No Place for Me: Autism, Technology, and the Exhaustion of Modern Life

Autistic existence is debated, marginalised, and profited from in a system hostile to difference. This article explores the exhaustion of navigating harmful platforms, the need for radical change, and the power of community to build a world where neurodivergence is celebrated.

Introduction

The other day, I found myself scrolling through Facebook—a platform I rarely use but had turned to because of recent events involving my extended family. Almost immediately, I was confronted with a post that stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t just another piece of misinformation or political vitriol; it was a discussion about “the autism epidemic” and what society ought to do about it, framed as though my existence was a problem to be solved. The sheer dehumanisation of it was staggering, but what struck me more was how this post had been placed at the top of my feed, served up by an algorithm that decided it was relevant to me. This is the reality of being autistic in the modern world: a relentless confrontation with systems that profit from your pain, all whilst claiming to connect you to others. For someone like me, the internet is both a lifeline and a battlefield, a place where I find community with others like me but must wade through hostility to get there.

This experience raises a question that I cannot stop asking: how do autistic individuals navigate a world that simultaneously requires and marginalises them? In this digital age, where nearly every aspect of life has moved online, disengaging from harmful systems is often impossible. To step away from platforms like Facebook is to risk isolation, cutting oneself off from the few spaces where the autistic community can find connection. And yet, to remain is to endure a constant barrage of harm, whether it’s algorithmic amplification of hate or the unspoken reminder that this world was not designed for people like me. Through my personal experiences as an autistic person, and through a broader critique of the structures that uphold this hostile environment, I want to explore what it means to exist in a society that tells us, in no uncertain terms, that there is no place for us.

The Double-Edged Sword of Technology

Online spaces have become a lifeline for me, a means of finding connection in a world that feels hostile to autistic existence. On Instagram (@WeeJaime74), I’ve found pockets of community, individuals who share experiences, insights, and moments of solidarity that remind me I’m not alone. LinkedIn, for all its corporate polish, has also been a platform where I’ve connected with like-minded people who value the perspectives of neurodivergent professionals. These platforms, despite their flaws, have given me access to conversations and relationships that I would never have been able to build otherwise. They have helped me feel seen in a world designed by and for the neuro-majority—a world that intentionally misunderstands or dismisses what it means to be autistic. But this relief comes at a price.

For every moment of connection, there is an equal measure of harm. These platforms, much like Facebook, are built on algorithms that prioritise engagement above all else, with no regard for the damage they cause. The more divisive or inflammatory the content, the more visible it becomes. Hate flows freely, amplified because it keeps users clicking, scrolling, and commenting. Accessibility, whilst touted as a feature, remains inconsistent or poorly implemented, adding another layer of exclusion. The very systems that are supposed to bring people together are actively profiting from division, marginalisation, and harm. The more you rely on them, the more you are exposed to their toxicity.

This is the paradox of modern technology. It is both a lifeline and a weapon, a place where I can find people who understand me but also a space where I am constantly reminded of how the world devalues people like me. To leave would be to lose the small connections I’ve found, but to stay is to endure the harm that these platforms deliberately perpetuate. For autistic individuals, this contradiction feels particularly sharp. We are forced to rely on tools that were not designed for us, that often work against us, but that remain our only option for community in an increasingly digital world. It is a cruel and exhausting trade-off, one that underscores how little room there is for difference in the systems that dominate our lives. (Yes, I’m on BlueSky, but starting over takes time.)

The Emotional Cost of Engagement

Engaging with the world as an autistic person often feels like stepping into a perpetual debate where your very existence is under scrutiny. This debate isn’t about understanding or supporting autistic individuals—it’s a relentless assault wrapped in questions like, “What should we do about autism?” or arguments over its so-called “causes.” The implication, whether spoken aloud or lurking beneath the surface, is always the same: if they could identify and control the “causes,” they could eliminate people like me. It’s an exhausting and dehumanising experience, compounded by the societal narrative that portrays autism not as a natural variation of human existence, but as a disorder to be prevented or eradicated. The weight of constantly encountering these narratives—online and offline—is immense, but recent political developments suggest it’s about to get even worse.

With the recent confirmation of RFK, Jr., as head of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (HHS), the danger posed to autistic individuals has grown significantly. RFK, Jr. has a long and troubling history of spreading misinformation about vaccines and their alleged connection to autism—a connection that has been repeatedly debunked by extensive scientific research. His appointment sends a chilling message: that conspiracy theories and pseudoscience targeting autistic individuals are not only tolerated but can hold positions of power. His past rhetoric emboldens the far-right, which has increasingly used autism as a battleground for its culture war, portraying us as symbols of societal decline or collateral damage in their crusade against modern medicine and science.

The consequences of RFK, Jr.’s new role are already rippling through the discourse. It’s not hard to imagine how his leadership might legitimise and amplify harmful policies or narratives about autism. The far-right, already emboldened by platforms that prioritise outrage and division, will likely seize this moment to double down on their attacks against autistic people. Online spaces, where these narratives flourish unchecked, will likely become even more hostile. For those of us who rely on these platforms for connection, the prospect is terrifying. The algorithms that already amplify hate will have even more material to promote, and the dehumanising debates about our existence will become more visible and more frequent.

This systemic weaponisation of outrage is a cornerstone of capitalism. Platforms like Meta and X profit from engagement, no matter how harmful the content may be. The more inflammatory and divisive the narrative, the more attention it generates, feeding a vicious cycle that exploits our pain for profit. Autistic people are not just incidental victims in this system; we are among its primary targets, caught in a web of disinformation and cultural hostility that leaves us constantly on edge.

The mental health toll is devastating. To live in a world where your existence is not only debated but also politicised is an unrelenting source of emotional exhaustion. It’s a world that continually reinforces the message that there is no place for people like me. And with RFK, Jr., now in a position of power, this message will likely grow louder, its echoes amplified by those who see his appointment as validation of their harmful crusade. For autistic individuals, this is more than a personal struggle—it’s a battle for our right to exist in a system that thrives on our dehumanisation.

A World That Rejects Difference

This image captures a post on Facebook. User information has been deleted. The comments section was absolutely toxic and disgusting.

There are moments when it feels like the world is screaming that there is no place for autism—and therefore no place for me. The offensive graphic I encountered online (shown above), with its supposedly insightful commentary on global autism rates, drove this point home with brutal clarity. On the surface, the post suggests that there is something in the food supply in the United States causing autism, framing it as though the neurotype was some kind of contamination to be eradicated. The individual who made the post—a rancher, part of the Christian Nationalist movement, and a self-proclaimed ‘ethical omnivore’ and regenerative farmer—seemed to be using the graphic as a tool to push his agenda. He was effectively promoting regenerative farming as a solution, implying that his practices would somehow lead the way in eliminating the supposed “cause” of autism. And whilst I can recognise the value of regenerative farming compared to the environmentally destructive nature of commercial ranching, it’s deeply troubling to see such an important practice tied to pseudoscientific claims that perpetuate harm against autistic people.

What the graphic actually reveals is far more sinister. Those low diagnostic rates don’t reflect lower prevalence; they correspond to places where seeking an autism diagnosis is harmful—or even deadly. In many parts of the world, families avoid pursuing a diagnosis for their children out of fear of stigma, discrimination, or outright violence. For autistic people in these regions, the cost of being seen is too great, and the safest option is to remain invisible. The absence of diagnoses is not evidence of an autism-free population; it’s evidence of a society that makes it dangerous to exist openly as an autistic person. This isn’t about prevalence—it’s about survival.

And sadly, I fear that diagnostic rates will decline even further—not just in these regions, but globally. With the DSM-5-TR tightening its criteria, framed as a “market correction,” fewer people will qualify for a diagnosis, even when they clearly need support. Combined with the new regime’s escalating assault on difference, the systemic marginalisation of autistic people is likely to worsen. The graphic may have been used to push a farming agenda, but it ultimately serves as a chilling reminder of how society continues to redefine and diminish the space for autistic individuals, making the world increasingly hostile to neurodivergence.

This is a society that systematically erases difference, prioritising conformity above all else. From the workplace to the classroom to everyday social interactions, the world is structured around norms that punish those who don’t—or can’t—fit in. The expectation is always to mask, to adapt, to make yourself palatable to neurotypicals. And if you can’t, you’re seen as a burden or a problem to be solved, rather than a person with intrinsic value.

This rejection of difference is woven into the fabric of a culture that values exploitation over humanity. Conformity and uniformity make people easier to manage, to market to, and to control. Neurodivergence, on the other hand, challenges those systems. It refuses to follow the rules of capitalism, which demand constant productivity, and instead asks questions that the system doesn’t want to answer. And so, the system rejects it. It rejects us. What that offensive graphic truly shows is not the “natural” prevalence of autism but the lengths to which society will go to hide or erase it. In places where it’s dangerous to be autistic, we disappear from the statistics, and in places where it’s merely inconvenient to the system, we are tightened out of existence by shifting criteria and shrinking supports.

Living in a world that treats difference as a threat is exhausting. It’s not just about the barriers we face; it’s the unspoken message behind them: that we don’t belong here. That the world is not made for us, and it will do everything it can to ensure we understand that. And as the systems tighten their grip and the criteria narrow, that message only grows louder. For autistic people, surviving in this world often means fighting to carve out space where none is willingly given. It’s a fight we shouldn’t have to endure, but one we are forced into by a system that sees us as expendable.

The Inescapability of the System

For a long time, I’ve considered disengaging from toxic platforms like Facebook and Instagram. The harm they perpetuate, from amplifying hate to fostering dehumanising narratives about autistic people, feels unbearable at times. And yet, every time I try to step away, I’m met with the stark reality of what that means: isolation. For autistic individuals, online spaces are often the only places where we can find connection and community, however fragile or fleeting they may be. This realisation has kept me tethered to platforms I despise, knowing that disengaging would cut me off from people who truly understand my experiences.

Recently, I’ve begun transitioning to BlueSky, hoping to find a better balance between connection and mental wellbeing. Rebuilding a community and forming new connections takes time, but the platform offers a sense of possibility that the others lack. BlueSky feels like X, but without the toxicity—at least for now. However, I’ve always found X’s text-based feed limiting; I’m a visual person with limited English skills, which is why I was drawn to Instagram in the first place. It allowed me to engage with the world in a way that felt natural to me. But even Instagram has become increasingly difficult to navigate, with its algorithm prioritising content that feeds outrage and anxiety rather than fostering genuine connection. Transitioning away from platforms like Instagram is not just a shift in community—it’s a shift in how I interact with the world. (note: Discord is waaaaaaaayyyyyy to overwhelming for me.)

This struggle underscores a larger systemic issue: the way digital integration into every facet of life forces participation in systems that harm us. Platforms like Facebook and Instagram dominate the social media landscape, leaving few viable alternatives. Even when new options emerge, like BlueSky, they require time and energy to build up to what the others have already achieved—even if those achievements came at great cost. Technology, in theory, was meant to connect us, to bridge distances and create communities. Yet for those of us who rely on these tools the most, it often does the opposite. It isolates, it excludes, and it exploits. We are trapped in systems that were never designed with us in mind, forced to participate because the alternative is total disconnection. And so, we remain, caught between the need for connection and the constant harm these systems inflict. It’s a contradiction I feel acutely every time I log in and wonder if it’s worth it.

Finding Resilience in a Hostile World

Resisting the exhaustion of navigating a world hostile to autism isn’t easy, but I’ve found moments of joy and defiance that keep me grounded. Embracing my autistic identity has been one of the most powerful acts of rebellion I could imagine. In a society that constantly tells me I should mask, conform, and disappear, simply existing as I am feels radical. I’ve leaned into the things that bring me peace—immersing myself in my special interests, seeking out beauty in the mundane, and connecting with others who understand my experiences. These moments remind me that there is value in difference, even if the world refuses to see it. They’re small victories, but they matter. They’re acts of survival, of refusing to let a hostile system define my worth.

Still, these moments of personal resistance aren’t enough. The exhaustion is systemic, not just personal, and it demands more than individual resilience—it requires radical change. Reforming these systems isn’t enough. The algorithms, structures, and cultural frameworks that marginalise autistic people are working as they were designed to. Capitalism thrives on exploitation and exclusion, and as long as those foundations remain, autistic individuals will continue to be harmed. What we need is a fundamental reimagining of how society operates, one that prioritises inclusion, equity, and the recognition of neurodivergence as a natural and valuable part of humanity - belonging. This isn’t just about accommodating difference; it’s about embracing it as a source of strength and creativity.

Mutual aid and grassroots organising are crucial to building the kind of world we need. Autistic individuals cannot rely on existing institutions to support us—they were never designed with us in mind. Instead, we must create alternative spaces of connection and support, spaces that prioritise our needs and celebrate our differences. These grassroots efforts may seem small compared to the massive systems we’re up against, but they have the power to transform lives. They are acts of care and defiance in a world that often denies both.

Finding resilience in a hostile world is not about enduring; it’s about fighting back in ways big and small. It’s about refusing to accept the narratives forced upon us and building new ones in their place. It’s about finding joy, creating community, and embracing our identities, not as weaknesses to be fixed but as truths to be celebrated. And it’s about holding onto hope—not the empty optimism that everything will work out, but the determined belief that we can and will create a better world for ourselves and those who come after us.

Final thoughts …

The image I encountered on Facebook still lingers in my mind, not just because of its offensive premise but because of what it represents. It was a stark reminder of the world I navigate every day—a world that debates the value of my existence, erases difference, and profits from harm. The algorithms that decided this post belonged at the top of my feed are the same systems that amplify hate, dehumanisation, and division, while claiming to connect us. For autistic individuals like me, this is the reality we face: a constant struggle to carve out space in a world that wasn’t designed for us, while grappling with the exhaustion of systems that exploit us at every turn.

But this struggle is not without hope. Every act of connection, every moment of joy, every defiant refusal to mask who we are is a step toward something better. The world as it exists now may scream that there is no place for us, but that does not mean we have to accept it. We can and must imagine a different kind of world—one where difference is not just accepted but celebrated, one where systems are built to include rather than exclude, and one where neurodivergence is recognised as a vital part of human diversity. This will not come from reforming the broken systems that harm us; it will come from radical change, from reimagining what inclusion and equity truly mean.

To get there, we need to embrace both resilience and resistance. Resilience to endure the challenges of the present, and resistance to create the change we need. We need to build community and mutual aid, to create spaces where we are seen and valued for who we are. It will not be easy, and it will take time, but every step toward that world matters. And in the meantime, we hold onto hope—not the naive hope that the world will magically change, but the determined belief that we can change it. Because we deserve better. And because we are worth fighting for.