Breaking My 33-Year Silence: Living with Autism & Finding Acceptance

As we celebrate World Autism Awareness Day, I feel compelled to share a story I have kept private for thirty-three years—not just to raise awareness but to advocate for a world that respects neurodiversity.

For most of my life, I have witnessed others define autism from the outside while I remained quiet about my own experiences. That silence ends today.

Early diagnosis and family response

At four years old, I was diagnosed with autism, a moment that completely reshaped my family’s world.

My mother, who had dreamed of an average childhood for me, found herself researching developmental disorders with a desperation I would not understand until years later. My father assumed he would become an older man needing to care for me indefinitely.

As a child, I knew I was different, but I didn’t understand why. I desired to be seen as “normal” and feared that if people knew about my autism, they would treat me differently. I worried about acceptance, especially in romantic relationships. Above all, I just wanted to belong.

My world was very different. I couldn’t speak, read, or write—sometimes, I could not even say my own name. I communicated by pointing and screaming, struggled with eye contact, and found comfort in predictable routines.

These patterns became my stabilizers in a world that felt overwhelming.

My late uncle, Woody Fraser, noticed I wasn’t a typical child. “This boy needs help,” he told my parents, persuading them to visit my pediatrician.

My mother had a breakthrough moment at an autism seminar, watching a video of a parent giving a sponge bath to their adult child. She returned home determined: “That will not be our future.”

The journey through therapy

For three years, I underwent intensive Applied Behavior Analysis therapy—40-hour weeks with multiple teachers visiting in shifts. My home transformed into a continuous classroom.

I resisted initially but gradually realized that completing difficult tasks earned rewards.

The process was demanding—mastering concepts nine times before advancing, having structured regimens that limited recreational time.

These sacrifices were necessary milestones toward independence.

Fighting for educational rights

When our local school district tried to deny me an appropriate education, my family fought back. The conflict escalated when my parents refused to sign a flawed Individual Education Plan (IEP), taking our complaint to court.

My parents spent countless nights surrounded by legal documents, balancing our family business while fighting for my dignity. We won the initial verdict, but Cobb County appealed, leading to a $70,000 legal battle.

Where many would have surrendered, my family remained steadfast. “Finish college” became my father’s mantra, even when the bills arrived.

My uncle Woody featured my parents on the “Home & Family Show,” transforming our legal struggle into a narrative of resilience. This media coverage created a breakthrough—Cobb County dropped its appeal, securing my educational rights.

Navigating school and social challenges

In 1997, I became one of the first students at my elementary school formally included under the newly amended IDEA Act. My parents refused specialized facilities, insisting on mainstream education.

“He is going to school with kids in our neighborhood,” my mother told the principal. “We fought for inclusion.”

Despite legal protections, finding my place was difficult. Some classmates teased me for receiving speech therapy and mispronouncing words.

This affected my brother as well. He defended me fiercely but sometimes needed distance—a complexity I misunderstood until adulthood.

Middle school presented unique challenges as my interests diverged from the curriculum. I developed resentment toward special education, desperately wanting inclusion in general education.

My social awkwardness led to immature attention-seeking behavior. “Why can’t you just be normal?” a classmate once asked—the ridicule that followed cut deeper than outright bullying.

The special education department prevented me from taking foreign languages because of low reading comprehension scores—devastating for someone who saw languages as windows to different perspectives.

Eventually, I chose boarding school to escape the public system—my first act of educational self-determination.

Struggles with reading and academic identity

Reading comprehension was consistently challenging, especially with material that didn’t interest me. While I excelled with non-fiction, required fiction readings were obstacles.

I struggled through paragraphs while my classmates devoured chapter books. The pressure of classroom progress charts constantly reminding me of my differences led me to create a deception.

By high school, I gained perspective on academic success. After receiving a good grade on a challenging essay, my history teacher pulled me aside: “You write better than half of the class. There are many kinds of intelligence, but the system only measures a few of them.”  

That comment became a lifeline as I graduated 39th in a class of 77—not at the top, but equipped with resilience that would shape my future.

Finding strength in adulthood

During vocational rehabilitation, I received a diagnosis of a reading disability, which explained my lifelong struggles with comprehension.

This diagnosis provided access to university accommodations and brought enormous relief—decades of feeling intellectually inferior reframed in a single document.

When volunteering with street children in Mexico, I found a purpose not dictated by societal expectations. Teaching ESL became a way of shaping my path, proving that self-worth does not come from fitting into a standard model but from accepting your perspective.

“You’re so patient,” a colleague once remarked after watching me work with a challenging student. She did not realize that patience comes naturally when you have spent a lifetime waiting for others to understand you.

Redefining autism on my terms

Through this journey, I have come to understand autism not as a label but as a different way of perceiving and solving problems—like viewing the world through a unique lens.  Where others see chaos, I find patterns; where others grasp the big picture, I notice crucial details.

Autism has ignited a powerful work ethic born from necessity and defiance—an inner drive to challenge assumptions. At 33, I can finally say with confidence: I am me. It is neither good nor bad—it just is.

Beyond awareness toward acceptance

Donald Triplett, the first person diagnosed with autism in 1943, passed away in June 2023 at 89.  For “Case 1” to have lived during our lifetime underscores how recent our understanding truly is.

Seeing public figures embrace their spectrum diagnoses gives me hope that autism is becoming more accepted today than it was thirty years ago.

Despite legal progress, many school districts still fall short of providing equal opportunity.  Inclusion should never require financial ruin because this is fundamentally a civil rights issue.  

My family once chose between paying for therapy or fixing our leaking roof, collecting rainwater in buckets while investing in my future. My brain may work differently, but that doesn’t invalidate my abilities or justify lower expectations.

A call for meaningful connections

The statistics are clear: autistic individuals face higher risks of depression and suicide, largely due to isolation and exclusion. But these results are not inevitable.

Future generations with autism need more than simply early interventions but genuine human connection—friendship, understanding, and a sense of belonging essential to wellbeing.

As we mark another World Autism Awareness Day, let us push beyond symbolic recognition toward meaningful inclusion in our schools, workplaces, and communities.

My thirty-three years of silence end with this declaration: We belong in this world, exactly as we are—not because of our differences but with them, as full and valued human beings whose diverse perspectives enhance the human condition.

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