I Stepped Away. I Came Back Different

Between 2019 and early 2021, I was heavily involved in the autistic self-advocacy world. I helped lead campaigns. I built platforms. I worked closely with one of the most widely followed autistic advocates online. We thought we were doing good. We believed in the mission: representation, rights, dignity.

But over time, something shifted—or maybe we just started seeing what was always there.

Behind the scenes, there was a pattern: a deep hostility toward anyone who didn’t fit a narrow mold of beliefs. Parents, professionals, even other autistic people—if they didn’t toe the exact ideological line, they weren’t just disagreed with. They were vilified.

We started noticing how much time and energy was being poured into tearing people down—especially parents of individuals with high support needs. Some had made mistakes, sure. Some were struggling. Some were desperate. But instead of being met with support or honest conversation, they were turned into targets. Publicly. Loudly. Repeatedly.

At first, I thought I could help change that from within. I spoke up gently. Asked questions. Tried to widen the frame. I thought that maybe, if we just explained our concerns clearly, people would understand the harm being done.

That’s not what happened.

The moment we questioned the direction things were heading—even slightly—it turned. Fast.

The advocate I worked with was the first to be hit. Smear posts. Campaigns. DMs sent to people they collaborated with. Statements twisted, context stripped away. Their reputation—carefully built over years—was dismantled in days. And no one stepped in to stop it. Not even those who privately agreed.

Then it happened to me. They coordinated messaging to paint me as dangerous. False claims. Accusations I couldn’t refute without adding fuel. People I’d supported and encouraged turned cold overnight. A few even contacted my employer. One tried to involve my wife. That was the line I couldn’t let them cross.

So I disappeared. Shut it all down. Lost my voice—and, for a while, my trust in the idea of advocacy at all.

I stayed gone for years.

But life doesn’t stop just because you’re offline. I kept working. I moved into the direct care field—supporting people in group homes with high support needs. It was in that quiet, day-to-day work that I started to rebuild something. Not my brand. Not my audience.

My understanding.

Because what I saw up close—the realities families face, the systems they’re stuck in, the hard choices they have to make—left no room for ideology. Just people. Messy, complex, exhausted people doing their best.

And I realized something I should’ve known all along:

If your advocacy doesn’t make space for those people, it’s not advocacy. It’s performance.

I say this with care: a lot of what’s called “advocacy” online isn’t actually about change. It’s about control. It's about curating the appearance of moral authority, even if that means erasing the voices of people who live the hardest parts of this reality.

There’s room to fight for rights and inclusion without treating families like enemies. There’s room for nuance. For repair. For humility. But you don’t find much of that in spaces that prioritize purity over progress.

That’s why I came back. Quietly. Carefully.

Not to be a voice for the voiceless. Not to “fix” anything. But to help—if I can. To use what I’ve learned, both from the harm I witnessed and the healing I’ve done, to maybe build something better.

I’m not here for ego. I’m not here for validation. I’m not here to fight. I’ve done enough of that.

What I am here to do is listen, support, and—when asked—offer what insight I can from having stood on both sides of this line.

And if you’ve been hurt by advocacy spaces in the past—if you’ve been shouted down, shut out, or misrepresented—I see you. I’ve been there. And I’m trying to do better now.

For what it’s worth, I’m still learning. I’ll probably always be learning.

But I’m here.

And I haven’t forgotten why I started this in the first place.

🕊

Addendum: Why I’m Telling This Story

I want to be clear about something.

I didn’t write this to make myself the center of the story. I’m not trying to reopen old wounds, restart old fights, or pull anyone back into drama they’ve long since walked away from.

I’m sharing what happened because it shaped me. It changed how I think, how I work, and how I understand what advocacy should be.

I’m not here to punish anyone. I’m not looking for apologies or vindication. I’m not naming names for a reason—because this isn’t about blame. It’s about reflection.

I told this part of my story because some of you reading have been through the same kind of thing—just on the other side of the equation. And I want you to know that I see it now. I understand why it hurt. And I’m trying to do better.

Not to win a debate.

Not to reclaim a platform.

Not to relitigate the past.

Just to move forward with more clarity, more compassion, and more care for the people I want to support.

That’s it.