Unpopular opinion alert. Brace yourselves, internet — because I’m about to say something that might get me kicked out of a few inspirational Facebook groups.
Autism is not a superpower.
There. I said it.
Don’t get me wrong — I understand why people say it. It’s well-intentioned. It’s a way of reframing, of trying to pull beauty from something that can often be hard and misunderstood. I get it. Truly. But after nineteen years of raising my incredible, hilarious, complex, autistic son, I can tell you with complete certainty: this isn’t a Marvel movie. No one’s flying. No one’s turning invisible. (Although, come to think of it, he does disappear the second I say “time for a shower.”)
And while I’d love to say our story is all inspiration and triumph, the truth is — it’s hard. Really hard. For him. For us. For anyone walking this path.
My son has autism, a significant intellectual disability, ADHD, anxiety, and — because life enjoys irony — an autoimmune disorder just for fun.
He’s kind, funny, stubborn, and has an Olympic-level ability to detect when I’m about to relax.
He’s also exhausted. Constantly. Because the world is not built for him.
Autism is not a cape. It’s not a gift-wrapped life lesson in disguise. It’s a daily navigation of a world that wasn’t designed with neurodiversity in mind — a world that talks too fast, changes too often, and expects too much without explaining enough.
It’s appointments, meltdowns, medication changes, IEP meetings that could qualify as endurance sports, and more acronyms than should be legal.
It’s smiling politely at people who say “he doesn’t look autistic” while fantasizing about throwing a DSM-5 at them.
And yes, while there are moments of joy so pure they could light up a city block — there are also nights where you cry in the shower, praying tomorrow is just a little easier for him.
Let’s talk about that phrase — autism is a superpower.
It sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Empowering. Shiny. Poster-worthy.
And for some, it fits — especially those who have the language and ability to express their experience that way.
But for others — like my son — it’s not a superpower. It’s a daily battle to be understood. It’s trying to communicate pain and emotion without the words to do it. It’s wanting to have friends but not knowing how to connect. It’s frustration, sensory overload, and exhaustion from a world that doesn’t make sense.
So when people say, “But autism is beautiful,” I nod politely… and think, sure, but have you ever tried getting your 19-year-old, 6-foot-tall son who’s mid-meltdown into the car at 8 a.m.?
Beautiful? Maybe eventually.
At the time? Not so much.
If you ask my son if he wishes he didn’t have autism, he wouldn’t say yes — because autism is part of who he is. But if you asked him if he wished life wasn’t so hard, I know what the answer would be.
He’d wish that people understood him better.
He’d wish that communication didn’t take so much effort.
He’d wish the world wasn’t always three steps ahead of him.
He’d wish things were… just a little easier.
And as his mom, that’s all I wish too.
Because while I can celebrate his progress, and advocate for inclusion, and proudly share the wins, I can also admit: this is hard.
Loving him is easy. Watching him struggle is not.
After 14 years in the field, and nearly two decades as “Mom,” here’s what I know:
Autism doesn’t need to be a superpower to be worthy of love, respect, and awe.
It doesn’t need to be romanticized to be meaningful.
It’s okay to say it’s hard. It’s okay to say it’s exhausting.
It’s okay to say that your child’s life — and yours — might be more complicated than you imagined.
Because honesty doesn’t erase hope. It builds it.
So no — my son doesn’t have superpowers.
He can’t fly, he can’t teleport, and unless his power is making me late for every appointment we’ve ever had, the jury’s still out.
But what he does have is perseverance, humor, and a smile that breaks your heart in all the best ways.
And me? I have coffee. Lots of it.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough superpower for both of us.
