Autism Didn’t Start With Me—And It Doesn’t Only Exist in a Syringe

I’ve been autistic my whole life, even before I had the words to explain it. And the more I’ve learned about myself, the more I’ve looked back—not just on my own childhood, but on my parents and family members—and I see the signs. The behaviors. The patterns. The sensitivities. The social struggles. The brilliance in the quirks. The depth behind the silence.

I believe autism runs in my family.

Not because of a shot.

Not because of a moment in time.

But because of a complicated, nuanced mix of genetics, environment, and individual neurobiology that we are still learning to understand.

I don’t know if vaccines ever played a role.

I’m not a scientist.

But I’m also not going to pretend the only path to understanding autism runs through a syringe. That narrative is too simple for something this complex—and too dangerous for something this human.

What I do know is that autism didn’t suddenly appear in this generation.

It didn’t explode overnight.

It’s always been here—but it was misunderstood, mislabeled, and misjudged.

Back then, we called it other names: difficult, hard-headed, stubborn, shy, aloof, slow, unruly, head in the clouds, beat of their own drum, brat.

These were the words thrown around when someone didn’t fit the mold—when someone felt or behaved differently in ways that couldn’t be explained.

But the stigma is still alive today, even in medical spaces where better understanding should exist.

When I tried to have my clearly autistic daughter evaluated, I was told:

“If she can form a sentence and she speaks, she can’t be autistic.”

As if speaking cancels out every other trait.

As if being verbal means you don’t struggle to connect, to cope, to regulate, or to navigate a world not built for you.

That kind of thinking is not just outdated—it’s dangerous.

And it’s being pushed on children and families every day, shutting doors that should be open.

I refuse to let anyone erase our history, our humanity, or our hope by reducing autism to a checklist, a stereotype, or a scapegoat.

We’ve always been here.

We’ve always loved.

And we always will.