It was a typical morning in my fifth-grade art class. The classroom was cluttered with crinkled-up paper, and my classmates were chatting loudly as the art teacher helplessly tried to direct their attention to the circle she drew on the chalkboard. I disliked all of the chaos during that period, but I appreciated the aesthetics of the room. With its lights that were bright like a theater set and walls covered with pictures of oddly proportioned artwork, the environment satisfied my desire for intellectual stimulation. I began flapping my hands, a habit I occasionally do when I feel excited or intrigued. 

However, as soon as I started, a classmate sitting across from me stared in my direction. He scowled intensely at me as if I was a splatter of mud on a new carpet. I gulped and began lowering my gaze to the floor in shame. My heart felt like a volcano about to explode with fear. 

“What are you doing? Why do you have to do that?” the classmate asked sternly. 

 “I do not know,” I whispered back while still looking at the floor. The surrounding environment suddenly felt like a nightmare. It was as if a blizzard had covered the entire landscape with icy snow. I wanted to scream and shout and hide inside a log and never come out. 

Unfortunately, this moment was not the first time I felt this way… 

--

When I was two and a half years old, I was diagnosed with a condition called autism (also known as autism spectrum disorder or ASD). This condition is characterized by how it causes individuals to possess a diverse range of qualities and experiences. For me, some of these characteristics come in the form of challenges. Sometimes, I have difficulty remaining stable in high-stimuli environments and experience surges of rigidity and anxiety that make my mind feel as hard as a rock. Nevertheless, my autism also provides me with many advantageous qualities that effectively balance out any challenge I may experience. I am highly interested in comprehensively understanding the world around me and observing intricate details that most others pass by. In addition, I have little habits that may appear as strange but seem as natural to me as breathing, such as staring off into space in loud crowds and sitting in a squatting position.  While I may act differently, I am no more or less perfect and contain the same level of worth as everyone else, and my diagnosis does not change that.

Yet, I often feel as if society internationally treats me as if I am something lesser than the rest of the world. Doctors told my parents that my autism would be characterized by developmental delays that would put me at an inherent disadvantage to my peers. These delays would impede my ability to make meaningful connections and thrive in the real world. I was looked down upon right from the start. 

Over time, I became more aware of how people around me viewed my differences from a negative perspective. Observing everything around me was seen as weird, having interests that diverged from most others my age was interpreted as wrong, and being sensitive to loud noises was disregarded as crazy. To society, my diagnosis and resulting identity are a curse. A sin. They are a weight that I am always tied to, one that I can never fully escape from. 

I will never forget my experience of feeling targeted in kindergarten. In this grade, everyone was expected to be friendly and kind to one another, but I felt this was not always the case in my interactions. Some peers seemed to treat me differently, from attempting to imitate my behaviors to completely ignoring my presence. One day during recess, a classmate approached me and asked why I acted so strangely.  Another time, someone told me that my interests were odd. I discovered that society would always hold me to their expectations of normality, ones that would force me to give up my identity to gain a sense of broader acceptance. 

The expectations I experienced only increased after that year. I eventually discovered that the older I got, the less tolerance those around me had for my unconventional, “alien-like” behaviors. Consequently, I had to increasingly make the pivotal decision of choosing to satisfy these orders like an obedient dog or face the social isolation associated with rejecting them. I instinctively had always gone with the second option. I believed my mind, filled with wonder, beauty, and potential, mattered more than constantly satisfying the burdens placed upon me. 

-- 

The art teacher’s announcement that class had ended brought me back to the present moment. I suddenly remembered that I had a session with the school’s speech-language pathologist, and I tried to clean up and exit the room as quickly as lightning to avoid being late. As part of my autism, I received additional services in school through an Individualized Education Plan (IEP). This plan was meant to help me thrive in both my education and my future. Nevertheless, it sometimes seemed as if the services it recommended only further perpetuated the expectations I faced. I particularly felt this way about my speech-language services, which often focused on making me appear more “normal” around my peers, but I tried to keep an open mindset every time I attended them. 

As I was rushing to the speech-language pathologist’s room, I encountered some students from one of the other fifth-grade classes having a loud conversation. I instinctively slowed down to see what was causing all the commotion. Finding a large beam to hide behind, I remained as still as a statue with feet glued to the hard floor. One of the students was running her fingers through her waist-length hair and asking if she looked presentable enough. 

“I want to look absolutely perfect at my dance show tonight. I want the audience to have their eyes set on me,” she declared with gusto.

 “You better remember not to do anything too awkward or embarrassing, friend,” another student replied. “You do not want to come across as a complete fool!” 

The students walked away, laughing hysterically. As I watched them leave, I could not help feeling a slight tug in my heart. The subject of the conversation made me remember a debate I had with myself not long ago. 

-- 

At the beginning of the school year, my fifth-grade teacher announced that we would be listening to her read aloud a novel about a group of students in a fifth-grade class for the first few months of the school year. Most of the class was excited by this announcement, and I was also intrigued to find out what the book would be about. However, I soon learned that a portion of the book was centered upon the concept of perceived social “acceptance” and defining who met the criteria for acceptance and who did not. As expected, the people a student did not accept included those who identified as neurodiverse. Before changing their perspective, the student repeatedly referred to these people using the r-word. The r-word. To make matters worse, the student’s teacher used that derogatory word jokingly. This representation of people like me in literature made me begin to question my response to the expectations society placed before me. I wanted to maintain my true identity, but at the same time, I wanted to appear respectable in society. I did not want people to refer to me using any derogatory language or think that something was inherently wrong with me or question my existence. I felt as if the whole world around me was crashing down. I sensed insecurity, and for the first time, guilt overtook me about not choosing the option of masking my differences to be accepted. What should I do now? I wondered uncertainly. 

-- 

I shivered, thinking back to that moment. While I was able to eventually calm myself down, that doubt kept on arising frequently. Every time it did, I would re-enter a state of questioning my values, purpose, and existence thus far… 

“Charlotte!” My speech-language pathologist’s loud voice interrupted me in the middle of my thoughts. “What are you doing, standing around here? Our session was supposed to start five minutes ago.” 

“I am sorry,” I replied quietly. “I lost track of time, and I became lost in my thoughts again.” 

After we reached the room and sat in our usual seats, my teacher began the day’s lesson. 

“Today, our subject will be age-appropriate topics to have when participating in a conversation with a peer. The three topics we will discuss are weekends, crushes, and family life.”

“Why can I only discuss those topics? What is the problem with other topics?” I asked. Asking questions was a core part of my experience in any class, as it satisfied my desire to learn more about everything around me. At that moment, I wanted to know the reason behind why

conversations with peers were limited to a set amount of topics (including one that I was not interested in at all; I wished I had the courage to share my asexual-aromantic identity). 

“These topics are considered age-appropriate,” my teacher replied. 

“But what if I am not interested in them?”

“Well, what are you interested in?” 

“Science, intellectual processes, answering questions about how everything works, dogs, learning, non-fiction books, animals…” I responded, listing off some of the topics I would have preferred to discuss. 

“Those topics are either for younger children or are too mature for people your age,” my teacher responded slowly. “Can you also please hold off on any more questions?”

“Okay,” I responded. 

“And remember, if you ever want to make connections, you have to try harder,” she advised. 

“I will,” I responded quickly without much thought. 

The rest of the session continued uneventfully. As I headed back to class, though, I thought back to the speech-language pathologist’s advice. It felt like those words miraculously clarified my uncertainty, like a weight being lifted off my shoulder and a wake-up call directing me to action.  Even though it likely did not match the intended context, I interpreted it as affirming that I would have to remain true to myself in order to find my place in the world. No opposition, despite its strength, would ever stop me from adhering to my values and identity. I had made the right decision to ignore society’s expectations all along. 

Empowered by my discovery and satisfied by answering one of my lingering questions, I felt a light new emotion inside that made me feel as if I was going to burst with light, laughter, and love. I gazed up at the ceiling as I imagined my future. I did not know what to expect, but I knew that I would someday find a lifestyle and people within society that honored my true self. Self-fulfillment starts with self-acceptance, I told myself. Thank you for being you.