Most public writing about autism is heavy. It has to be. The systems are failing us and the record needs to stay visible. But a campaign that only speaks in the register of harm has not understood what it is defending.
We are allowed to be happy. We are sometimes very happy. Joy is not a distraction from the work. It is the reason for the work.
The joys, named
The joy of a SPIN, a deep interest held close for years, revisited every day, endlessly generative. The joy of finding another person who knows your SPIN and wants to talk about it. The joy of infodumping, which is love, and which is also the shape of our friendship.
The joy of a stim that lands right. Happy flapping. Rocking on the exact frequency. Humming the particular note. The body saying yes without having to negotiate with anyone.
The joy of hyperfocus on something you love. Time disappearing. The ordinary friction of being alive dissolving for a few hours. Coming back and realising you made something.
The joy of pattern-recognition. Of seeing the thing nobody else in the room has seen. Of the quiet internal nod when you realise that yes, it is the same pattern, and you were right.
The joy of another Autistic person. Of not having to translate. Of the ease. Of the shared jokes nobody outside would get. Of the conversations that do not have to pretend to be anything other than what they are.
The joy of finding your sensory profile and living inside it on purpose. The textures you love. The foods that feel safe. The lights you choose. The music that resets you. The way the kitchen looks at four in the afternoon when the light is right and the room is quiet and the kettle has just boiled.
The world often wants us to apologise for our joys because the shape of them is unfamiliar. We are not apologising. We are not dampening ourselves down.
Pride includes this. The refusal of shame, yes. And also the affirmation of delight.
