Blooming at 35, autistic therapist

I love this picture because I am not giving eye contact. I hate giving eye contact most of the time. It feels like staring into the sun and I only do it because that is what people expect me to do. In this picture I am free, I am my full autistic self wearing my comfy hat in nature. I am unencumbered, or at least as unencumbered as I can be with a brain like mine.

If you’ve grown up autistic, you know how special it is to break free from the chains of masking and being perceived. We only catch glimpses of it, small moments where we can flap our hands and jump excitedly up and down talking about our special interests or repeating a sound that just feels good to make.

I read somewhere that a saguaro cactus only begins to bloom around 35 years old. I was in my 30’s when I learned I was autistic. My life will forever be divided by before I knew I was autistic and after. At 35, I feel like I am just now waking up to my life. Now that I know how my brain works and that I am not broken after all, I can finally live.

Is my life still hard because I am autistic? Every. Single. Day. But knowing I am autistic means I can actually learn how to live a life that feels good to me and I can stop forcing myself to perform neurotypicality. I can embrace my quirks and obscure special interests. I can celebrate my successes and what I’ve accomplished despite the enormous barriers.

What is the most magical about being autistic is that I am not the only one. I now spend my days working with other autistic folks and using my education and clinical skills as an autistic therapist to improve the lives of people who are generally dismissed and hurt by the mental health industry. I also get to make videos and spread awareness about the intricate workings of my autistic mind. For this, I am grateful.