I’m Autistic, Privileged, and Apparently Now a Spokesperson for “Doing OK But Still Struggling”

My autism is considered of the “low support needs” variety which essentially means I can pass as typical—until someone invites me to a party and I suddenly become a cryptid sighting.

But here’s the thing: even though I struggle, I’m also… privileged. Like, Pokémon-level stacked privilege stats.

I’m white.
I’m cisgender.
I have a post-secondary education.
I have social and financial supports.

I have lots of struggles associated with being autistic but I also have a cheat code. I’m the kind of autistic who can casually mention it at brunch without fearing for my job, my safety, my future opportunities, or my ability to access the supports I need. That’s huge.

And honestly? That’s a privilege I don’t take lightly.

Getting diagnosed for me was something like:

1. Realizing wait, I think I might be autistic, this would explain a LOT.
2. Googling “Am I autistic or just weird?”
3. Finding a professional who could diagnose.
4. Going through the process without having to fight against racism, sexism, transphobia, ableism, or financial barriers (other than the mild sting of how much???).

Meanwhile, for many people, especially those who are racialized, gender-diverse, financially unstable, nonverbal, multiply disabled, or otherwise marginalized, getting a diagnosis—or even getting taken seriously—can be like trying to win a game where the rules are secret, the referees are biased, and the prize is simply being believed.

The system is full of barriers that I didn’t have to break through.
The doors that opened for me are bolted shut for others.
And while I have my challenges, I also have the safety net that allows me to talk about those challenges publicly without fear of falling through the cracks.

So yes, I’m here.
Talking.
Blogging.

I speak up about my experiences not because I think my version of autism is the template, but because I can. Because it’s safe for me to. Because if people like me stay quiet, then too many others—those who face barriers I’ll never experience—get drowned out by stereotypes and misinformation.

If sharing my little slice of neurodivergent chaos helps raise awareness, challenge assumptions, or open doors for people who deal with a level of difficulty I don’t face? I’ll gladly be the quirky spokesperson.

But I’m not the autistic voice.
Just an autistic voice.
One with privilege, some social supports, and a tendency to hide in the bathroom at loud events.

I’m grateful for my diagnosis. I’m grateful for the supports I have. And I’m grateful that I can speak up—not because my story is the most important, but because I hope it makes more space for people whose stories desperately need to be heard.

And if nothing else, maybe I can help normalize the idea that:

• autism isn’t one flavour,
• privilege matters,
• intersectionality changes everything, and
• sometimes the person who looks like they’re doing fine is actually holding on by a thread.