Building a life outside the cage

Many people see an autism diagnosis as the end of a journey. 

To me, it's the beginning.

Over the past few weeks, I've been reading articles, guides and advice written for autistic adults, and consulting AI and my therapist. A pattern keeps showing up:

• Set “realistic” goals.
• Have “realistic” expectations.
• Build a “realistic” life based on your current capabilities.
• Find comfortable environments.
• Choose “structured” settings.
• Reduce uncertainty.
• Avoid getting overwhelmed.
• Participate in low-pressure activities.

Sounds reasonable at first, right?

But the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. That’s because nobody talks this way when giving life advice to non-autistic people.

When a teenager says he wants to be a pilot, nobody says: “Let's start by examining your current capabilities and establish a realistic trajectory based on what you can do today.”

They say: “OK, let’s work on that. What do you need to learn to get there and how do we make that happen?”

When a 30-year-old wants to start a business, nobody says: “Your current skills suggest that may not be a realistic long-term goal.” They say: “Take a small-business class, talk to entrepreneurs for advice, develop a business plan – and go for it.”

The goal comes first, and the growth follows.

But when autism enters the conversation, I run up against a different philosophy:

Current capability becomes a ceiling, not a floor.

That’s troubling.

WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?

Maybe part of the reason is historical.

For many years, the people identified as autistic were the ones who needed the most support. Professionals focused on structure, stability, predictability and functioning.

But today autism covers a far wider spectrum. Some autistic people need more support, others less. 

Unfortunately, most of the paternalistic guidance and steering is still built around old assumptions.

I started on this journey to expand my horizons well before I learned I was autistic. Before the diagnosis, I got advice like:

• Join an adventure group.
• Travel.
• Try new activities.
• Find people who share your interests.
• Put yourself out there.
• Take some risks.
• See what happens.

After the diagnosis, the advice got narrower, more protective and more supervised:

• Take a woodworking class.
• Join a crew picking up trash in a park.
• Volunteer with Habitat for Humanity.
• Join practical repair groups.
• Participate in community gardening.

I don't object to support groups, structured activities, volunteering and many other things offered with the kindest of intentions as options to autistic people.

But it’s a problem when those options quietly become the entire menu.

Notice that nothing on that second list was purely recreational. Does social time for autistic people have to double as productiveness or free labor?

This is framed as “many autistic people find satisfaction in competence.” That structured activity supplies a topic and a focus so you don’t have to think of what to say. That the roles are well-defined and non-ambiguous.

In essence, it disguises your autism.

And there also seems to be a hidden message that an autistic person has to prove their usefulness or competence to earn friendship or respect. Not like neurotypical people who can have recreation for the pure sake of recreation and be appreciated socially just for being who they are.

SEARCHING FOR MEANING

The diagnosis explained me to myself:

• Decades of misunderstandings.
• The exhausting effort of masking without knowing I was masking.
• Why certain social situations felt harder than they appeared to be for others.
• Why I spent so much time analyzing conversations, rehearsing interactions and trying to reverse-engineer social rules.

The diagnosis answered many questions, but it didn’t change what I want from life: friendship, belonging, adventure and growth. It doesn’t define what kind of life I am allowed to pursue, how wide my world should be or where my growth stops.

Current capability should not be a ceiling but a starting point.

Discomfort is not danger; it’s the price of growth.

Support should expand options, not replace them. And accommodation should help people access more of life, not less.

I spent decades not knowing I was autistic.

Now I know.

But I have no interest in a smaller future than the one I once imagined.