no one explaining what the hell is going on. Figuring out how to act differently at work versus a party versus a group chat is exhausting, and often, not intuitive. So yeah, making or maintaining relationships can be hard—not for lack of desire, but because the social manual was printed in a language no one translated.

Now let’s move to B: Restricted and Repetitive Patterns of Behavior, Interests, or Activities—aka the part that gets wildly oversimplified into “quirky” behaviors and niche fixations. To meet criteria here, at least two flavors of this must be present. First up: repetitive movements or speech—think hand-flapping, rocking, echolalia (repeating words or phrases), or lining things up with surgical precision. These aren’t “weird habits.” They’re often self-regulation tools or sensory feedback loops. It’s not about being dramatic—it’s about surviving in a world that feels like it’s on max volume 24/7.

Next, we’ve got rigidity and sameness. This is the “do not touch my routine unless you want chaos” category. Changes—no matter how small—can feel like someone moved all the furniture in your brain. There might be distress over schedule changes, very specific ways things need to be done, or repeated questions not because someone forgot the answer, but because the ritual of asking brings calm. This is comfort through control—not inflexibility for the hell of it.

Then there’s the infamous intense, fixated interests. These aren’t casual hobbies. These are full-on deep dives that could put a PhD program to shame. Autistic people often have a specific interest or topic they could talk about for hours—and yes, it might be trains, but it could just as easily be moths, historical battle tactics, or the exact release dates of every Studio Ghibli film. The issue isn’t the intensity—it’s society acting like passion is only acceptable when it’s mainstream.

Last in this category: sensory processing differences. And let me be clear—this is not “oh I’m a little sensitive to noise.” This is full-body, panic-inducing overload from fluorescent lights, itchy tags, sudden noises, or smells that make you want to leap out of your skin. Or on the flip side, it could be a need for more input—wanting to spin, bounce, crash, chew, or flap because it feels good. Sensory stuff isn’t an accessory to autism—it’s central to how the world is experienced.

Moving on to C through E, which are basically the fine print. Symptoms must be present in early development, even if they didn’t cause problems right away. That means someone might have flown under the radar until social demands ramped up—like when school became a social obstacle course or adulting hit like a brick. Then, the symptoms have to cause real-life disruption—we’re talking interference with school, work, relationships, or daily functioning. It’s not just “oh they’re a little different.” It has to be life-impacting. And finally, you can’t blame this all on something else. If the behaviors are better explained by a different condition, the autism diagnosis doesn’t stick. Basically, it’s gotta be autism doing the heavy lifting here—not something else.

Now, because the DSM-5 can’t resist slapping a label on a label, they went ahead and added “severity levels” to Autism Spectrum Disorder—kind of like ordering your ASD diagnosis in mild, medium, or hot. And while the intent might be to guide support needs, the reality is that these levels often get misused to box people in, minimize their struggles, or gatekeep access to services, but I digress. Let’s decode what they actually mean.

Level 1: "Requiring Support" is often referred to as the “you’re doing pretty okay, but social stuff is still a full-body cringe” level. Folks at Level 1 might have a hard time starting or maintaining conversations, get thrown off when their routine changes, or struggle to go with the flow when the group project suddenly turns into emotional karaoke. They're often expected to “just try harder,” because they can sometimes pass as neurotypical. But spoiler: masking is exhausting, and just because someone seems fine doesn’t mean they’re not metaphorically white-knuckling every interaction like it’s a hostage negotiation. These folks need support—it’s just not always visible unless you know what to look for.

Level 2: "Requiring Substantial Support" kicks things up a notch. Here we’re talking about more obvious difficulties with verbal and nonverbal communication, and a much lower tolerance for surprise plot twists in daily life. Think: social scripts short-circuiting mid-convo, distress when routines are broken, and environments that feel like sensory warfare. These folks aren’t just introverted or quirky—they’re dealing with a world that feels fundamentally incompatible most of the time. Substantial support here means consistent structure, understanding communication differences, and not acting shocked when they melt down after a last-minute schedule change that would make anyone scream internally.

Level 3: "Requiring Very Substantial Support" is the DSM’s way of saying, “Okay, everything is hard, and this person needs a lot of help to get through daily life.” Communication may be very limited or entirely nonverbal, behavior can be extremely rigid or intense, and even minor changes might cause full-on distress meltdowns—not tantrums, not drama—real, overwhelming, nervous-system-on-fire meltdowns. These individuals often need round-the-clock care or highly specialized support, and honestly, the system still fails them constantly because it’s built for convenience, not compassion.

But here's the kicker: these levels don’t define value, intelligence, or worthiness. They’re not a personality score or a “how autistic are you” quiz. They’re meant to help professionals understand the amount of external support someone needs, not judge their internal experience or flatten them into a checklist. Because autism isn’t linear or one-size-fits-all. Someone might be Level 1 in a quiet environment and Level 3 during holiday dinner with extended family and a malfunctioning smoke alarm. Context matters. People fluctuate. And every level deserves understanding—not condescension, pity, or the ever-popular “you don’t look autistic” line.

So now that we’ve laid out the DSM’s greatest hits—criteria, severity levels, in all its bullet-point brilliance—it’s time to talk about where this whole framework still kinda flops. Because as much as it gives us structure (yay, insurance codes!), it also leaves a lot of nuance on the cutting room floor.

Myth #1: “You can’t be autistic if you’re social.”

Ah, yes—the fan-favorite misunderstanding, brought to you by people who think autism is just a fancy word for “doesn’t make eye contact and avoids birthday parties.” Let’s be very clear: being autistic does not mean you’re allergic to people. It doesn’t mean you’re doomed to a life of social exile, living in a cave with your collection of vintage calculators. It does often mean that socializing comes with a few more pop quizzes, invisible rules, and moments of “wait—was that sarcasm or are they mad at me?”

Autistic folks can be incredibly social. Some are bubbly, chatty, and will talk your ear off about their favorite niche interest if you give them half a second and a decently enthusiastic nod. Others might prefer one-on-one connections, online friendships, or deep conversations over the kind of social gymnastics required at office happy hours. The difference isn’t about desire—it’s about how we communicate, how we process interaction, and how much bandwidth we have before the social battery goes into critical meltdown mode.

What’s actually common is that autistic people often struggle with the unwritten, unspoken, and frequently contradictory rules of neurotypical social interaction. You know—smile, but not too much. Make eye contact, but not toointensely. Show interest, but don’t monologue. Be honest, but not too honest. Honestly? It’s like trying to play a game where everyone else was handed the instruction manual at birth and you’re just out here guessing what counts as “normal human behavior” while internally screaming.

And when autistic folks do manage to “act social enough,” it’s often because they’ve trained themselves to mimic the expected behaviors—not because it’s easy or natural. That’s masking, and while it can be helpful short-term, long-term it’s like emotionally cosplaying someone you’re not just to make other people comfortable. Exhausting doesn’t even begin to cover it.

So yeah, someone can be the life of the party and autistic. They can have a big friend group and be autistic. They can host a podcast, give a TED talk, or work in HR and still be autistic. Because autism isn’t about being a loner—it’s about how your brain processes social interaction, not whether you like people.

TL;DR: Social =/= neurotypical. And if someone tells you you’re “too social to be autistic,” you have my full permission to stare directly into their soul and say, “Well, that’s not how it works, Karen.”

Myth #2: “You’re high-functioning, so it’s not a big deal.”

Ah, yes. The backhanded gold star of the autism world. “High-functioning” is one of those terms that sounds helpful on paper but in real life is just a dressed-up way of saying, “You seem normal enough that I’m going to ignore your actual needs.” It’s the equivalent of telling someone, “You don’t look like you’re drowning, so I’m just gonna leave you in the deep end with no floaties. Good luck!”

This label gets thrown around constantly, often by people who are trying to reassure you—but end up minimizing your experience instead. What it really means is: your struggles aren’t inconvenient enough for me to acknowledge them.You hold a job? You can make eye contact? You remembered my birthday and didn’t rock in a corner during the party? Wow! You must be fine!

But what they don’t see is the behind-the-scenes chaos: the hours of mental prep for every social event, the sensory hangovers after existing in fluorescent lighting all day, the meltdown you had in your car before walking into work like everything’s peachy. “High-functioning” people are often experts at masking—at playing the role of "competent adult" while internally trying not to spontaneously combust. It’s performance art. It’s survival. It’s draining as hell.

And here’s the kicker: functioning labels are completely arbitrary. You might be “high-functioning” at 9am with your noise-canceling headphones, color-coded calendar, and pre-scripted replies. But by 3pm, after a last-minute meeting, a surprise fire drill, and Brenda microwaving fish in the office kitchen, you’re suddenly “low-functioning” and lying on the bathroom floor trying to remember how to breathe. Your “functioning” changes based on context, support, and how many metaphorical knives you’ve had to juggle that day.

These labels don’t help—they harm. They create expectations that if you can do something once, you should be able to do it always. They make people feel like failures when they burn out. And they keep folks from getting support because they don’t “look autistic enough” to be taken seriously.

So no, being “high-functioning” doesn’t mean you have it easy—it just means you’ve gotten really good at looking okay while silently panicking. And if someone tries to minimize your needs with this label, feel free to let them know you’re only “high-functioning” at pretending to be fine for their comfort.

Myth #3: “Autism mostly affects boys.”

Oh, this one. The dusty old myth that just refuses to die. This gem comes from decades of research that was laser-focused on white, cisgender boys who lined up toy cars and had public meltdowns—and then decided that was the autistic blueprint. Congratulations, patriarchy! You’ve officially made autism your own exclusive club, complete with gatekeeping and diagnostic blind spots.

The truth? Autism absolutely does not only affect boys. It affects everyone—girls, women, nonbinary folks, trans folks, people of color, people who stim discreetly and mask like it's a damn full-time job. But for years, anyone who didn’t match the “classic” presentation—aka externally obvious, disruptive, or "boy-shaped" traits—was overlooked, misdiagnosed, or flat-out told they were just anxious, sensitive, or “going through a phase.”

Let’s talk about why this myth sticks around:

Because autistic girls and gender-diverse folks often present differently. They might be more socially aware (but not always socially successful), more likely to mask or mimic peers, more tuned in to social cues—even if they don’t always understand them. They may force themselves into uncomfortable situations just to seem “normal,” and then collapse from burnout later. Meanwhile, the diagnostic tools we’ve been using? Still based on outdated models built around how boys tend to present. It’s like trying to find a zebra using a giraffe detector—of course you’re going to miss it.

And if you add race into the mix? The disparities get even worse. Black and brown children are more likely to be misdiagnosed with behavioral disorders, labeled as “troublemakers,” or simply dismissed altogether. Autistic traits in BIPOC individuals are frequently misunderstood, pathologized, or ignored because systemic bias is doing its thing—loudly and unapologetically.

So yeah, autism is not a “boys’ club.” That’s just who got studied, diagnosed, and centered. Everyone else got left out of the conversation—or told they couldn’t possibly be autistic because they made eye contact once in 2009.

It’s time to retire this myth and update the narrative. Autism doesn’t have a gender. It doesn’t have a look. It doesn’t come with a default setting. If someone tells you they’re autistic, believe them. Don’t ask if they’re “sure.” Don’t respond with, “But you’re so social/smart/articulate/female.” Just say, “Cool. Thanks for trusting me.” And then go unlearn everything you picked up from The Good Doctor.

Myth #4: “Autism looks the same in everyone.”

Ah, yes. The classic cookie-cutter fallacy, where autism is treated like a one-size-fits-all personality preset. According to this myth, if you’ve met one autistic person—congrats! You now apparently understand every autistic person ever. Spoiler: you don’t. And also, please stop acting like you’ve unlocked the secret level of neurodivergence just because your cousin’s roommate’s kid is into Minecraft and doesn’t like loud noises.

Autism is called a spectrum for a reason—and not the boring grayscale kind. Think full neon paint-splatter chaos. Traits vary from person to person in terms of intensity, visibility, and how they’re expressed. Some autistic people are non-speaking. Some are hyper-verbal. Some love routine. Others thrive in creative chaos but melt down at fluorescent lighting. Some stim visibly, others internally. Some are math wizards, some are artists, some are both, and some don’t care about either because their passion is... obscure antique doorknobs. The point is: it’s all valid.

But media and pop culture love their stereotypes, so the same caricature keeps showing up like a party guest no one invited—awkward, white, male, monotone, emotionally flat, and obsessed with something like trains or toothpicks. When that’s all people see, they assume that’s what autism is. Anything outside of that narrow mold? Must not count. Must be something else. Must be “not autistic enough.”

This myth is particularly dangerous because it invalidates people’s experiences when they don’t “look” autistic to someone’s untrained eye. It leads to late diagnoses, missed support, and a whole lot of unnecessary questioning—both from others and internally. “Am I autistic enough?” “Do I really belong in this community?” That kind of doubt hits hard when the world acts like autism only comes in one flavor: vanilla awkward.

But let’s be clear—autism isn’t a personality type. It’s a neurodevelopmental condition that shows up differently depending on the person, the day, the context, and how much sensory hell they’ve already endured. There’s no such thing as a “typical” autistic person. And the idea that everyone should look, act, and function the same way isn’t just wrong—it’s ableist.

So the next time someone says, “You don’t seem autistic,” feel free to reply with, “That’s because your idea of autism is based on bad TV and even worse assumptions.” And then go live your gloriously unique neurodivergent life—because if you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person. Full stop.

Now, about that masking—aka the neurodivergent version of method acting no one asked for. It’s when autistic folks suppress, hide, or edit their natural behaviors in order to blend in. Think of it like internal PR management: “Okay team, let’s smile vaguely, make eye contact for exactly 3.5 seconds, nod periodically, laugh when they laugh, and for the love of all that is sensory-safe, don’t stim too obviously in public.” It's a nonstop internal monologue of performing what other people expect, even when it feels awkward, unnatural, or downright soul-crushing.

And sure, masking might help you avoid being bullied in middle school or overlooked in job interviews—but it comes at a massive cost. You're essentially rewriting your every interaction like you’re in a one-person improv show called Please Like Me Even Though I’m Dying Inside. You mimic tones, copy body language, rehearse what “normal people” say in casual conversation (pro tip: there are no normal people), and often apologize for things that literally aren’t your fault just to smooth things over. You're playing human Tetris in real time, squeezing your square self into round holes and pretending it doesn't hurt.

And the worst part? It usually works. People say things like, “But you seem so outgoing!” or “You don’t look autistic!” as if that’s a compliment and not low-key erasure wrapped in neurotypical approval. Because when you mask successfully, your needs become invisible. No one sees the sensory overload, the social hangover, the internal screaming. You’re exhausted, but everyone around you thinks you're totally fine—because your performance was that convincing.

The DSM, bless its clinical little heart, throws a casual nod toward “difficulty initiating or responding to social interaction,” but it completely glosses over the Olympic-level mental gymnastics that go into masking. Like oh, cool, you noticed we sometimes have trouble making friends—but did you clock the hours spent scripting how to ask someone to hang out without sounding clingy, weird, or like we’re about to sell them essential oils? No? Shocking.

Long-term masking doesn’t just wear you out—it can straight-up wreck your mental health. It leads to burnout (the kind where you can’t speak, think, or function for days), anxiety, depression, and a creeping, crushing sense of identity confusion. After years of performing like someone else, it’s easy to lose track of who you actually are underneath the mask. You become a patchwork of other people’s expectations, held together with social duct tape and silent panic.

And here’s the infuriating thing: masking is rarely recognized unless someone’s really paying attention—and most systems (education, workplace, healthcare, family dinners with Aunt Janet) aren’t built for that. Masking is often mistaken for “progress,” when really, it’s just people bending themselves into unnatural shapes to avoid rejection.

So if someone finally lets the mask slip and you get a glimpse of the real them—how they stim, how they speak, how they exist without apology—don’t shame it. Celebrate it. Because that’s not a breakdown. That’s authenticity. And frankly, it deserves a standing ovation.

And one final, colossal miss that the DSM tiptoes around like it’s afraid of feeling anything: autistic joy. Yeah, joy. Not tragedy. Not dysfunction. Not “oh no, how sad.” We’re talking about the electric, full-body, soul-sparking joy that comes from being deeply connected to your brain’s favorite things—things the DSM reduces to “restricted interests” like they’re a bug in the system instead of a beautiful feature.

Let’s start with special interests, which get treated in clinical writing like weird little obsessions you’re supposed to grow out of—but in reality, they are a life force. Autistic people don’t dabble in interests—they dive into them with the passion of a thousand caffeinated researchers. Whether it’s prehistoric sea creatures, transit maps, K-pop choreography, or the historical accuracy of medieval armor, that kind of focused joy is not a problem—it’s a damn superpower. It’s the thing that lights up the brain, brings clarity to chaos, and gives life structure and purpose. You know what’s boring? Lukewarm interest in eight million things. You know what’s vibrant as hell? Knowing everything there is to know about something and loving every second of it.

Then there’s stimming—those repetitive movements or sounds the DSM lists with the same energy as warning labels on prescription bottles. But let’s be real: stimming can be joy in motion. Rocking, flapping, tapping, spinning—these aren’t meaningless tics. They’re self-regulation. They’re expression. They’re freedom. When the world feels overwhelming, stimming is your body’s way of saying, “Don’t worry, I’ve got us. Let me get us back to baseline.” And sometimes? It’s not even about regulating. Sometimes it’s just fun. And when was the last time a clinical definition acknowledged that something could be joyful and autistic?

Let’s also talk about the comfort of routine. Neurotypicals love to romanticize structure when it’s a morning yoga class and a planner from Target, but call it a “rigid routine” the second an autistic person relies on it to feel safe. Guess what? Predictability can be delicious. Knowing what’s coming, having rituals, loving sameness—it’s not pathological. It’s peace. It’s stability in a world that is, frankly, chaotic and overstimulating 90% of the time.

And then there’s the big one: the autistic lens itself. The way autistic folks experience the world isn’t broken—it’s just different. It’s often more honest. More curious. More emotionally attuned to authenticity over small talk. When you’re not filtering everything through neurotypical expectations, you notice details others miss. You question social scripts. You ask the real questions. And you love with your whole damn self. That’s not a deficit—it’s a kind of clarity the rest of the world would be lucky to learn from.

So when the DSM talks about autism only in terms of “impairments” and “challenges,” it erases all of that. It misses the creativity, the intensity, the resilience, the magic. Because autism isn’t just a list of what’s “wrong.” It’s a whole damn worldview—and if we only define it by what it lacks, we fail to see what it adds.

Let’s stop treating autistic joy like a glitch in the matrix. It’s not an exception to the diagnosis—it’s a vital part of it. And if the DSM can’t make room for that? Then maybe it needs a revision.

So yes, the DSM gives us a starting point—a blueprint, a diagnostic map, a clinical breakdown with lots of colons and bullet points. And sure, it’s useful. It helps people get answers, access support, and explain what’s been going on internally when the world’s just been calling them “too sensitive” or “weird” or “bad at eye contact” since birth. But let’s not kid ourselves: the DSM is not the holy grail of understanding autism. It’s a tool. It’s a vibe check. It is not the full picture.

Because real understanding? That comes from actually listening to autistic people—not diagnosing them from across the room like some kind of neurotypical wildlife expert with a clipboard. It comes from hearing people describe their own lived experience, in their own words, with all the nuance, contradiction, joy, and frustration that doesn’t fit neatly into a checklist. It comes from not assuming that someone’s autism is only valid if it looks like a character from a prestige drama about misunderstood geniuses.

It also means challenging our assumptions—about eye contact, about empathy, about “appropriate” behavior (whatever the hell that even means). It means realizing that half of what’s considered “normal” is just unspoken social fluff designed to make neurotypicals feel comfortable, not universal truths. Like, who decided that stimming is “weird” but fidget spinners are fine? Why is memorizing football stats “cool,” but knowing the entire genealogy of Greek gods is “obsessive”? Why is avoiding small talk at a party suspicious, but faking interest in Chad’s fantasy league is... admirable?

Here’s the truth: “normal” is a myth. A glitch in the matrix. A concept invented by people who were terrified of difference and wanted everyone to act like background characters in a Hallmark movie. But neurodiversity blows that whole thing wide open—and thank god, because “normal” was getting so boring.

When we let go of the idea that everyone should think, feel, socialize, or express themselves the same way, we don’t just make the world better for autistic people—we make it better for everyone. More honest. More flexible. More real. Because the moment we stop pathologizing difference and start celebrating neurodiversity, we stop asking, “How do we make you fit in?” and start asking, “What do you need to thrive?”

So yeah—the DSM might get the party started, but if we actually want to understand autism, we’ve gotta put down the clipboard, shut up for a second, and listen to autistic voices. They’re not broken. They’re not failed neurotypicals. They’re fully human—with a perspective that just might make the rest of us rethink what humanity actually means.

And now let’s get into the wildly chaotic, often cringeworthy rollercoaster that is autism representation in media—where stereotypes run rampant, nuance takes a backseat, and Hollywood seems to think “autistic” just means “genius robot with no emotions and one hobby.”

We all know representation matters. Seeing people like you reflected in stories—honestly, messily, accurately—can be life-changing. It helps people understand themselves, feel seen, and sometimes even realize, “Oh… that might be me.” But here’s the kicker: for every step forward, media somehow manages to trip over its own shoelaces, crash into a pile of clichés, and call it groundbreaking.

Let’s start with the media’s favorite go-to: The White Male Savant. This guy is everywhere—counting cards in Rain Man, diagnosing rare diseases in The Good Doctor, solving impossible math equations in A Beautiful Mind, or confusing sarcasm in The Big Bang Theory. (And don’t let them fool you—yes, Sheldon isn’t “officially” autistic, but come on. We see you.)

These characters are always absurdly intelligent, emotionally detached, socially awkward to the point of parody, and hyper-focused on one niche thing like trains or prime numbers. They’re not written as full humans—they’re walking plot devices. Their “quirks” are either comic relief or tragic inspiration, and their actual humanity gets squished down into “Wow, he’s so smart… but weird.” These portrayals send the message that autism = genius, and that your neurodivergence is only acceptable if it comes with a side of savant superpowers. Spoiler: most autistic people are not Rain Man, and equating value with utility is not just inaccurate—it’s dehumanizing.

Closely related is the “emotionless robot” trope. These characters are clearly autistic-coded but never explicitly labeled that way—probably to dodge accountability. They’re logical, rigid, analytical, and apparently allergic to feelings. Think: Spock (Star Trek), Data (also Star Trek), Sherlock Holmes (in basically every version), or Dr. Temperance “Bones” Brennan (Bones). Writers use these traits to make characters seem unknowable or otherworldly—as if being different somehow makes you less human. And while yes, some autistic folks do relate to their factual brains or literal language, reducing them to cold, robotic caricatures just feeds into the dangerous myth that autistic people don’t have emotions. They do—often intensely. They just may not show them the way neurotypicals expect.

Then there’s the “Awkward Comic Relief” archetype, which feels like a cruel joke wrapped in a sitcom script. These are the characters who constantly miss social cues, deliver hilariously blunt observations, and get used as emotional training wheels for everyone else. Think Sheldon again, Abed from Community, or Dwight from The Office. These characters usually tick a dozen DSM boxes, but the writers never come out and say the word “autism”—because that would require intentionality. Instead, they rely on lazy shorthand: stiff posture, monotone delivery, and zero grasp of sarcasm. The result? A character whose neurodivergent traits are played for laughs instead of depth. And while some viewers may see parts of themselves in these roles, the overall takeaway is often, “Look how socially clueless they are!” Which—yeah, no. That’s not representation. That’s ridicule in a trench coat.

And of course, we can’t forget the all-too-popular “Tragic Burden” narrative. This one tends to show up in parent-centered dramas and documentaries, where the autistic person exists solely to challenge the patience of everyone around them. These stories prioritize the neurotypical characters’ grief, stress, and noble struggle to “cope” with autism. The autistic person? Usually a silent, overwhelmed child—or worse, a prop for emotional manipulation. Their voice is missing. Their agency is erased. The message is loud and clear: autism is a tragedy to manage, not an identity to respect. It's trauma porn in a tasteful Instagram filter, and it’s exhausting.

The biggest problem across all of these portrayals? They ignore the massive, messy middle ground of the autistic experience. We rarely see autistic adults just living their lives—working jobs, navigating relationships, paying taxes, arguing about their favorite Pokémon. We don’t see autistic women and nonbinary people, who are chronically underdiagnosed and often mask their traits so well that media barely acknowledges they exist. Autistic people of color? Practically invisible. And non-speaking autistic folks are usually portrayed only as metaphors for silence, pain, or "what might have been."

And where, for the love of all that is good and neurospicy, is the joy? Where are the stories that show autistic people thriving—not because they’re cured, or changed, or finally learned to mimic the neurotypical status quo—but because they’ve built lives that actually fit them? Where’s the passion, the humor, the depth, the full-blown human experience?

Because here’s the thing: when media gets autism wrong—and it frequently does—the consequences aren’t just annoying. They’re harmful. These portrayals delay diagnoses, especially for anyone who doesn’t fit the narrow savant mold. They encourage masking, because autistic people learn early that being “themselves” gets them mocked, pitied, or dismissed. And they misinform everyone else—teachers, therapists, coworkers—who absorb these scripts and start treating autistic traits like punchlines or warning signs.

But there’s good news: some media is getting it right-er. Everything’s Gonna Be Okay features an autistic character played by an actually autistic actor (revolutionary, I know). As We See It goes even further, with an autistic cast and autistic writers in the room. Heartbreak High gave us Quinni—a queer, autistic teen who is complex, expressive, and very much not reduced to a trope. Even children’s media is catching on—Pablo is a show voiced by autistic kids and centered around their real experiences.

And you can feel the difference. These stories weren’t created about autistic people—they were created with them. When autistic folks get to tell their own stories, the result isn’t just more accurate—it’s more human. We get humor. We get depth. We get weird, wonderful, contradictory, full-spectrum people who actually reflect reality.

So here’s the bottom line: autism representation in media has historically ranged from cartoonish to catastrophically inaccurate. But it doesn’t have to stay that way. We don’t need more stereotypes—we need storytelling with range, care, and actual input from the people being portrayed. Autism isn’t a genre, a plot device, or a narrative sob story. It’s a real, diverse, and valid way of existing in the world—and it deserves to be portrayed like it.

Speaking of diversity, let’s talk about why autism is called a spectrum, and no, it’s not just because psychologists like fancy words. It’s because ASD doesn’t show up like a predictable checklist of symptoms that applies neatly across the board. Autism is less “one size fits all” and more “choose your own neurodivergent adventure.” One person might be fully verbal, highly independent, and just need some support navigating social chaos like small talk and office birthday parties. Another might be non-speaking, have significant sensory needs, and rely on structured support to get through daily life. Neither is “more autistic” or “less autistic”—they're just rocking different parts of the spectrum.

This is where the world tends to get confused, because it loves a clear binary: you're either “high-functioning” (translation: your discomfort is invisible enough to not inconvenience others), or you're “low-functioning” (translation: people decide things for you instead of with you). Both labels are garbage. They erase the actual experience of being autistic and ignore how support needs can vary wildly depending on the day, the environment, or whether someone’s had enough sleep and access to their special interests.

And while we're here—support needs ≠ intelligence. You can be brilliant and still need help managing a sensory overload at Target. You can be non-speaking and have a razor-sharp inner world. Autism isn’t a straight line from “quirky genius” to “helpless child”—it’s more like a color wheel of traits, strengths, struggles, and preferences. Some folks can mask their traits well enough to fly under the radar for years (or decades), only to hit a wall of burnout because their entire life has been a performance. Others get diagnosed early, get access to the right supports, and learn how to thrive on their own terms. Both are valid. Both are autistic. Both deserve understanding, not judgment or “but you don’t look autistic” commentary.

That’s why early diagnosis and support can make such a huge difference—not because autism is something to “fix,” but because knowing how your brain works gives you the tools to build a life that actually fits. We're not trying to squeeze square pegs into neurotypical holes here. We’re trying to help people live with more self-awareness, more compassion, and less daily sensory combat. Therapies, accommodations, and self-understanding can turn survival mode into something a little closer to thriving. It’s like going from trying to drive with the parking brake on to finally realizing, “Ohhh... this car was supposed to be a spaceship.”

So no, there’s no one way autism looks, feels, or functions. That’s the whole point of the spectrum.

And now we're going to take a peek into the deep, gritty, irreverent truth about masking and late diagnosis—aka the double whammy that too many autistic people know way too well.

Let’s start with masking, which, despite sounding like a skincare routine, is actually a full-time, unpaid performance art that a lot of autistic folks end up mastering just to survive in a world that expects everyone to operate like default settings are neurotypical.

Masking is when you consciously or unconsciously hide your autistic traits to fit in. It’s mimicking social behaviors that don’t come naturally—forcing eye contact even when it feels like a laser beam to the soul, rehearsing responses to basic questions like you’re prepping for a job interview, stifling stims like hand-flapping or rocking- replacing them with more subtle ones like picking at your cuticles and finger tapping, and mentally Googling "How do humans small talk?" every time someone says “How’s your day going?” It’s laughing at the right time even if you didn’t understand the joke. It’s strategically pretending to be less overwhelmed than you are because you’ve learned that being honest about your needs makes people uncomfortable.

Masking is a survival tactic—but make no mistake, it’s exhausting. It’s emotional labor on steroids. You’re constantly calculating, filtering, editing. And because it can be so effective, people assume you’re "fine." Which means your needs get ignored, your burnout goes unnoticed, and your internal distress gets written off as being dramatic, anxious, or just “too sensitive.” It’s like running a marathon in clown shoes while everyone applauds how graceful you look walking.

And here’s the cruel irony: the better someone is at masking, the longer they tend to go undiagnosed—especially if they’re not a textbook example of what old-school diagnostic tools expect. Spoiler: those tools were designed around white, cisgender boys who line up toy trains and struggle with direct communication. They didn’t account for autistic women, BIPOC, or gender-diverse folks who may have grown up hyper-aware of social expectations and learned to camouflage just to stay safe, accepted, or employable.

Which brings us to late diagnosis—a whole emotional rollercoaster in itself. For many, it starts with this lingering sense of being “off” but not knowing why. Maybe you’ve spent your life being labeled as shy, intense, sensitive, cold, weird, anxious, too much, or not enough. You’ve probably been misdiagnosed (hello anxiety! hi ADHD! what’s up, depression!), dismissed, or told to “just try harder.” So you do. You try harder than everyone. You people-please, over-function, overthink, and still feel like you’re failing at being a person.

Then maybe—through a random TikTok rabbit hole, an overly honest therapy session, or pure existential fatigue—you start wondering if it’s not that you’re broken... maybe you’re just autistic. And suddenly, things start clicking. The sensory overwhelm, the need for routine, the social exhaustion that hits like a hangover, the deep dives into hyperfixations that make you light up even though people look at you like you’re unhinged. It all starts to make sense.

And let’s be clear: a late diagnosis doesn’t mean you were faking before—it means you’ve been doing an Olympic-level masking routine for years, and your brain finally handed you a user manual. It’s a mix of grief and relief. Relief at having a name for your experience. Grief for all the years you spent trying to be someone else, wondering why you couldn’t just “be normal,” and burning out under the weight of it.

The world tends to treat diagnosis like a pass/fail exam—like if you didn’t “get caught” as a kid, you must not really be autistic. But autism doesn’t magically appear in adulthood. It was always there. The support wasn’t. The understanding wasn’t. The language wasn’t.

What is there—especially after a late diagnosis—is a whole new world of possibility. You get to unlearn the shame. You get to set boundaries that actually work for your brain. You get to stim, speak your truth, and take off the damn mask—at least with the people who deserve to see the real you.

So yeah, masking and late diagnosis are two sides of the same exhausting coin. But understanding them? That’s the first step toward living a life that’s not built on constant code-switching and quiet suffering. It’s built on actual self-knowledge—and that’s where the real magic starts.

And that, my friends, is our ride through the spectrum—messy, nuanced, and hopefully several steps above Hollywood’s usual “emotionless genius with a train obsession” version of autism.

If you took anything from today, let it be this: autism isn’t a tragic subplot or a quirky inconvenience—it’s a real, diverse, and valid way of experiencing the world. It doesn’t need to be fixed, cured, softened, or sanitized. It needs to be understood. It needs to be respected. And more than anything, autistic folks need the space to be fully themselves—without having to constantly mask, explain, or shrink to fit into someone else’s comfort zone.

Whether you’re autistic, suspect you might be, love someone who is, or just realized half your personality is built on misunderstood neurodivergent traits—you’re not alone. Keep unlearning the crap, keep questioning the stereotypes, and keep building a world where difference isn’t feared—it’s freaking celebrated.

Thanks for pushing play on Shrink Wrapped. If this episode helped you feel seen, educated, or slightly more ragey in a productive way, share it with someone who needs to hear it. And while you’re at it, rate, review, and subscribe wherever you get your podcasts—Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Amazon Music, iHeartRadio, your neighbor’s weirdly loud Alexa, whatever. It helps us keep these conversations going.

Oh—and if you want to keep the conversation rolling with other listeners, hop into the O'Neil Counseling app. There’s a whole community waiting to connect, swap stories, and remind you that you don’t have to navigate this stuff alone. The link is in the show notes. And don't forget, you can email questions in to Michelle@ONeilCounseling.com and I'm going to compile them all into a bonus episode with your questions and my answers!

Next week, we’ve got another guided journal entry, and it's a good one; so until then—take off the mask when you can, take up space like you mean it, and remember: your brain is not broken. It’s just working off a different, badass blueprint.

Catch you next time.