Doors of Growth 112

In honor of Autism Awareness Month….

As an autistic therapist, my journey has been marked by challenges, many of which stem from my autism and its late diagnosis. For years, I mistook my belief that everyone shared my compassionate nature for narcissism, a misjudgment born from my difficulty interpreting others’ perspectives—a hallmark of autism’s social processing differences. It wasn’t until I recognized my autism that this became clear. Written communication, particularly emails, remains a persistent struggle, as my challenges with pragmatic language and gauging others’ reactions often leave me confused, hurt, and disheartened; the thrill of pinpointing a problem and eagerly sharing it via email frequently unravels into disappointment when met with misunderstanding or rejection.

My autistic mind thrives on pattern recognition, a strength that drives me to identify solutions to recurring issues and share them with enthusiasm. Yet, time and again, these efforts are misinterpreted. This is especially disheartening in organizational settings, where my intentions are met with suspicion and ascribed ill intent. The rejection stings, dampening my excitement and making me question my heightened perception, which, in truth, is finely attuned—a gift of my neurodiversity. This dynamic can lead to unintentional gaslighting—or even intentional, when my observations expose systemic flaws organizations prefer to ignore. My literal thinking and tendency to blurt out unfiltered truths, another autistic trait, often fuel these misunderstandings.

With clients, my directness—stemming from autism’s reduced filter for social nuance—can come across as blunt or insensitive, despite my diligent efforts to soften it. I rely heavily on feedback, which I process with an almost obsessive focus, to refine my approach. Labels and diagnoses don’t captivate me the way systems and patterns do, yet I recognize their purpose, benefits, and limitations, a balance shaped by my autistic tendency to see both the forest and the trees.

My deepest desire is to help others heal. My heart, mind, and soul are wholly invested in my clients’ well-being, a passion intensified by the hyper-empathy I experience as an autistic person—an overwhelming drive to connect and repair. Before understanding my professional role and impact, I often overextended myself, a reflection of my difficulty with boundaries and executive functioning. I’d go to extraordinary lengths to help others, blind to their ulterior motives and at my own expense. I’m still learning to navigate my influence, a process complicated by my slower processing speed, another autistic feature that leaves me piecing things together after the fact.

The expectation to maintain separate professional and personal personas bewilders me—a profound internal conflict tied to my autistic need for congruence and authenticity. To me, a fulfilling life means being transparent, imperfect, and true to myself at all times, an ideal at odds with masking, which exhausts me due to my sensory and social overload. I once thought private practice was my sanctuary, where I thrived during my happiest years. My former clients, through their own healing, mirrored my journey, helping me integrate into my whole self—a process fueled by my intense, special-interest-like bond with my work.

Before becoming a counselor, I discovered *The Narcissistic Family System*, a topic that clicked with my pattern-obsessed autistic brain like a lifeline. It made perfect sense, igniting a passion that, alongside my counselor’s guidance, propelled me toward my Master’s degree. Teaching others to heal through this lens has proven effective repeatedly, a testament to my ability to hyper-focus on meaningful frameworks.

Yet, on a larger scale, I see *The Narcissistic Organizational/Institutional System* replaying in treatment settings, a pattern that distresses me deeply. My autistic sensitivity to injustice amplifies this unease as I draw parallels between these dynamics and those in governmental, medical, legal, judicial, and educational systems. To clarify, *The Narcissistic Family System* isn’t about narcissists running families; it describes a spectrum of behavioral syndromes, a distinction my literal mind insists on precision about.

As an autistic therapist with learning disabilities and a processing delay, I’ve realized my values—shaped by my neurodiversity—clash with organizational norms. My heightened perception spots minimization, denial, gaslighting, and narrative control, like swift dismissals of serious breaches or triangulation for informational gain. I see organizations wield false information at the expense of someone’s reputation, deflect accountability, and maintain an almost parasitic relationship with responsibility—observations my autistic brain can’t unsee. Justice, fairness, pattern recognition, advocacy for the marginalized, and transparency are my strengths, yet in institutional settings, these traits—coupled with my tendency to speak up impulsively—mark me as a liability.

While many know my faith in God, belief in two genders, and love for humanity, fewer see that these don’t limit my advocacy for all people, including transgender individuals. My autistic empathy sees them as humans first—deserving of love, kindness, and respect. I admire their courage in living authentically, a bravery I relate to as someone who struggles with masking. Yet, as a professional, I’ve faced pressure from governing bodies and colleagues to suppress my religious beliefs, a demand that grates against my need for integrity. The few trans clients I’ve worked with never asked this of me; I’ve defended, advocated for, and cherished them. Trans adults deserve affirming, safe spaces and true **trauma-informed care**, free from avoidable harm—principles my justice-driven autistic mind holds firm.

I often encounter programs touting “**trauma-informed**” care that miss the mark, lacking grasp of *The Narcissistic Family System*, separate realities, or emotional nuances—gaps my detail-oriented brain can’t ignore. They overlook the need for gender-specific spaces or the sequence of safety, connection, trust, and healing, a process I intuitively map out. Individuals with predatory violent histories also deserve affirming spaces to heal if they choose, though their path—earning respect, trust, connection, then safety—differs. My autistic logic sees their low empathy and remorse as a complicating factor when mixing demographics in **trauma-informed care**.

These issues delve deeper, touching on mainstreaming in education and **trauma-informed care**—topics my brain fixates on relentlessly. They raise emotionally and morally charged questions that demand discussion, a need my autistic persistence won’t let fade. Without defining **trauma-informed care**, we risk unintentional retraumatization—a concern my hyper-vigilant senses can’t overlook.
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Doors Of Growth Counseling
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