As we celebrate World Autism Awareness/Acceptance Day, I feel compelled to share a story I have kept private for thirty-three years—not just to raise awareness but to advocate for a world that respects neurodiversity. For most of my life, I have witnessed others define autism from the outside while I remained quiet about my own experiences. That silence should end today. For many, autism remains invisible—both a hidden strength and a misunderstood challenge. For me, that misconception began in the 1990s, when autism was still stigmatized, and many parents were hesitant to disclose their child’s diagnosis. I grew up in a time when autism was a relatively new field of study in psychology, let alone widely accepted.
Brendan Tighe
Early Diagnosis and Family Response
At four years old, I was diagnosed with autism, a moment that completely reshaped my family’s world. My mother, who had dreamed of an average childhood, found herself instead researching developmental disorders with a desperation I would not understand until years later. My father assumed that he would become an elderly man needing to take care of me for the rest of his life. As a child, I always knew I was different, even though I initially did not understand why. I desired to be seen as “normal” and feared that if people knew about my autism, they would treat me differently. I worried that I would not be accepted, especially in romantic relationships, and above all, I just wanted to belong.
My world was vastly different from those around me. I couldn’t speak, read, or write—sometimes, I could not even say my own name. Simple daily tasks felt overwhelming, and an independent life seemed impossible. I communicated by pointing and screaming, struggled with eye contact, and found comfort in predictable routines like lining up forks or climbing the same tree repeatedly. These patterns became my stabilizers in a world that felt intense and unpredictable. I thought I was a happy toddler who loved to play and explore, unaware that others saw my behaviors as unusual.
My late uncle, Woody Fraser, noticed that I was not a typical child. “This boy needs help,” he told my parents plainly, persuading them to visit my pediatrician. While my parents had previous assumptions about my behavior, Uncle Woody saw potential waiting to be unlocked. Meanwhile, my mother had a breakthrough moment when she attended an autism seminar at Georgia State. She watched a video of a parent giving a sponge bath to their adult child and returned home with her heart heavy but her will determined. “That will not be our future,” she told my father that night. “Whatever it takes.”
The Journey Through Therapy
The next step was Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA). For three years, I underwent intensive therapy—40-hour weeks with multiple teachers visiting in shifts. My home transformed into a continuous classroom where I ate, slept, and learned. I resisted initially, throwing tantrums that exhausted everyone, but gradually realized that completing difficult tasks earned rewards. The process was demanding—mastering concepts nine times before advancing, having my privacy compromised by monitoring cameras and having structured regimens that limited recreational time. But these sacrifices were necessary milestones toward independence. My parents’ relief when I no longer needed therapy was profound—a victory during a time of significant financial strain.
Fighting for Educational Rights
When our local school district tried to deny me a free appropriate public education (FAPE), my family’s response revealed their extraordinary commitment. Belonging—what I craved most—was systematically being denied in general education. The conflict escalated when my parents refused to sign a flawed Individual Education Plan (IEP), taking our “due process” complaint to court. After failed mediation, we proceeded to a formal hearing with a lawyer and presented arguments with evidence. My parents spent countless nights surrounded by legal documents, balancing our family business while fighting for my dignity.
We won the initial verdict, but Cobb County appealed, leading to a $70,000 legal battle to defend my right to learn under the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA). Where many would have surrendered in those circumstances, my family remained steadfast. “Finish college,” became my father’s mantra, even when the bills arrived.
My uncle Woody understood the power of storytelling through his television production experience. He featured my parents on the “Home & Family Show,” transforming our legal struggle into a narrative of resilience. This media coverage created a breakthrough—Cobb County dropped its appeal, correcting an injustice that might otherwise have persisted. That victory secured my educational rights, but the challenge of social acceptance was only beginning.
Navigating School and Social Challenges
In June 1997, the IDEA Act was re-amended to hold schools more accountable for integrating students with disabilities. That same year, I became one of the first students at my elementary school formally included under these provisions. My parents refused specialized facilities, insisting on local school attendance in mainstream education. “He is going to school with kids in our neighborhood,” my mother told the principal firmly. “We fought for inclusion.”
Despite legal protections, finding my place continued to be difficult. Some classmates teased me for receiving speech therapy and mispronouncing words. “You hang out with that weird kid with dark hair,” a classmate once commented to a friend. This affected my brother as well, who defended me fiercely but sometimes needed distance—a complexity I misunderstood until adulthood. During little league soccer, when other parents noticed me picking flowers instead of playing, my father simply told them to let me be.
Middle school presented unique challenges as my interests diverged from the curriculum. I developed resentment toward special education, desperately wanting inclusion in general education. Watching classmates enter advanced classes while I remained in smaller groups made the difference between me and “normal” students painfully clear. My social awkwardness led to immature attention-seeking behavior. “Why can’t you just be normal?” another classmate asked after an inappropriate joke—the ridicule that followed cut deeper than outright bullying.
The special education department prevented me from taking foreign languages because of low reading comprehension scores—devastating for someone who saw languages as windows to different perspectives. This restriction only strengthened my determination; I later taught myself Spanish and learned Portuguese as an adult. Eventually, I chose boarding school to escape the public system that would have kept me in special education until nineteen—my first act of educational self-determination.
Struggles with Reading and Academic Identity
Reading comprehension was consistently challenging, especially with material that didn’t interest me. While I excelled with non-fiction and memorized “The Apology of Socrates” with ease, required fiction readings were obstacles. I remembered a reading campaign where students earned Six Flags tickets for reading 600 minutes. While classmates devoured chapter books, I struggled through single paragraphs, the words slipping from memory. I began calculating believable reading progress to report — “I finished another chapter” — creating a deception born from the pressure of classroom progress charts that constantly reminded me of my differences.
By high school, I gained perspective on academic success, recognizing that factors beyond merit influenced outcomes. This insight helped me develop a healthier relationship with education, prioritizing growth over perfectionism. After receiving a good grade on a challenging essay, my U.S. history teacher pulled me aside: “You know, you write better than half of the class and there are many kinds of intelligence, but the system only measures a few of them.” That comment became a lifeline as I graduated 39th in a class of 77—not at the top, but equipped with resilience that would shape my future.
Finding Strength in Adulthood
The transition to adulthood brought unexpected revelations. During vocational rehabilitation, I received a diagnosis of a reading disability, which explained my lifelong struggles with comprehension and testing. This diagnosis provided access to university accommodations and brought enormous relief—decades of feeling intellectually inferior reframed in a single document. Initially undecided on a major, I eventually returned to history, where my neurodivergent mind naturally excelled at recognizing patterns and connections across time.
Existentialism argues that meaning is not given but created. Autism, like existence, has no predefined meaning: it is what we make of it. When volunteering with street children in Mexico, I found a purpose not dictated by societal expectations. Teaching ESL became a way of shaping my path, proving that self-worth does not come from fitting into a standard model but from accepting your perspective. My philosophy became an asset rather than a liability away from educational systems that had made me feel insufficient. This experience inspired my chosen career, where I could help others break cycles of poverty through education and better opportunities. “You’re so patient,” a colleague once remarked after watching me work with a challenging student. She did not realize that patience comes naturally when you have spent a lifetime waiting for others to understand you.
Redefining Autism on My Terms
Through this journey, I have come to understand autism not as a label but as a different way of perceiving and solving problems—like viewing the world through a unique lens. Where others see chaos, I find patterns; where others grasp the big picture, I notice crucial details. For years, I viewed autism as a “dirty word,” but college brought liberation through reframing it on my terms, recognizing both challenges and strengths.
Autism has ignited a powerful work ethic born from necessity and defiance—an inner drive to challenge assumptions and prove I belonged among high achievers. This perspective shift was not about denying difficulties but embracing my complete self. At 33, I can finally say with confidence: I am me. It is neither good nor bad—it just is.
Beyond Awareness Toward Acceptance
The understanding of autism continues to evolve. Donald Triplett, the first person diagnosed with autism in 1943, passed away in June 2023 at 89. For “Case 1” to have lived during our lifetime underscores how recent our understanding truly is. Seeing public figures like Bill Gates and Anthony Hopkins embrace their spectrum diagnoses gives me hope that autism is becoming more accepted today than thirty years ago when my parents faced their fears in isolation. Their courage gave me a path to self-acceptance and to know that being different is not a limitation but something that adds value to the world.
Despite legal progress, many school districts still fall short of providing equal opportunity in education. Inclusion should never require financial ruin because this is fundamentally a civil rights issue—and civil rights are human rights. My family once chose between paying for therapy or fixing our leaking roof, collecting rainwater in buckets while investing in my future. One of my first sentences—”It is raining in my house“—became a visible reminder of their sacrifice. My brain may work differently, but that doesn’t invalidate my abilities or justify lower expectations.
A Call for Meaningful Connection
The statistics are clear: autistic individuals face higher risks of depression and suicide, largely due to isolation and exclusion. But these results are not inevitable. Future generations with autism need not simply early interventions but genuine human connection—friendship, understanding, and a sense of belonging that research consistently shows is essential to wellbeing.
This support requires more than awareness; it demands active acceptance. Small gestures of inclusion and understanding can prevent the isolation that so many on the spectrum experience. Kindness and tolerance are not purely pleasant beliefs but important practices that save lives and cost nothing to implement.
As we mark another World Autism Awareness Day, let us push beyond symbolic recognition toward meaningful inclusion in our schools, workplaces, and communities. My thirty-three years of silence ends with this declaration: we belong in this world exactly as we are—not because of our differences but with them, as full and valued human beings whose diverse perspectives enhance the design of the human condition.
Brendan Tighe is an Autistic Self-Advocate. For more information, email bdtighe@gmail.com.
