When I received my autism diagnosis at 18, I was told it didn’t change anything. “You are more than your autism,” my therapist, family, and teachers repeated over the years. But it wasn’t a surprise to me. I had always known I was different. I struggled to fit in, but because I excelled academically and communicated well, I was never considered “different enough” to justify support. I was independent, high-achieving, and articulate, so why would I need help? I was “more” than that.
Despite this, I became fascinated with autism. I devoured autobiographies by adults who discovered their neurodivergence later in life. Their stories resonated with me deeply and helped me understand myself in ways no textbook ever had. This curiosity led me to study Applied Behavior Analysis and early intervention strategies for autistic children. I wanted to help kids like me who struggled socially but didn’t know why.
Yet, despite this personal connection, I felt strangely disconnected from my coursework. Autism was presented as something external, something to be studied, not lived. I took the phrase “having autism doesn’t change anything” literally (surprise, surprise), so I didn’t relate my own behavior to the traits we studied. How could I relate to autistic children who didn’t speak, who didn’t suppress their meltdowns, whodidn’t get good grades? I was different from those who were already considered different. It felt like I was outside looking in.
This outsider perspective was reinforced in my learning. Most of what I learned about autism came from non-autistic professionals. Autism was treated as a clinical curiosity, a condition to be managed because of how difficult it was to understand. And while autism is indeed a unique way of being, there are nuances that only someone who lives with it can truly grasp. I can spend hours on tasks others abandon in minutes. I see patterns and details others miss. I can apply creative solutions to achieve my goals. Although these are strengths, I was also taught implicitly (and explicitly) that there was shame in being autistic.
As the neurodiversity movement gained momentum, I considered being more open about my diagnosis. But my professors warned me, “This is not something you need to tell people.” Because I masked well, my traits weren’t obvious, and disclosure, they said, could be a liability. These warnings compelled me to keep quiet.
For over a decade, I internalized this mindset. Although I was still passionate about helping others who struggled, I denied that same compassion towards myself. By distancing myself from my autism, I also distanced myself from any sense of community. I became isolated, not just from others, but from myself. Ironically, studying autism helped me understand neurotypical behavior more than my own. I didn’t fully belong to either world.
That changed when I began connecting with autistic self-advocates. Their stories mirrored mine. I read their books and found myself nodding along, agreeing line after line. I recognized my own experiences in their words. I also met colleagues in my field who were openly autistic. One helped me understand the importance of sensory needs, something I had long neglected. Through these connections, I discovered practical strategies that helped me thrive. None of this would have been possible without the insight of those with lived experiences.
This insight has benefited not only my understanding but also the professionals I work with. Part of my job includes partnering with educators across the state to deepen their understanding of autism, including foundational supports and strategies to improve learning in the classroom. When I describe what autism looks like, I also describe what it feels like. Getting a complete picture of autism helps explain why we see certain behaviors and why certain strategies are effective. The feedback I have received reflects how valuable this information is for people. I no longer feel compelled to keep quiet.
Looking back, I wish I had known that I am not “more than” my autism. My autism shapes how I think, feel, and interact with the world. It is not something separate from me but a fundamental part of my identity. I cannot be more than autism because autism is so much more than myself. I have been fortunate to connect with many individuals across the spectrum, with various presentations and skills. And while every autistic person is unique, I have never felt more seen or understood than when interacting with others who share that lived experience.
This journey has taught me that lived experience is a form of expertise. Our understanding is strengthened when we relate to the autistic experience. But how can we value the information that those with lived experience bring if we do not consider autistic people as experts? If we want to understand autism truly, we must invite autistic voices to the table as partners and as equals.
Acceptance is all about acknowledging and celebrating who people are, not waiting for them to become “more than” themselves.
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If you have thoughts, questions, or feedback about this article, feel free to contact the author directly at richelle.hurtado@vumc.org. If you want more materials directly from the autistic community, visit https://vkc.vumc.org/vkc/triad/advisory/ to access free tip sheets under “TRIAD Specific Advisory Committee.” These resources were guided and written by autistic self-advocates.