The Sensory Overload That is Life: An Updated Reflection on Belonging, Loss, and Growth

.When actually autistic people speak, amazing things happen

March 2025 note: sometimes, I add a wee update to an article to reflect new information. In this case, I needed to do a complete re-write in light of the events of the last year. It’ll make sense, I promise …

Introduction

The sheer sensory overload of life lately has got me thinking about the many “explainer” posts I see on social media. Being an autistic GenXer, I have a unique perspective on the autistic experience that I’d like to share. Hopefully, it helps spark some discussion in your circles.

I’m well over 50 now, and I was autistic before there was even a diagnosis for my brain wiring differences. Sensory issues weren’t acknowledged; we were just “sensitive.” Social anxiety was called “shyness.” Asperger’s? We were just “weird.” I can look back at my many catastrophic social failures and now understand the role of being non-verbal and the way my brain processes language. I’m not here to rewrite my past, but rather to explore what I’ve wandered into that helped me along the way—what worked, what didn’t, and what turned out to be something else entirely.

I say “wandered into” because I didn’t seek these experiences out; they were brought to me by friends or family, often when I wasn’t ready. Left to my own devices, I probably would have declined, but through love, I was shown a path forward. I took those opportunities and made them my own.

We Hear Everything

First, a note to non-autistic parents of autistic children: We hear everything. We understand everything. More importantly, we feel everything. We don’t forget it. We are our own normal, not your normal.

Autistic children grow into autistic adults, sorting out how to use this quantum field generator we call a brain to our benefit. Like everyone, we have strengths and weaknesses. But the world often refuses to see us as we are—instead projecting ideas onto us, shaping us to fit pre-existing molds. I spent years being shaped by expectations that weren’t my own.

The Institutions That Shape Us (And Then Reject Us)

For many years, Freemasonry was one of the institutions that shaped me. I found structure, predictability, and brotherhood. The ritual language made sense in a way that everyday conversation never did. The lessons of Freemasonry—of self-improvement, seeking truth, and building a better world—aligned with how I approached life. I believed in it. I gave to it. I rose within its ranks.

Then, I came out as trans.

The institution that had once given me structure and acceptance withdrew its support. I had dedicated years of my life to the craft, and when I needed it most, I was met with silence.

In October, I sent letters to both my Lodge and my Scottish Rite Valley, explaining my financial struggles and requesting relief from dues. It wasn’t an unreasonable ask; it was something supposedly offered to struggling members in good standing. I was honest about my circumstances. I waited.

January came and went. I never received an actual response.

At the end of my letter, I wrote that if my dues weren’t remitted, they should consider me to have demitted.

This isn’t just about money. It’s about the brotherhood I thought I had—one that professed the ideals of universal love, one that spoke of making good people better. And yet, when faced with the reality of who I truly am, the silence was deafening.

The Fragility of Conditional Belonging

I share this not out of bitterness, but as an example of how autistic people, trans people, and anyone outside the norm are often given conditional belonging. We are accepted as long as we follow unspoken rules, as long as we stay within predefined boundaries, as long as we do not disrupt the comfort of the majority.

Autistic people mask to survive. We learn the scripts. We adopt the mannerisms. We follow the rituals. We play the game. And sometimes, we get so good at it that we think we belong. But the moment we step outside the expected role, the illusion shatters.

It is a painful lesson, but one worth learning: True belonging does not come with conditions.

What Now?

Freemasonry was a part of my life, but it was not my life. Losing it in the way that I originally experienced it hurt, but I will not allow an institution’s failure to define me. My journey of self-discovery and authenticity continues.

To those who feel like they are constantly chiseling away at themselves to fit into spaces that were never meant for them, I see you. To those who have lost institutions they once held dear, I stand with you. To those who are still searching for where they belong, you are not alone.

I am not done shaping my own path. The rough ashlar may never be perfectly smooth, but that does not mean it is without value. And I will keep carving, until the shape I reveal is truly my own.

Now, the re-write of the previous article …

If you were born after 1920, much of what you’ve been taught about parenting, finances, wealth, and health has been shaped not by wisdom passed down through generations, but by industries that profit from shaping your choices. Consider, for example, the way breakfast became a “must-have” meal—a product of marketing rather than biological necessity. The same is true for financial security: what was once a generational, family-driven effort has been replaced by state-controlled mechanisms that often fail those who need them most.

The 1920s and 1930s marked a turning point. In this era, the economic model that allowed families to build and maintain generational wealth was dismantled. Government programs replaced familial security structures, and in doing so, they disrupted the continuity of financial planning across generations. Consider this: can your Social Security benefits be left to your autistic child? No. If you build a business and accumulate wealth, how much of it will actually reach the next generation after taxes and legal fees? For many, the answer is: not enough.

This is why any conversation about “what will happen to my autistic child?” must include a return to intentional, multi-generational financial planning. Families need to think beyond short-term survival and focus on sustainable, long-term security. A legacy plan is essential—not just for financial stability, but for ensuring your child is not left dependent on systems that were never designed with their well-being in mind. I was fortunate to receive sound advice on this early, and it has made an enormous difference. This isn’t about wealth for wealth’s sake; it’s about securing a future where autistic people are not left at the mercy of systems that consistently fail them.

Community Matters: Who You Surround Yourself With Shapes Your World

The people around you influence how you see the world—and how the world sees you. If someone believes your wealth should be confiscated, can they truly be an ally in your financial planning? If someone believes autistic people need to be “fixed,” can they genuinely support your autistic child? The answer is no.

Autistic people are constantly navigating environments where our very existence is debated. The majority of fundraising efforts that claim to “support” us are led by organisations that would rather see us erased than accommodated. There is a fundamental difference between working toward a world where autistic people can thrive and a world where autism is treated as a problem to be solved.

This is not to say you must cut ties with everyone who disagrees with you, but awareness is key. People either accept and support you, or they don’t. Tolerating casual dehumanisation—for yourself or for your child—only reinforces environments that harm autistic people. Being selective about who is in your circle isn’t about isolation; it’s about creating a space where authenticity is possible.

Communication: More Than Just Words

Communication isn’t just about speech—it’s about connection. Not all of us are verbal or vocal. Some of us grow into verbal and/or vocal expression over time. Others rely on alternative means to communicate. The key takeaway? The ability to speak, to vocalise, does not define intelligence or worth.

For me, spoken language was something I absorbed from the world around me. I hoovered up phrases from movies, TV, and conversations, echoing them back in a way that sometimes worked—but often didn’t. Echolalia allowed me to participate, but the words weren’t always mine. I suspect many other autistic people have experienced this—borrowing language in an attempt to “pass” as neurotypical, only to find that the script falls apart when deeper understanding is needed.

The first time I truly found my own words was through structured language—ritual, repetition, and predictability. Initially, Freemasonry provided this scaffold for me. The order and predictability of ritual gave me a framework within which I could confidently express myself. I don’t bring this up to advocate for Freemasonry—especially given how my journey with it ended—but to highlight the importance of structured, supportive spaces in helping autistic people develop communication skills. Every autistic person deserves access to methods of expression that work for them, rather than being forced into neurotypical expectations of communication.

Parenting: Building a Support Network for Your Child and Yourself

Parenting is never easy, but parenting an autistic child in a world designed for neurotypicals presents unique challenges. I see this firsthand with my own children, who, like me, are autistic. Often, I find myself translating—bridging the gap between them and the world, just as I had to navigate these same misunderstandings growing up. If you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person … once, and that goes for children as well. Each has their own needs, their own struggles, and their own strengths.

For parents who are not autistic themselves, one of the most valuable things you can do is seek out autistic adults who can offer guidance. Autistic children need to see that growing up autistic does not mean a life of misery. They need role models—adults who have carved out fulfilling lives and careers, despite the challenges of a world that often refuses to accommodate us.

Where can you start? There are autistic-led advocacy groups. There are Meetup groups specifically for autistic adults. Engage with autistic voices. Ask questions. Listen. Learn.

It is not easy being a parent. It is not easy being autistic. It is certainly not easy being an autistic parent of both autistic and neurotypical children. But it is possible. A life of meaning and joy is possible. The key is in finding the right support—both for your child and for yourself. Autistic adults are here, ready to help. You just have to ask.