“If you’ve met one person with Autism, you’ve met one person with Autism.” I first encountered this quote in a textbook during my time as a master’s student at Piedmont. It struck me—no, it captured me with its succinct articulation of the spectrum on which we all slide, like beads on an abacus. Yet some of us, like me, are weighted more heavily, pulled sharply down that narrow metal pole. And make no mistake: it is a sharp, metal pole—not a rainbow, not a cheerful puzzle piece.

Autism isn’t my superpower. It’s an obstacle, my bad-tempered cohort in a Get-Along-T-Shirt. We’re best friends and worst enemies. People look at my life and arrive at many different conclusions, and few of these are nuanced. To most, I am either a hero. A busybody. A demon. A fighter in the causes she believes in. My answer? Yes. Every single one. Because I am all of these things at once. 

Autism isn’t a superpower. That narrative sounds comforting, but it erases the reality for many of us living with it every day. Autism is a condition—it affects how I process the world, interact with others, and even how I experience my own thoughts. It’s not a quirky “gift” wrapped in a bow; it’s a complex tangle of strengths and struggles.

Yes, some people with autism have extraordinary talents or hyperfocus in certain areas, but for many of us, it’s less about “powers” and more about navigating obstacles: sensory overload, social missteps, burnout from masking, and the relentless push-pull of trying to fit into a world we can’t understand. It’s the anxiety, the rigid thinking, the obsessive loops that keep me awake at night—not some hidden genius waiting to emerge. Believe me, ask my elementary school teachers.

A Strong Sense of Justice

My sense of justice isn’t mild. It isn’t a compass resting quietly in my back pocket. It’s a relentless drumbeat against my altered amygdala. On my best days, it’s like a rush of petroleum to a combustion engine—driving me forward with unstoppable force. It’s why I spent years unearthing the rot in a decades-long institution of child abuse, peeling back the layers others preferred to leave untouched, ruthlessly pursuing the truth until the place was finally shut down. It’s why I write and speak even when it’s been dangerous, why I stand up for those with no power to stand for themselves, and why I throw myself into countless forms of activism year after year.

But this same force comes at a cost. It’s not something I can set aside when the situation calls for getting along to get along. It genuinely gnaws at me to see injustice tolerated, to watch others mistreated while compromise masquerades as peace. And even when silence is wiser, I find myself compelled to speak. And every few years, this unyielding need for fairness becomes a Molotov cocktail in my life, exploding everything in its path. I can’t look the other way. I don’t have the filters that others seem to be born with. To me, wrong is wrong. And once I’ve determined that the situation involves a significant wrong or betrayal of principle, I confront it directly with the individual – never hiding behind a screen name or psuedonym, but with the individual or entity itself.

Thank goodness I never worked for Boeing or Enron.

Many in my life wish I could just let things go. But what some don’t realize is that I want it even more. What a luxury it must be—to shrug and mosey on, overlooking the mean customer yelling at the bank teller. Instead, I wrestle daily with the stress, the obsession, the crushing burden of caring so damn deeply all the time about everything.

When my medication isn’t enough, or my sensory input and how I understand it is skewed, I lean on my husband. He’s the one who pumps the brakes, pulling me back before I barrel into yet another battle that leaves scars on everyone involved—even when, deep down, I know the other person deserves the metaphorical bloody nose. 

It’s always struck me as strange how many people look at my life with admiration. In my mind, my crusades aren’t triumphs—they’re failures. Failures to control my Autism. Sure, maybe I help a dog or a kid or a friend. Maybe twenty kids. Maybe I can stop someone from self-harming or expose a bully’s false narrative. But in the end, no one suffers more than I do. To outsiders, it all looks like a constant conflagration—me standing there in my boxing gloves. The question on their lips: Why is she always scrapping? Why can’t she just let it go? Why does she need the drama?

If only they knew that no one hates this endless championing more than I do. I hate when the charming smooth-talker poisons my character because I dared to speak truths that threaten their carefully constructed persona. And I feel the sting when I’m caricatured, bullied, and judged by individuals who cannot understand why I die on every hill.

When I find myself in a comment war online—defending an ideology or a point of fact—I desperately wish I could avoid the flood of anxiety that boils in my stomach—an awful mix of dread and compulsion, like a botulism-infected tin of beets—fused with the relentless pull to set the record straight.

But the truth is, I care. I care to the core of my being and with every cell in my body. At least until the issue resolves and I can finally exhale.

This is why I struggle with the rise of TikTok-diagnosed Autism, where someone concludes they’re Autistic because they’re socially awkward, distracted by a tight sweater, or feel an overwhelming urge to step on a crunchy leaf. There’s so much more to Autism than quirks and preferences. It’s deeper, harder, and often invisible to the casual observer.

It’s not just about being “eccentric.” It’s a lack of internal visualization—meaning you can’t hold the steps, the map, or the pieces of a process in your mind. You’re not just bad at organizing the carpool; your brain literally won’t retain the mental blueprint to make it happen. Even the rock step in dance class eludes my abilities. 

It’s all of what I’ve described—and more. But one thing it is not: it’s not my superpower. It’s a condition I strive to navigate daily, through prayer, therapy, family guidence, and a steely resolve. And by God’s grace, I’m beginning to see progress.

It isn’t a superpower, but I think it’s meant to be a gift. Indeed, I’m grateful for what my hyperfocus allows me to do for myself and those who have needed me. It helps me take on tasks and pursuits that many wouldn’t attempt, and that most would abandon after the brainstorming stage. It’s what enables me to read dense classic literature, write daily, parent with intention, organize fundraisers and festivals, and—on a whim—earn my mortgage license and close 21 loans before moving on to the next challenge.

It’s helped me start GED programs at women’s shelters, organize entire libraries from scratch, and implement an honor society to turn around poor academic performance and improve behavior outcomes. It’s even why I’m conversational in Spanish and can tell you every point of minutia about the Tudor era or the East India Company—because once I care about something, I pursue it with everything I have.

But on balance, the good—at least when it comes to my own self-care—rarely outweighs the hard. And that’s the reality for many of us. There’s a reason only 32 percent of Autistic adults are employed.

This fire in me has lit up immensely dark places and burned bridges beyond repair. It’s not a gift I would have chosen, but it’s the one I’ve been given. And somehow, I have to figure out how to carry it without letting it consume me.