Reclaiming Autistic Identity
The experience of growing up Autistic can often be shaped by the messages, silences, and lack of representation encountered along the way. In this blog Lou Chandler reflects on how these narratives influenced their sense of self, and the impact of discovering a more authentic and affirming understanding of Autism.
My sense of self as an Autistic person was shaped by the world around me. In what was said but also in what wasn’t, and by the absence of representation. It was in a steady flow of messages over time, which shaped how I understood myself and my place in the world. It wasn’t something that was spoken about with nuance or empathy. I remember it first being mentioned at school during a discussion about the MMR vaccine. The only time my community seemed worth talking about was in a debate. One where people openly suggested that parents might prefer their child to die or be seriously ill rather than be like us. That narrative echoed through school corridors in the ableist language thrown around. It showed up in the way that support was viewed as ‘special treatment’ rather than something which made education accessible. Autism was seen as something that needed to be feared, debated, softened or explained away.
Being Autistic never felt like something that belonged to me. It felt like something that was defined by others.
It shaped how much space I felt I could take up, whether I felt I belonged at all. It shaped my reactions to the world. Over time, it created a sense that there was something incredibly wrong with me - without anyone ever needing to say it directly.
The characters I saw in films, on TV shows, and in books didn’t bridge that gap. They often felt like characters there to serve the plot, rather than people you could understand or connect to. Too often, they were reduced to a single dimension: the genius whose value came from exceptional ability. Without seeing people like me reflected, it became harder to recognise myself.
I didn’t see another version of what being Autistic could look like until I was 17.
I remember sitting in a room where people flapped their hands without apology. Where monologues about special interests weren’t shut down. Where communication didn’t have to fit into rigid expectations to be valid.
For the first time in my life, Autism wasn’t framed through controversy or tragedy. It wasn’t something to be debated. It showed me something that I hadn’t known was possible - there was another way to be Autistic.
A way that wasn’t rooted in fear and deficit. A way that didn’t position Autistic people as broken versions of non-Autistic people. In that room, I saw people existing as Autistic and happy. Not despite being Autistic. Not alongside being Autistic. But the happiness that came through it. Up until that point, I had never realised that Autism and happiness could be intertwined. It was a glimpse of adulthood that felt possible. One that I had not been able to imagine. The first time I felt Autism that belonged to me.
But it was also in learning to accept the parts of being Autistic that are so deeply challenging. The feeling of loneliness in rooms full of people. The meltdowns hit suddenly. The sense that the room is closing in around you. The constant awareness of being different. It is learning to accept the parts of me that I knew the world wasn’t ready for yet. The parts that feel too much, too overwhelming, too different.
And it made me start to understand what representation could look like. Representation that doesn’t see Autistic people as only geniuses but as people who are messy, quiet, loud, funny, struggling, thriving and all that is in between. Stories where Autistic people are not reduced to inspiration, entertainment or tragedy.
