The horror began when my son, just under two, started forcefully banging his head on the wooden floor. He was furious his block tower wouldn't stand up. At 23, working at a treatment facility, I’d been trained to handle head-banging in autistic youth and teens. But at 41, as a mother, I had no distance. This was my boy—a silent, instantaneous explosion of dysregulation. I spent weeks sprinting across the room, watching his face turn bright red, racing to cushion the shockingly loud impact that left a massive goose egg centered on his tiny forehead.

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The search for the right daycare—one that understood my son needed help regulating—was agonizing. The word Autism was a constant whisper in my mind. When an infant and toddler psychologist told me, "You know it's not autism," and diagnosed a speech delay instead, I wept, desperate to believe her. I had seen too many families across the spectrum struggle, misunderstood, and I dreaded that future for my child. But when my son was four, the truth became undeniable. While I was self-scanning groceries, I glanced over: wearing his Elmo hat and holding his comfort blanket, he was staring at the ceiling and spinning in the most precise, mesmerizing circles. I knew then. My son was Autistic. Fortunately, we lived in a county with strong interventions and resources, and the formal diagnosis arrived after he started kindergarten.

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The last ten years of being a psychotherapist have established a remarkable parallel in my life. I've been guiding Autistic teens and adults and supporting their families in the therapy room, all while my son, at home, continuously deepens my understanding of what it means to be truly neuro-affirming.

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This recurring struggle—this agony and isolation—is itself a form of trauma. Autistic adults are not only struggling to find a therapist, but they are also frequently met with dismissal, having their lived experience explained away, or being told, "You don't seem Autistic." For these individuals, however, the diagnosis isn't a label—it's a mirror reflecting and validating a lifetime of truth. When the truth is validated at 30, 40 and maybe even 50 years old, the sense of finally knowing is life changing for them! "You mean there's not something wrong with me?" is the statement that often gets me.

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Therapy that I engage adults in often focuses on re-framing a lifetime of perceived 'social failures' or 'quirks' as the natural result of navigating a world not built for their operating system. My work is helping them process a lifetime of masking and self-blame.

Using neuroaffirming language is pretty powerful stuff. I observe how it helps clients work through self-deprecation, low self-confidence, and—most significantly—a lifetime of internalized shame stemming from living in a world that pathologizes their natural way of being.

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This language isn't just about being polite; it's a therapeutic intervention. When we use it, we:

• Reframe Failure as Misalignment: Instead of labeling lifelong struggles as "social failure" or "laziness," we reframe them as the natural exhaustion that comes from masking or navigating spaces that are not built for a client's operating system.
• Validate Lived Experience: Changing the narrative from "You are disabled" to "You are different, and the world needs to accommodate you" is profoundly validating. For adults, especially those who were diagnosed late, this language offers a framework to finally understand and forgive their past selves. And while the act of securing those accommodations—from workplace changes to societal understanding—is an uphill, difficult battle, the simple, affirming language gives the client the right to ask for it. This shift in perspective is the first step toward genuine self-advocacy.
• Cultivate Self-Compassion: By replacing terms like "disorder" or "impairment" with affirming concepts like "neurotype," "neurospicy," or "high support needs," we help clients transition from self-blame to self-acceptance and self-advocacy. It moves the source of the problem from inside the person to the mismatch with the environment.

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This is the fuel for my fierce hope and determined activism. Seeing the relief on an older client's face as their life finally makes sense is profound, but it also lights a fire under me to make sure my son, and all neurodivergent children, don't have to wait fifty years for validation.

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My life has settled into a powerful dual role. In the therapy room, I am a clinician dedicated to healing the past, helping older Autistic adults finally embrace their true selves and reframe a lifetime of struggle. At home and in the community, I am a mother determined to shape a better future, tirelessly advocating for truly neuroaffirming spaces so my son and his peers can navigate the world with acceptance, not just tolerance.

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The knowledge I gained at 23 taught me what autism is; the love for my son has taught me who Autistic people are. It's a journey from textbooks to lived truth, and I wouldn't trade the complexity for anything. My commitment is both professional and deeply personal: to fight for a world where every brain is simply seen as human.

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