Hey, friends! As noted previously, I realized this last year that I’m on the autism spectrum. (For more general information about autism that might provide important context, read this post!) This has revealed a lot of unexpected but important truths about the various mental and physical illnesses that I’ve developed throughout my lifetime. I think it’s important that other people understand those truths too. Thus, I’m sharing today the story of how the heavy stigma around autism led to me entering a downward spiral of burnout where my disabilities multiplied and my quality of life plummeted.

Please note that my disability story as presented below contains ableism, familial violence, obsessive-compulsive disorder, religious trauma, dissociation, extreme chronic pain, self-harm, and suicidal thoughts.

Episode I: Bee Phobia

I don’t remember ever not knowing I was weird.

When I was little, my Grandma Thurgood expressed concern because I didn’t fit in with my cousins. My first ballet teacher said I was “the only three-year-old she knew who PMSed.” My mom struggled to manage my screaming meltdowns over loud noises, doctor visits, and hair brushes. Adults constantly called me things like “moody,” “sensitive,” “bossy,” and “high-strung.” People were confused by the way I moved, the way I thought, the way I felt.

But I was also known for being “precocious” and “talkative.” I’ve always been driven to devour all the knowledge I possibly can, especially about other people. As a child, The Little Mermaid was my favorite story in the world–how could I not relate to an idealistic, musical young woman who longed more than anything to be a part of the messy human world? That’s what I wanted too. It’s always seemed like people understood each other more easily than they did me, and I was determined to connect somehow. Already, too, it was so noisy inside of me, and I needed a way to move some of the noise into the outside world so I could better cope.

As long as the adults in my life were impressed with my intelligence, I could ignore their other confused comments–and I cared more about their opinions than about the opinions of my own peers, who mostly avoided or bullied me. Other children’s behavior made no sense to me, and they rarely appreciated me trying to girlboss them into behaving in ways I did understand. The adults could also teach me new things about the world! So in my early childhood, I mostly permitted myself to be strange. (However, any rejection from the adult figures in my life, especially if it came with a suggestion that I was not, in fact, very smart, left me sobbing. My childhood was largely defined by a desperate quest for adult validation.)

The main concession I did make was to hide my excitability/joy and to stop talking so much because I could tell the adults found my energetic chattiness irritating. When I learned to read and write, I discovered new ways to learn and communicate that could fulfill most of those needs. Everything changed one night in kindergarten when I was at home paging through a copy of Clifford’s ABCs–the words just clicked in my brain. The next day, when I demonstrated to my teachers my sudden high-level reading skills, they were stunned. I, of course, basked in their praise. But I had atrocious fine motor skills, which meant that my handwriting was so bad one of my teachers had me type my spelling tests on the classroom computer, trusting me not to use spell-check. (Obviously, as a loyal rule-follower, I never would have imagined betraying her trust like that.)

At the end of third grade, my family moved from my birthplace of Albuquerque to a much smaller New Mexican town. My feelings about this were tumultuous. I had no friends to miss in Albuquerque, and in the new town, I almost immediately found a small group of misfit girls I actually got along with. In this small town, my intelligence did not make me as much of an outlier as it had in Albuquerque. Those friendships have been life-saving at many points, and one of those girls is still my best friend today.

However, moving is an overwhelming experience full of change, one made worse by the fact that I had previously attended a experimental mixed-grade, part-homeschool classroom and now had to adjust to regular public school, where I tested into the Gifted and Talented program. (I got the worst score on the math part of the test because I broke down crying, feeling like the test proctor didn’t think I was smart, and couldn’t continue.)

Then I went camping for the first time that summer. After being forced to contend with a stinky, spider-infested outhouse, I went to the event I’d been most excited for, only to have a swarm of stinging bees descend upon me, causing the people around me to cry out in pain. Though I personally didn’t get stung, something inside me just snapped. I developed such a hysterical fear of bees that Mom had to drive me home from camp early.

For months afterwards, my life was defined by that terror. I could think of almost nothing but bees, day and night, and I came up with a set of well-researched rules to avoid them: hiding inside, avoiding bright colors and perfumes, jumping away even from flies. I couldn’t always escape the outdoors, though, so I had repeated meltdowns while both kids and adults looked on. At one point, in the middle of outdoor PE, I saw a bee on the grass nearby. I ran screaming and crying for my classroom, and my favorite teacher opened the door. A powerful wave of relief washed over me–someone was saving me, finally!–but then I saw the expression on her face. Though I was a terrified, overwhelmed child who had no idea what was happening, my teacher looked at me like I was a monster.

No one seemed to know what to do about my phobia; no one even told me that was the word for what I was experiencing. The school principal and the counselor treated me like some kind of troublesome puzzle to solve. (“You cannot let fear get in the way of your education,” as though I had any control.) But I was abruptly jolted from the nightmarish haze that had taken over my life when a bee flew past and grazed me with its stinger–an accidental exposure to my worst fear that revealed how minor bee stings were. That moment gave me the clarity to start regaining control of myself. I slowly therapized myself into being okay again.

But I was deeply shaken. I spent most of fifth grade worn down and uncertain, trying to make sense of what had just happened to me. I developed a neverending chronic headache eased only by ice cream binges, and I began experiencing extreme chest pain when running that my doctor couldn’t explain. Up until now, I’d thought that other kids didn’t like me because I was smart, physically inept, and grew up Mormon. Now I was confronted by a much darker reality, where my own abnormal mind could create false horrors. I devoted myself more than ever to writing stories as I tried to untangle the pain inside me, and my fascination with humans solidified as I struggled to understand the differences between myself and other people. Thanks to an otherwise unhelpful school counselor, I soon learned that I was hyperempathetic, prone to being overwhelmed by outside emotions, though I thought of it as a mind-reading superpower set off by ~bee-related trauma~. (Quite the superhero origin story.)

Around this time, my youngest brother started having speech difficulties and hyperfixations on things like pipes and drains. Because I already had three cousins diagnosed with autism, our attention turned to related conditions. My doctor and my mom thought that both my brother and I had sensory processing disorder (SPD), which is now often considered part of the autism spectrum. For a while, I leaned into that theory, carrying around a sensory kit to help me day-to-day. But the tentative diagnosis didn’t come with much support, and I was desperate to never have to experience another mental breakdown like that. Slowly, I connected the way the adults discussed SPD and the ways I’d been treated my entire life–and that was when I started feeling truly, deeply broken.

Episode II: Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder

As the shame sank in, I decided to reject my SPD. I set out on a quest to “act more normal,” which is also known as “autism masking.” The concept of “normalcy” would go on to define my life for over a decade. I started by forcing myself to wear more typical uncomfortable clothes and by teaching myself to walk the way other people did, instead of on my toes. I had already shown signs of fearful obsessive-compulsive behavior, mostly focused on the idea of sexual assault. (Sex, unlike romance, was something that horrified me up into adulthood, when I finally got some counseling to work though that.) In the wake of my bee phobia, I developed full-fledged OCD that revolved around three particular points: three different kinds of OCD.

First, I began to believe that if I was morally “good enough,” God would reward me by “fixing” my SPD. This falls into the category of moral OCD. Second, I came to believe that being “good enough” included a grand romantic destiny where I would save a guy and thus “earn” my normalcy. This falls into the category of relationship OCD. Third, I started thinking that if I could look perfect enough on the outside, it would compensate for people having to deal with the rest of me. This became body dysmorphic disorder, a crossover mental illness somewhere between a body image disorder and an obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Seventh grade was the beginning of middle school for me, and the sudden exposure to teenage pop culture felt like hitting a brick wall. Before this, I’d only ever listened to Enya and orchestra music, I had no Internet access, and I also rarely watched TV or movies. The middle school was much larger than the elementary school, so I had to face many new people too, some of whom decided to make me a target for bullying. To compound how overwhelming that was, my brother’s behavior was becoming more unusual and concerning, with increasingly violent meltdowns. All our family’s attention turned to his journey along a diagnostic track from SPD to ADHD to PDD-NOS to autism. As for me, I was busy running in the opposite direction from my oddities.

During seventh grade, I also fell in love with a boy who seemed like my opposite: a brash, sports-loving bully hated by most our grade. I hated him too, initially! But in retrospect, I’m certain that boy was undiagnosed neurodivergent himself, ADHD and possibly autistic, and we connected in a way I don’t think either of us had experienced before. We could each see through our very different “masks” to recognize a kindred spirit, a deeply hurt human being who didn’t know how to function in the world. We bantered and talked and outright fought (he seemed to like me holding my ground against him sometimes), to the bewilderment of everyone around us, but he also made adjustments to his behavior to please me. Before that, I had always been the one changing for others, so that was a wildly strange thing for me.

Ultimately, I fell hard when I dared to tell him about my bee phobia, expecting the response of confusion or disdain I’d always gotten from other people, and looked up to find him watching me as though I was the most valuable, fascinating person he’d ever met. Although I know he made most people feel terrible about their differences, which was not cool, he made me feel like… maybe it was okay that I was broken.

So I proceeded to become quite literally obsessed with him. Though romance had always fascinated me as a concept (since kindergarten, I had chosen “crushes” from boys at school I thought seemed like decent people), I had never experienced true feelings like this before. Unfortunately, our existence in very different social circles meant we would have faced an uphill battle to convince anyone else to support our relationship. Most of my friends despised him, and most of his friends despised me. Though everyone who saw us interacting noticed our feelings for each other, I heard over and over again that it made no sense. (“Why are you two always flirting? Get over it.”)

Because of that, my mission to become more “normal” increased tenfold. I now had a reason to care about what my peers thought. Trying to make myself likeable to as many of them as possible, while still living up to what the adults wanted from me, was a guaranteed failure that I couldn’t stop myself from trying. I dove into pop culture. I became more intent on improving my outward looks. I studied the way my most-liked peers acted so I could follow suit, and I made list after list in my journals: friends and acquaintances and goals and flaws and plans and songs.

When eighth grade arrived, I broke under the pressure. I now had a new class schedule that isolated me from my closest friends and from the boy I loved. I was desperate to hold onto the romance my OCD told me was sure to be my salvation, but my attraction had become so strong I couldn’t even speak when the boy was around. (I’d never been speechless before.) My self-hatred skyrocketed.

My spiral down into a hellscape of suicidal thoughts hit its peak in the midwinter of my thirteenth year, when I was reminded of the fact that Mormons aren’t supposed to date before they turn sixteen. To me, there was no grey zone in what was “right.” With my relationship OCD and my religious OCD now turned against each other, I lost all control of my thoughts. I couldn’t stop thinking about how badly I needed to be with the boy I loved so he would save me from myself, but I also couldn’t stop thinking about all the rules I needed to follow to be good enough for my peers and my family and my church–for God Himself, who was also supposed to save me from myself. The internal battle was violent and nonstop. I described it to my best friend as “God and the devil fighting inside my head”–and I was balancing on the very edge of choosing to take my own life just to escape the war. I’m not sure any words can fully describe my pain during that time.

My best friend was the only one I told about my suicidal thoughts because I trusted her the most not to judge me for them. Once again, a fair portion of my struggle came from the fact that I didn’t understand what my brain was doing–why was I so heartbroken over a boy who multiple people said liked me? I didn’t know then that I was OCD or autistic, so I couldn’t justify my suicidality. I’m glad I did tell her, though, because her support was a key part of turning me back from the edge. As winter turned to spring and a teacher also helped me in a more minor way, I finally stopped having suicidal thoughts.

I had made it through the worst OCD episode I would ever have.

In the aftermath, though, I was more burnt out than ever. I spent ninth grade exhausted and isolated, sleeping in classes for the first time. I retreated into hyperfixations on Harry Potter and on my own novels. As if periods aren’t already enough of a sensory nightmare, I also started having excruciating menstrual cramps that had me on the floor screaming and vomiting. The OCD continued to wear on me in a less dramatic way with its self-hating perfectionism too. By now, I had achieved such complete denial about my “shameful” SPD that I no longer remembered how I had begun feeling so broken inside–all I knew was that something was deeply wrong with me, something I had to hide.

Episode III: Fibromyalgia

In tenth grade, I started coming back to life again. This was complicated, however, by the arrival of the 2009 H1N1 pandemic. On Halloween that year, I woke up with severe achiness all over, especially in my hips. I knew I had caught the swine flu, but in my ongoing quest to “act more normal,” I decided to attend my friend’s Halloween party anyway, “like a normal, irresponsible teenager.” I ended up having to go home early with a high fever and a severe cough.

H1N1 knocked me down for about a month, with me developing bronchitis and then strep throat. Though I did recover, the burning hip pain never went away. As spring approached, it actually began to worsen. My doctor performed a series of tests trying to figure out what was happening. The truth wouldn’t come to light, however, until eleventh grade.

The first week of school is another difficult transition, and this particular first week included a series of extra stressors that would be upsetting for most people. (The most notable event was witnessing an escalation in violence towards my youngest brother, whom I dearly love and had already spent years trying to protect.) I was in a precarious position: just recovering from autistic burnout and still dealing with post-viral symptoms. It’s no surprise, then, that I dipped right back into the burnout zone. The hip pain steadily spread across my body that week until I hurt everywhere, all the time, in so many different ways. I became exhausted and confused, and my sensory sensitivities, especially to the cold, increased.

It took only a couple of months for my doctor to diagnose me as having fibromyalgia, a chronic pain and fatigue disorder with uncertain origins and no cure. I laugh-cried when I was diagnosed because I was so relieved to have an answer, but also heartbroken and terrified. For the first time, I had no choice but to confront my own limitations. I could not be “normal,” and I never would be. My grief over lost possibilities was made more difficult because I didn’t know how to let myself grieve. I had spent my entire life having my powerful emotions and my sensory sensitivities invalidated by other people, and I had become an expert at invalidating them myself. I was used to pushing through and doing whatever it took to meet expectations. I mirrored people’s physical and emotional energy constantly because humans find that likeable, which made even me confused about what I felt sometimes.

People had become used to seeing me quietly duck out of class in tears at least once a week. They’d never paid it much mind–I guess because I was still getting straight As and not causing true disruptions. However, the fibromyalgia diagnosis seemed to garner me a little more support. So while this grieving period after I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia was difficult, there were people around me giving me permission this time to feel my sorrow and fear and loss. That made a difference.

Episode IV: Chronic Illness Crisis

Twelfth grade saw me in a better place than I’d been in for a long time, not in the least because I had started low-dose antidepressants for my fibromyalgia, which also caused a slight improvement in my body dysmorphic disorder. I had spent years now seeing a distorted, acne-riddled face in the mirror that wasn’t real to anyone but me. Once, I had become so desperate to destroy the flaws that I’d left a permanent scar on the side of my nose with a needle. The antidepressants allowed me to start breaking through the delusion caused by my body image disorder for the first time.

Yet the same desperation that had been pushing me since fourth grade still drove me onward. I was trying to be someone I wasn’t, living a life that wasn’t mine. I finally let go of the first boy I’d loved, after us rotating silently around each other for years, falling quite reluctantly instead for a probably-neurodivergent boy who had been a longtime friend/orchestra rival–though he wasn’t a good match for me (or interested), he represented so much of what I thought I should be. My related jealousy caused lots of inner turmoil. At home, too, multiple autistic people were struggling to survive without proper support, leading to more violence and mistreatment. The pressure kept growing for me to be the functional one, to support my family emotionally, and to not cause trouble.

As I started college at Adams State University, double-majoring in English and music, I was faced with another set of challenges. My first semester making friends away from home led to an health improvement, but then, minor chaos at both school and home caused some of my unaddressed trauma to surge forward. I became quite caught up in concerns about sexism and harassment, reverted to constantly crying in the middle of classes, and my chronic pain returned. A friend I was fortunate to have there convinced me to start seeing one of the free college counselors (“You say this is who you truly are, but wouldn’t you rather feel the way you did last semester?”). With that counselor’s help, I realized I needed to drop the music major and go somewhere else. I transferred to BYU – Idaho, where I hoped I’d fit better.

In some ways, I did. At the beginning of 2014, thanks to a therapist at the BYU – Idaho counseling center, I was finally diagnosed with OCD. I was so relieved to have what I saw as an explanation for why I felt broken, and I devoted myself to treating my symptoms. Little by little, with counseling and an increased antidepressant dose, I found my way into the light. I began seeing my self-worth in a way I hadn’t before, which conversely made me realize how much unnecessary self-hatred I’d been living with.

Though having my OCD controlled was truly transformative, I continued to struggle with building an adult life. My college roommates often disliked or even hated me for being “boring” and “antisocial.” The ways I needed to live made no sense to them, and my family situation was… still not great. The people I lived with refused to accommodate my fibromyalgia, let alone my undiagnosed conditions, and so I pushed myself straight through my own limits trying to fit in again. I soon became too exhausted for socializing, too exhausted for hobbies, too exhausted for church. My life narrowed in on my schooling. Even as my body screamed more loudly for me to stop and listen, I became more skilled at ignoring its warnings. I started having brief episodes of bladder pain that I wrote off as being weird menstrual cramps.

Little by little, I was driving myself straight into my worst autistic burnout yet.

But it took me a long time to accept that something was wrong. I’m an idealist dreamer by nature, and I don’t like being limited. I was being crushed under the weight of everyone’s expectations. I’d spent my whole life ignoring my feelings to make others happy. I’d never learned how to recognize and care for my own needs. So I kept pushing through, as it became harder to stay focused on even my greatest passions. I kept pushing through, as my mental confusion grew and I started skipping chores and assignments and words and memories. I kept pushing through, as my pain grew to a level of extremity that sometimes kept me from walking and required nightly heating pad use. I kept pushing through, as my fatigue became so severe I spent every second I was awake desperate for the next moment when I could sleep.

I pushed through a gallbladder infection and a subsequent allergic reaction to an antibiotic. I pushed through a hospitalization for an infected cat bite and a temporary bowel obstruction. I pushed through multiple bladder episodes that doctors kept misdiagnosing. I had no one to stop me and everyone to urge me on. I finally recognized that there was something wrong during the one semester where I had a roommate and friend who saw my suffering. She was autistic (and the major catalyst for my queer awakening), and unlike my other roommates, she understood. With her support, I quit orchestra so I could finish my degree. Then, in July 2016, I finally crawled across the finish line to get my Bachelor’s in English.

Then my body gave out. I had intended to earn a Master’s in Library and Information Science online, but I was so profoundly exhausted that I was sleeping 16+ hours a day. My thoughts were so muddled it was like swimming through Jello trying to get to them. I started having full-body tremors and spasms, and I turned to a cane for support as my balance failed. I couldn’t even stand without my vision going white and my chest feeling like an implosion. In October 2016, my very self fell apart when my bladder pain became an unimaginable nightmare.

I was soon diagnosed as having interstitial cystitis (IC) by an excellent urologist. Even with treatment, though, I had developed so much bladder inflammation that I lived with constant excruciating pain for the next year, including crisis moments of even worse suffering that I would have gladly died to escape. I’ve never known pain like that from any other source. The trauma of it erased most of my long-term memories and caused repeated dissociation. I am still haunted by the experience of my own body torturing me–if I had known how long it would last, I would not have survived it. I feel its threat even now like the distant footsteps of some awful monster, so dark and enormous and powerful that if it decided to turn its full attention on me again I would instantly shatter.

Yet I was used to pain, so much so that I often failed to realize how awful my suffering was until it eased. The greater reason for me becoming suicidal this time was the fact that I could accomplish almost nothing in my day-to-day life. I slept. I watched Netflix. I went to medical appointments. I cried. After years of trying to escape it, I no longer had any way to disguise the fact that I was broken.

I felt unworthy of continued existence, like my life was a cost-benefit sheet that now added up to nothing more than a family burden. I couldn’t see any way for my drive for learning and growth to be fulfilled with me in this state. At least if I died, I would be going somewhere. During my suicidal period in middle school, I’d imagined dying through a painless and quiet method, but this time, I wanted to punish my body for failing me. I fantasized about tearing it to pieces.

Thankfully, I had a counselor whom I trusted with my honest thoughts. He taught me to see my deeper human value beyond what I could contribute and to set much-needed boundaries with my family. Things began to quiet down at home as my family likewise stopped seeking full-on normalcy and traditional success. (We were much helped by a fantastic group of autism professionals who started working with my youngest brother.) I found solace in a broad group of disabled, queer, and story-loving people online, with social media being a much more accessible way for me to connect with others and learn about the world. I held onto a few little joys that kept me going–like Marvel fanfiction, for example.

Eventually, moving into spring, I started to see hope again. My bladder pain improved. I changed my antidepressant and discovered that the previous one had been contributing quite a bit to my mental confusion. I realized that, even while living in bed, I had continued to grow as a person. Then, in the summer of 2017, I went to the Minnesota Mayo Clinic, where I was diagnosed with postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS) and chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS). I attended a special fibromyalgia/CFS clinic there, which focused on the idea that sufferers need to find and stay just within our limits. That point was underscored by the fact that being away from my exercise bike during that trip meant I stopped having tremors and balance problems. (Why had I still been using the bike up until now? Because I am the queen of pushing myself too hard.)

I set to work finding my limits and taking better care of my body. As months and then years passed, my symptoms improved. Many treatments worked together to make that possible–Cymbalta, gabapentin, Heparin bladder instillations, medical compression socks, and more–but solitude and rest were the most radically important. I began emerging from the wreckage of my old self, and I tried to figure out how to build a new Frankensteined Kira from the leftover bits, a version of me who could truly survive. Accepting that I was not going to be able to become a librarian, I obtained some part-time online work as an editor. I entered a new, improved phase of my writing career too.

Conclusion: Autism

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit in 2020, it presented quite a challenge. I was finally well enough to start coming out of isolation, and I was finally feeling the need to–the need to connect with others more so I could work with them towards a future where I could actually thrive. The pandemic triggered two major traumas I had not yet processed: the trauma of having gone through that extreme bladder pain, which contributed to a hatred of my own illness-vulnerable body, and the ongoing trauma of not having an in-person community that supported my differences. My dread and frustration transferred into a binge-eating disorder that peaked in late 2021.

While trying to understand my trauma-disrupted memories , I set to work reviewing my old journals, which now spanned over 7,000 pages. (I have spent my life being quite excellent at rumination.) Through that, I regained a more cohesive sense of self, and my perspective on many things shifted. Applying my recent years of education from diverse voices online, I looked back and saw the unifying thread of my life: the thread of neurodivergence.

My isolation had allowed me to start unmasking my true self. I subconsciously hid from sensory stimuli that increased my pain while seeking stimulation in other sensory areas, including through rocking, humming, and eating. I fell into hyperfocus episodes multiple times a week without the structure of school, and I was no longer contorting and suppressing myself so much trying to manage other people’s reactions to me. I began to see the oddities in my lack of small talk and my expressive openness.

I thus came to accept a truth I had been running from for most of my life: I don’t just have autistic family members. This entire time, I have been an autistic person struggling under the weight of a heavy societal stigma that forced me to betray my own soul: heart, mind, and body.

I’m not meant to live inside the cages of normal.

The fault isn’t in me for having an unusual brain. The fault is in our society for demonizing those who are different and only providing support to those whom it deems acceptable. I am incredibly privileged to have been given the time, resources, and support I’ve needed to heal this much–and I will never stop fighting for everyone to have that. So many autistic (and queer) people are driven to suicide. That could have been me. For all I know, it could still be me in the future.

I don’t know exactly how to be in the world as myself. I’ve spent so long trying to follow a path that was wrong for me, and I feel so at odds with many parts of who I am, especially with my sickened body. But this is sure to be a turning point in my life. I doubt the physical damage will ever be fully healed, but my chronic illnesses don’t have to become that terrible again. I can put the work in now to figure out how to finish unmasking my true self and how to take care of my highly sensitive nervous system so I don’t burn out like that another time.

I’m currently working with a few professionals I know through my brother who believe in my self-diagnosis and who are trying to help me obtain a formal diagnosis. (Editor’s Note: As of April 7, 2022, at the age of 28, I have been officially diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum!) The self-recognition, though, is the most important step. You can’t fight for support if you don’t know you deserve it.

If any of this seems familiar to you, whether you’re trying to hide a weird brain or another “strange” way of being, I want you to know that you do deserve a good life. You deserve to be yourself. Different things are right for different people, and you shouldn’t have to burn yourself to ashes to please people who can’t see that. When you’re ready, a community is here to accept all the beauty of your weirdness. 💜

If you aren‘t someone who knows that pain, you can still be someone who joins in to lift the burden of the sky from the backs that it crushes most. Learn about the experiences of marginalized people of all kinds. Listen when we tell you about the paths that are right for us, even when you don’t understand them. Support us when we’re breaking, and support us so that we never have to be shattered in the first place.

If you want to support autistic people specifically, I recommend autistic-led organizations like the Autistic Self-Advocacy Network and the Autistic Women and Nonbinary Network. There are also many other autistic voices on social media, including people who don’t speak aloud and therefore are heard less, that deserve to be listened to. Thank you for valuing us.