How learning about monotropism changed my view of being Autistic

In this blog, our Guest Contributor, shares a fascinating insight into being Autistic and embracing their lived experience of monotropism.

For most of my life, I understood Autism through the lens of what I lacked, what I struggled with, what made me different in ways that seemed to cause problems for others. It was a medicalised, deficit-based narrative that left little room for pride, self-understanding, or even curiosity. That changed when I discovered monotropism, a  cognitive theory developed by Autistic people to explain Autistic experiences. 

Learning about monotropism didn’t just clarify my traits: it transformed how I viewed myself entirely. It gave me a language to describe my way of being, validated aspects of myself that had been misunderstood, and made it possible to imagine a future grounded in self-respect and connection. 

What is monotropism? 

Monotropism is a theory developed by Dinah Murray, Wendy Lawson, and Mike Lesser, which posits that Autistic people have a monotropic attention style: we tend to focus intensely on a narrow range of interests or stimuli, rather than spreading our attention widely (Murray et al., 2005). In contrast, most non-Autistic people are said to be polytropic: more able to switch between multiple inputs and demands. 

This doesn’t mean that Autistic people can't multitask or hold multiple ideas, but that doing so can be far more mentally taxing. Our attention ‘tunnels’ in deeply, creating a rich internal world but also meaning transitions, interruptions, and divided attention can be overwhelming. This framework helped me understand why I get so immersed in projects or ideas to the point of losing track of time, and why sudden changes or multitasking can leave me completely drained. 

A language for my experience 

Before I encountered monotropism, I often blamed myself for the way I struggled with change, or how hard it could be to ‘switch gears’ in conversation or activity. I thought these were character flaws – signs that I was disorganised or inflexible. But monotropism offered a different lens: not a flaw, but a difference in cognitive processing. 

It was liberating. Suddenly, things I had internalised as failures made perfect sense. My deep dives into niche subjects aren't obsessive or pathological, they are expressions of how my brain was wired to seek understanding. My discomfort with constant social chatter wasn’t anti-social, it was the mental exhaustion of navigating multiple shifting social cues at once. 

Making sense of meltdowns and shutdowns 

Understanding monotropism also reframed the sensory and emotional overload I experience. When I’m hyper-focused on something, whether it’s writing, a conversation, or even an internal line of thought, being pulled away or interrupted can feel physically jarring. The emotional dysregulation that sometimes follows is not irrational, it’s the predictable result of being forcibly pulled out of a deeply absorbing mental state. 

Rather than framing my reactions as ‘over the top’, I now recognise them as part of a consistent pattern of how my attention works. This knowledge allows me to anticipate stressors, communicate my needs, and offer myself more compassion when things feel too much. 

The social world through a monotropic lens 

Social situations often require tracking multiple inputs: facial expressions, tone of voice, body language, the unspoken rules of conversation. For someone with a monotropic mind, this level of divided attention is draining and can lead to missed cues. I used to think I was just bad at socialising: slow to respond, awkward, too intense or too quiet. But with the language of monotropism, I realised I simply process social information differently, and at a different pace. 

This shift helped me feel less isolated. It explained why small group or one-on-one conversations feel easier: fewer streams of information to monitor, more space for depth. It also made it clear that I could connect with others authentically on my own terms, without forcing myself into a social mould that doesn’t fit. 

A framework for Autistic joy 

What is perhaps most powerful about monotropism is that it doesn’t just explain difficulties, it also celebrates Autistic joy. That deep focus can be a source of flow, creativity, and fulfilment. It’s the reason I can write for hours, learn obsessively about topics I love, and experience a profound connection to my interests. 

For the first time, I saw my Autistic self not as a problem to be fixed, but as a whole person with a unique and valuable way of engaging with the world. 

Looking ahead 

Monotropism may not yet be mainstream in psychological research, but it is deeply rooted in lived Autistic experience. It reflects the insight and clarity that comes from Autistic people developing our own theories, on our own terms. 

For me, learning about monotropism marked a turning point. It shifted my understanding of Autism from a deficit model to one of divergent cognition. It helped me understand myself, accept my needs, and reframe the way I navigate the world: not as someone perpetually ‘failing to cope’, but as someone whose mind works differently, and beautifully. 

Reference

Murray, D., Lesser, M., & Lawson, W. (2005). Attention, monotropism and the diagnostic criteria for Autism. Autism, 9(2), 139–156.