Maybe We’re Just Not That Into You: A Snarky Look at Prosody, Autism, and Who Really Cares What We Sound Like
Why should autistic people care about how they sound to neurotypicals? It’s a question that rarely gets asked in the mountains of research dedicated to ‘understanding’ autism. Studies like this one on receptive prosody operate under the assumption that neurotypical communication norms are the gold standard—if you don’t intonate a statement as a question the way neurotypicals expect, somehow the issue lies with you, not with the limitations of their expectations. But this line of thinking misses an important point: autistic people have our own ways of communicating that work perfectly well for us. The emphasis on ‘fixing’ autistic speech often has little to do with fostering genuine understanding or effective communication. Instead, it’s about making autistic people conform, to blend in, and to ease the discomfort of those who are unsettled by difference. The underlying message is clear: your natural way of speaking is wrong, and the burden is on you to change. But who benefits from this? Is the goal to improve communication or to reinforce the idea that neurotypical norms are the only acceptable ones? As we’ll see, the focus on autistic prosody is less about supporting autistic individuals and more about fitting them into a box designed by—and for—neurotypical society.
Autistic People Don’t Critique Each Other’s Intonation
As autistic people, we rarely spend our time critiquing each other’s intonation. Unlike neurotypicals, who seem to place a strange amount of importance on whether a voice rises or falls at the right moment, we’re more focused on the content of the message. Is the meaning clear? Are we understanding each other? That’s what really matters. For us, the nuances of prosody—whether someone sounds like they’re asking a question or making a statement—aren’t the sticking points. Our communication is built on meaning, connection, and mutual understanding, not on performing some social expectation of how a sentence should sound.
This is where studies like the one on receptive prosody completely miss the point. They obsess over how we sound to neurotypicals, as if that’s the only thing worth investigating. But when you ignore what actually matters to autistic people in communication—clarity, sincerity, content—you’re not addressing our needs at all. You’re just enforcing a narrow, neurotypical view of what ‘good’ communication looks like. And let’s be honest, that view is one that prioritises social performance over meaningful exchange. The irony is that neurotypicals might spend more time worrying about how things sound than whether they’re actually communicating anything of value. For us, it’s the reverse—and that’s a strength, not a deficit.
Who Cares What We Sound Like to You?
Maybe we’re just not that into you. It’s a thought that comes up when we’re constantly asked to care about how our prosody—our tone, our intonation—comes across to neurotypicals. Why is there such an obsession with how we sound, as though our every interaction must be polished for neurotypical consumption? The pressure to conform, to fit into some narrow mold of “acceptable” communication, reflects a deep discomfort society has with anything outside its neurotypical norms. It’s not enough that we express ourselves clearly or even effectively; no, we’re expected to sound neurotypical, too, as if our very identity is on trial with each conversation.
This obsession isn’t limited to everyday interactions. It runs deep in educational and therapeutic settings, where the goal often seems to be making us blend in rather than helping us communicate in ways that are authentic and comfortable for us. The focus on prosody is just another layer of the masking that’s expected of us—hide your natural voice, your natural way of speaking, to ease the discomfort of those who can’t handle difference. But who benefits from this? Not us. We’re constantly being told to fit in, to make neurotypicals comfortable, whilst our own needs and preferences are sidelined. Maybe we’re not interested in contorting ourselves to meet those expectations.
Enter the “autism moms,” some of whom are particularly invested in this prosody game. These are the parents who feel embarrassed by their child’s ‘tone’—as if their kid is somehow letting them down by not sounding neurotypical enough in public. (Dear, your autism is showing …) Instead of celebrating their child’s unique voice, they seek out therapies to ‘fix’ it. They want to make their child’s speech more palatable to others, reinforcing the very societal pressure that tells us we must change who we are to be accepted. But really, who cares what we sound like to you? The issue isn’t our prosody; it’s the world’s refusal to embrace it.
The Misguided Focus on ‘Fixing’ Autistic Prosody
Therapy and educational systems often operate on the misguided notion that autistic prosody (the way we sound) is a problem to be fixed. It’s not about helping us communicate in ways that are authentic and comfortable—it’s about making us sound neurotypical. The focus is on changing how we speak, how we sound, and how we present, as though the very essence of our communication is somehow flawed. But here’s the thing: our prosody isn’t broken. It’s just different. The obsession with ‘fixing’ it isn’t about improving communication; it’s about control. It’s about shaping us to fit into a box society has pre-built for neurotypical norms. And if we don’t fit, the solution isn’t to widen the box—it’s to mold us until we do.
This is where the pressure to mask comes in. By constantly being told to alter how we speak, we’re forced to hide our true selves. We adopt speech patterns that feel alien, unnatural, and exhausting, all to make others more comfortable. The emotional toll of this is immense. It’s not just about modifying a few vocal inflections; it’s about erasing parts of ourselves to conform to a world that refuses to accept us as we are. This leads to chronic masking, a state of perpetual performance, which brings with it stress, anxiety, and a constant fear of being ‘found out’ if we let our guard down for a moment. It’s not communication they’re improving—it’s a façade they’re building, brick by brick.
Then there’s the ‘autism mom’ angle, where some neurotypical parents are devastated because their child didn’t turn out as they imagined—the ‘perfect’ accessory to their curated lives. It’s as if their child is a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes that arrived in the wrong colour, and now they’re scrambling to figure out how to fix this ‘defect.’ They wanted the idealised, neurotypical child, and instead, they got a kid whose speech doesn’t fit neatly into the script they’d planned. The result? They push for therapies to reshape their child’s voice and tone, not because the child struggles to communicate, but because they are embarrassed by what others might think. It’s not about the child’s needs; it’s about the parent’s unmet expectations. And the real tragedy is that the child, not the parent, bears the weight of those expectations, learning early on that who they are isn’t good enough.
The Power Dynamics of Communication Standards
The power dynamics embedded in communication standards are ultimately about control. Neurotypical speech patterns are treated as the ‘correct’ way to communicate, whilst autistic ways of speaking are marginalised, misunderstood, or outright pathologised. This hierarchy forces us to adapt to norms that don’t reflect our natural or authentic ways of interacting with the world. It’s not about whether we’re actually communicating clearly or effectively; instead, it's about enforcing conformity to what neurotypical society deems acceptable. Our voices, intonations, and rhythms are seen as deviations that need correcting, whilst neurotypical speech is viewed as the unchallenged standard. This imbalance reflects broader ableist assumptions that only one way of being—and speaking—is valid.
This power dynamic is deeply embedded in research designs, including studies like the one on receptive prosody. Such research is built on the assumption that neurotypical ways of speaking are superior and that the burden of adaptation falls on us, rather than questioning whether these communication norms should be reconsidered. Researchers seldom ask whether neurotypicals should learn to understand us. Instead, they reinforce the idea that autistic people need to be ‘fixed’ or reshaped to fit neurotypical expectations.
What’s even more troubling is how these studies often bypass the issue of informed consent, particularly when it comes to autistic youth. In a Western context, children are often treated as the ‘property’ of their parents, giving them little say in whether they participate in research or undergo therapies that may be harmful. Many autistic children are enrolled in studies not because they want to participate, but because their parents or guardians have decided for them. This system, rooted in power imbalances, silences autistic voices and prioritises neurotypical comfort and control, reinforcing societal norms that dismiss our ways of communicating.
The Missing Element: Gestalt Language Processors
One of the glaring issues with the study is its failure to account for Gestalt Language Processors (GLPs), which likely skewed the results. As autistic GLPs, we process language in holistic chunks, often absorbing entire phrases, scripts, or patterns from the world around us. This is completely different from how Analytic Language Processors (ALPs) break down language into smaller components like phonemes, syntax, or prosodic elements. The study seems to assume that all participants process language in this ALP way, which overlooks a significant portion of the autistic population. By not controlling for GLPs, the researchers probably misinterpreted the autistic participants' abilities to adapt prosodically, making their findings less reliable for understanding the diversity of language processing in autism.
For GLPs, communication isn’t about adjusting individual sounds or intonations—it’s about the overall flow, the emotional context, and the holistic meaning of an interaction. We often sound like the inputs we’ve received, which means our prosody might mirror the speech patterns, tones, and scripts we've heard and absorbed over time (It’s a big part of why I haven’t assimilated my West Highland accent into a SoCal “surfer girl” accent - how I sound is based upon the inputs I’ve received). The study’s failure to recognise this dynamic completely misses the reality of how many of us naturally communicate. Moreover, the stress of anticipatory anxiety—of not knowing which script to use in a given situation—can also stifle our ability to respond “appropriately” in terms of neurotypical expectations. The pressure to perform within rigid prosodic norms can actually inhibit our ability to communicate effectively, compounding misunderstandings.
This failure of the study design stems from a lack of inclusion of autistic researchers who would have pointed these issues out from the start. An autistic researcher likely would’ve raised concerns like, “Hey, let’s not structure the study this way because it doesn’t account for GLP participants.” But in neurotypical-dominated research spaces, these insights are often vetoed or dismissed. Even if they couldn’t adjust the entire study design, someone could have at least asked, “Can we identify the GLPs within the study population? It’ll be important for interpreting the results later.” But again, vetoed. This dismissal of critical insights reveals how research often moves forward without truly considering the diversity of cognitive processing styles in autism.
Ultimately, studies like these reinforce a narrow, neurotypical-centric model of language, overlooking the richness and variation within autistic communication. If research is going to serve the autistic community, it must acknowledge that there’s more than one way to process and produce language. Otherwise, it's only capturing a sliver of the picture.
The “Autism Mom” Angle: Embracing vs. Fixing
The “autism mom” angle is an all-too-familiar story: a parent, uncomfortable with their child’s tone or prosody, embarks on a mission to fix them, as though sounding autistic is a problem in need of a solution. These parents, often motivated by embarrassment or societal pressure, push for interventions designed to make their child sound more neurotypical—because, heaven forbid, little Timmy might say something with the “wrong” intonation at a family gathering or in public. Instead of celebrating their child’s unique way of communicating, they spend their time and money trying to mold them into something more palatable for others.
Maybe the real problem isn’t the child’s speech at all. Maybe it’s the parent’s discomfort with difference. Neurotypical parents often have an idealised vision of their child, and when that image is disrupted by something like autism, the response is often fear, not acceptance. They envisioned a child who would fit neatly into their social world, someone who wouldn’t make waves or draw stares. When that child turns out to have a different way of communicating—whether through tone, prosody, or body language—it becomes something to be ‘fixed,’ as though the child were a fashion accessory that arrived in the wrong colour. Parents who feel crushed because their child’s voice doesn’t meet societal expectations aren’t grappling with an issue in their child—they’re grappling with their own fears of social judgment.
This drive to “fix” autistic prosody isn’t just a personal choice; it’s deeply embedded in how autism is funded and treated at a systemic level. Funding for therapies that aim to normalise autistic behaviour is often driven by parental terror at having an autistic child. Under the AutismCARES Act, much of the funding reflects these fears—pushing priorities that focus on early intervention, behavioural therapies, and, yes, speech modification techniques designed to make autistic children less ‘noticeably’ autistic. The underlying message is clear: difference isn’t something to embrace; it’s something to fix before the child becomes too socially unacceptable. The priority is not the child’s wellbeing but the parents' need for a neurotypical-looking (and sounding) child who can fit into their world without making them uncomfortable.
Contrast this with the more progressive approach of accepting autistic communication as valid and worth celebrating. There’s a growing movement of parents, allies, and autistic individuals themselves who recognise that our voices—prosody, tone, and all—are not broken. Our communication is just as valid as anyone else’s, and there’s beauty in the diversity of how we express ourselves. Instead of funnelling money into therapies aimed at erasing these differences, imagine a world where those funds went toward truly understanding autistic communication, supporting us in ways that honour our natural speech, and fostering environments where we’re accepted exactly as we are. The real issue isn’t that autistic children need fixing—it’s that society needs to learn to listen without judgment.
Final thoughts …
It’s time to shift the focus. Instead of obsessing over how we sound to neurotypicals, let’s start caring about what we value in communication. For autistic people, it’s not about hitting the right intonation or tone to appease someone else’s standards. It’s about clarity, sincerity, and mutual understanding—things that actually matter in conversations. The relentless drive to ‘fix’ our prosody, to make us sound more neurotypical, reflects society’s discomfort with difference, not any real flaw in our communication. If neurotypical society spent less time policing how we speak and more time listening to what we’re saying, everyone might just benefit.
The research needs to follow this shift, too. Instead of reinforcing a one-size-fits-all model of communication based on neurotypical norms, we need more inclusive studies that take into account diverse language processing styles. Whether we’re Gestalt Language Processors or simply communicating in ways that make sense to us, our voices deserve to be heard and respected, not corrected. Autistic people need to be at the centre of this research—guiding it, designing it, and ensuring it reflects the reality of our experiences.
Ultimately, it’s neurotypical society that needs to do better. Stop trying to ‘fix’ us, and start embracing us as we are. Celebrate the diversity in how we communicate. Understand that difference doesn’t mean deficiency. When society shifts its focus from altering us to accepting us, we all stand to gain. It’s time to listen to our voices—exactly as they are.