There’s a lot of talk in the autism community about identity—especially this idea that if you’re really accepting yourself, you have to call yourself “autistic.” I get why that’s meaningful to people.
For a long time, it was for me too. I used to see autism as this core piece of who I was, something that helped explain how I experienced the world and gave me a sense of belonging.
But over time, something shifted for me. Through my Buddhist practice, I started seeing things differently. I began to let go of the idea that there’s a fixed “me” that I need to protect or define.
Autism didn’t stop being part of my life—it just stopped being the center of my identity. Now, I see it more as an experience I’m having, not a label I need to wear all the time. And honestly? That feels more honest, more peaceful, and more me.
That shift hasn’t come without pushback. I’ve had people tell me that by not calling myself autistic, I’m denying who I am, or that I’m somehow reinforcing stigma. Some have even gone so far as to say I’m rejecting my community.
But that just doesn’t sit right with me. When people start policing how others describe their own experience, it stops being about inclusion and starts being about conformity.
Not everyone sees autism in this way, and most people I know welcome differences in how people with autism refer to themselves. I’m speaking about the practice of a kind of identity essentialism—the belief that there’s only one “right” way to be autistic, and that if you don’t use the right words or adopt the popular narrative, you must be in denial.
But identity isn’t a one-size-fits-all thing. It’s fluid. It changes. It’s allowed to evolve. And insisting on one language or one framework doesn’t make the movement stronger—it just makes it smaller.
My Buddhist practice really helped me see this more clearly. The idea of anattā, or non-self, helped me understand that who I am isn’t fixed. We’re all constantly changing—shaped by our thoughts, conditions, and experiences.
From that lens, autism isn’t something I am—it’s something I move through. It shapes my reality, but it doesn’t define my essence. I still experience sensory overwhelm, social fatigue, and all the rest—but I don’t feel the need to package that into an identity label to make it valid.
I’ve met others who feel the same way. Some find that describing autism as an experience gives them more space to breathe, to reflect, to be more than a diagnosis.
Others have had difficult histories with labels and prefer to describe themselves in ways that feel more neutral or fluid. None of this comes from shame—it comes from reflection and personal growth.
The irony is, the neurodiversity movement was built on the idea of celebrating differences—and yet sometimes, it can feel like there’s only one acceptable way to talk about those differences. That’s not real inclusion.
Real inclusion means letting people find their own language, their own relationship to their experience, even if it looks different from yours.
So no, I don’t call myself autistic anymore. And no, that doesn’t mean I’m rejecting who I am. It just means I’ve found a different way to understand myself—one that’s aligned with my values, my spirituality, and my evolving view of life.
I’m not asking anyone else to do the same. I’m just asking for the space to be honest about what feels true to me.
Acceptance doesn’t mean repeating the same words everyone else uses—it means honoring each person’s path, even when it doesn’t fit neatly into your idea of what acceptance should look like.