These days, autism is more visible than ever, and not everyone is happy about it.
By definition, autism is a collection of differences and peculiarities that come together in a person as a profound neurodevelopmental condition. So, as someone affected by it, you are “different”.
What’s really behind that is an individual mix of differences in perception, some powerful inner engineering abilities, and extreme sensitivity. Nothing bad in itself, mind you.
But depending on how life unfolds, there are two and a half possible outcomes:

• As an autistic person, you are okay where and as you are.
• You are not okay.
• It goes unnoticed.

The Trauma of Standing Out

Apart from all neurodivergence, there are some dynamics to standing out.
We humans are built in that way that the negative is naturally what catches our attention first. What bothers us always seems larger than what is pleasant. And however useful this may be in showing us where we can take action, applying that same observation to other people often becomes a delicate matter. Because then, standing out quickly leads to correction instead of appreciation.

In raising children, personal development of employees, or living together in society, standing out is usually treated as a conscious choice and, accordingly, subjected to discipline in the sensibilities of conformity.
But when standing out is not a conscious choice, or happens involuntarily, the response from outside misses its mark. The person’s actual intentions do not match the resistance they meet: they are scolded for their nature as though it were a decision made in that moment.

The result is that one’s inner motives and attitudes (if there were any conscious ones to begin with) are adjusted in order not to stand out. If there was nothing else behind it but one’s very nature, then, by that logic, the problem must be something deep inside.
Once a person has been told off often enough, from an impressionable age, that they should behave differently than “different” (even when told with love) the consequences are far-reaching. Not standing out seems to become a life’s work, along with presenting oneself as a puzzle piece that can fit as easily as possible.
At least, that was how it was for me. For most of my life, I was very good at adapting and, if I stood out at all, making sure it was in a positive way. You can, after all, elicit a few rules from humanity.

How Autistic People Deal with Standing Out

If there’s nothing there, there can’t be anything to notice. And so the relatives of autistic people (or autistic people themselves) say that “something caught their attention.” That is how every journey begins, which eventually leads to a diagnosis.

When an autistic person does not behave as expected in an environment that is difficult for them, they are corrected like anyone else, verbally or in other ways.
And if they cannot identify an immediate reason for why they stood out (even if it is simply that the environment does not suit them at the given moment) then, as long as fitting into society still matters to them, they may make lasting adjustments at a far deeper level than necessary so they will not have to stand out again.

But the consequences are dire: while the thing that stood out may be suppressed, a part of the person themselves disappears along with it, and they become a little more invisible.
The traits that are cut back and trimmed to fit society (a matter of masking) might not be lost forever. But they are hidden, and may only come to light in safe environments.
If the “good sides” remain while the undesirable sides fade away, or emerge only in solitude behind the mask, what you see is only half a person. I lived that way for a long time, without thinking there was anything wrong with it.

Add to this a preference for a low-stimulation, undisturbed way of life, particular niche interests, and today’s ever-present digital worlds, and autistic people are just drawn out of society’s field of view rather than into it.
And so an entire group of invisible people comes into being, even though they can certainly be seen with the eyes.

Where Are the Autistic People?

We see something in every person. In one, we see the world; in another, ourselves; in others, things we aspire to or things we reject; and in some people, perhaps we do not see all that much.

We ourselves love to be seen. Not for what we show on the outside, but for who we are within. That is why finding understanding in support groups, or recognizing ourselves in articles about autism, feels so good.

We autistic people are here, however good we may be at making ourselves invisible:
Some worry about themselves and about others.
Some learn about themselves and help educate others.
Some go undiagnosed, from one psychologist or clinic to the next.
Some are quiet, work their miracles, and no one knows what it costs them, not even themselves.
Some find their own ways through life, while others depend on help and accommodation.
Some have cracked the code of social rules and appear extroverted.
Some live their lives within carefully devised routines and are rarely seen outside their own world.
Some do not know their limits.
Some stand out deliberately because they interpret society’s rules differently.
Some drag themselves through a daily life that is not made for them, though it seems like the right way to live.
Some have found partners who make them feel that they are okay.
Some lose themselves in facts, details, and expertise.
Some grew up in times when adapting came easily, and found a way through life without drawing attention.
Some bring joy to themselves and others.

What do we want to see when we meet someone who is different?
Do we see deviations, faults, or disorders?
Or do we see a person who deserves to be valued for what they can bring into the world?

Now, is being okay a minimum, everything one could wish for, or perhaps only what is needed?

I’m currently sitting somewhere where I’m okay. With my parents. As a guest, as a son, as the-one-at-the-table-who-sits-and-takes-care-of-stuff. With my headphones, a full belly, and a focused gaze. With my autism, with a different place of residence, and with my divergent life choices. With my values and my interests and my quirks. With my social-battery indicator, little eye contact, and concentration difficulties.

As a child I already felt this. And even among other people and in other roles I was more often okay than not okay.

What is okay?

Being okay as a person is the intersection between all the peculiarities of oneself and all the peculiarities of the other person.
This intersection can easily become a wide overlap when one is more than just okay.

Perceiving someone as okay means understanding and acceptance.
These two things are valuable, but especially for a neurodivergent person who more often feels misunderstood than quite at home, infinitely precious.

Being okay means that someone believes in you and sees a benevolent person in you.
That includes growth, changes are also okay, and inadequacies can very well be okay too.

Who is okay?

In this environment I’m okay, in some others perhaps less so. But am I not the same person?

Well, as humans we have many roles, tied to our environment and to the people who shape that environment. We also have the option to use different masks to render a role more fitting at high or low cost.
In the end, it is our selves who fill these various roles, and we can be both okay and not okay in them.

It is a pleasant thing to be okay and to feel that. But if that isn’t the case, the question arises whether we should adapt to the role, or whether the role itself is adaptable.
If I don’t seem okay in my role as an employee, I can adapt to the requirements or the role will be adapted to me. Or perhaps the role of employee is not at all tied to the current workplace and I can better channel my potential somewhere else.
This applies to all group dynamics, teams, relationships, and configurations, even to a computer game that simply cannot make me feel okay. Another one surely will, if I cannot adapt my role to it.

Why is it important to be okay?

Whether you have an autistic brain or not: it feels good to be truly okay, wonderfully okay, calmly okay.

Because what makes neurotypical and neurodivergent people feel good in the same way is the security of being in their place, in their role, and as a genuine being who is okay.

And that is precisely the feeling that has visibly strengthened me as an autistic person, that has made a circle of friends into a real circle of friends, that makes love feel real, that turns an encounter into a beautiful memory: I was okay and so were the others.

That should encourage me to, with the strengths gained, empower all people to share in this experience over and over.

I’ve been on my own most of my life. Not everything I experienced alone, but I did travel by myself, went out to restaurants solo, visited extended family as a single member, attended concerts on my lonesome, I live in my own space, follow my own routines and pursue my own goals.

The things we go through together, great or small, good or bad, are elevated through their shared nature.
But what about the unshared moments?
Are those lesser parts of our lives?
Are there different types of solitude we can experience?

Certainly there are different ones and they do matter in their own way.

There is physical loneliness, which might be what first comes to mind. Being far from any other human body restricts and relieves our responsibility, but also our interactivity with our human network. It is a safe way to escape sensory phenomena and the human-like spontaneousness. Here’s where we recharge and reconnect with ourselves mostly. It is the kind that almost every person knows and can relate to. And most importantly, many are able to choose this kind of loneliness.

Less of a choice are conditions that single us out. Be it something we are born with, something that came or went within our life or just something we are experiencing differently. If we are (visibly or invisibly) outstanding in a given societal structure, our connections to the things people do or talk about are limited. The many efforts of accessibility and inclusion aim to fight this kind of loneliness with many weapons.
As a member of the autism community, I have felt this my whole life, but after the diagnosis, I also see more of it clearly and I am happy to have so many fruitful environments to connect and relate to.

There is also a kind of loneliness that is independent of human proximity. When you are amongst people, even if you interact with them and you are also part of their society, you can still be all alone, mentally.
When all the above doesn’t contribute to a sense of belonging and the struggles, thoughts and sensory input register so differently from the seemingly shared experience, one can be more alone than ever.
These moments are dark, but can serve as a turning point, so we seek more true connections to places, people and circles.
In those moments, if we are not connected to anything inside of us or if nobody is connected to our struggles, we can get lost easily. That makes educating and sharing our individual experiences so fundamental and a great place to start making things easier.

What we are connected to inside, independent of the ever-changing surrounding elements, still matters most and is a trustworthy fallback. Identity, self-worth, even the odd memory of a good experience can do the job.

And the best thing on the lonely road: It is okay to be lonely.

As soon as we understand why we are lonely at times and what it means to us personally (that it might not be a devastating situation to avoid) from loneliness will come solitude and from dread will come inner peace.