Stop telling me to accept what’s breaking me: Why acceptance was never enough

Recently, someone told me my website was “neurodivergent-unfriendly.” That it was “unacceptable” to offer a course that helps autistic children make more meaningful eye contact.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard this. A psychologist in Switzerland gave me the same reaction last month when I told her the name of my school.

People assume they know what I stand for the second they see a word they don’t like.
They stop listening.

I understand where the reaction comes from.

We’ve spent years pushing back against the pathologising of autism. Against therapy models that try to “normalise” behaviour. Against a world that doesn’t make space for difference.

But now, instead of creating more room for nuance, we’ve created a new kind of dogma.

We’ve become afraid to say what’s real.
We’ve made it taboo to talk about pain.

But here’s the thing: We never started naming the pain in the first place.
Not truly. Not from the inside.

We’ve always looked at autism from the outside in - as behaviour to manage, or identity to respect. Rarely do we look from the inside out, starting with what it actually feels like to live in this body, this brain, this world. And that’s the problem. Because unless we start there, we’re not helping. We’re performing.

Autism doesn’t need to be “cured.” But some parts of the autistic experience can be.

That’s the nuance no one wants to talk about.

Because in this new narrative - where difference must be celebrated, not pathologised - there’s no room for healing. The word “cure” has become untouchable.

But by staying in that narrative, we’re missing opportunities that could truly help. We’re missing the reality that some forms of suffering can change.

And yes -many autistic people are in pain.
Not existential pain. Not “I don’t fit in” pain.
I’m talking about physical, mental and emotional agony.

Pain that makes daily life unbearable.
Pain that gets dismissed because it’s invisible.
Pain that builds trauma - deep and lasting.

Being autistic is not quirky. It’s not just a different way of thinking.

Let me break it down. This is what it’s like:

Bright lights can burn.
Loud sounds can feel like someone’s smashing my skull with a hammer.
Certain clothes can sting on my skin.
Some smells make me gag.
Some foods trigger migraines.

My eyes go blurry without warning.
I get dizzy from smells.
I taste smells—and that alone keeps me from going into shops that are filled with artificial perfume.
My muscle tone drops suddenly, unpredictably.
My hearing flips between laser-sharp and completely dulled. I have no control over it.

This isn’t “sensitivity.”
It’s agony. It’s a constant negotiation with your own nervous system in a world that has no idea what’s going on under your skin. It’s a full-body, full-brain experience of not just being unwell - but of not being in control of your own body.

And when your body isn’t under control, your life isn’t either.
This is the part of autism no one sees. Especially in children.

And when we try to name it?
We’re told to be more positive.
To focus on acceptance.

But what are we supposed to accept, exactly?

You burn out.
You shut down.
You lose language.
You lose energy.
You lose hope.
You build trauma- slowly, silently, every day.

And the most painful part?
We’re told:
“Just be yourself.”
“You don’t need to change.”
“Society needs to adapt to you.”
Or worse - we’re told to work on it.

Try yoga.
Cut out gluten.
Breathe more.
Stay calm.
Build a routine.
Go to therapy.

Okay. But what happens when your own body is the problem?
When your sensory system is so off-track that even rest doesn’t feel like rest?
When you’re constantly trying to survive your own reactions?

No amount of healthy routines will fix a dysregulated sensory system.

No affirmation, no green juice, no bedtime ritual or weighted blanket is going to rewire a child’s touch response or stop your brain from crashing when it can’t process its own inputs.

So how does “acceptance” help with that?

We’re still missing the point.

Autism is not just a different perspective.
It’s a different physiology.
A different sensory reality.
A different experience of being alive in a body that doesn’t ever feel safe.

When I teach professionals how to use Qigong Sensory Treatment (QST), I’m not trying to make autistic children “normal.”
I’m trying to relieve suffering.

I’m trying to bring balance to a nervous system that’s stuck in overdrive.
That’s screaming through the skin, the stomach, the eyes, the muscles.

I’ve seen children stop having daily meltdowns.
I’ve seen them sleep through the night for the first time in years.
I’ve seen language emerge, digestion improve, eye contact appear - not because they were trained, but because they finally felt safe. Because their system finally had the capacity for it.

And yes, sometimes that means they look more “neurotypical.”
Not because we taught them how to behave.
But because their bodies stopped hurting.

But here’s what happens instead:

People hear the word “eye contact” and assume I’m forcing neurotypical norms.
They hear “connection” and assume I’m training compliance.

That’s not what’s happening.

What if a child avoids eye contact because it hurts?
Because it’s too intense?
Because their brain is on overload and can’t handle one more input?

What if, after weeks of sensory massage, the pain subsides -
and the child chooses to look at you and connects?
What if they smile for the first time because their nervous system finally feels like a place they can live in?

That’s not behaviour training.
That’s nervous system healing.

That’s what I do.
That’s what I’ve seen - over and over again.

Let’s talk about words.

I don’t use the word neurodivergent. Not because I don’t respect the people who use it -but because I work with children who haven’t chosen any identity label. They’re not here to join a movement. They’re just trying to survive their day.

I say autism because that’s the word their parents are given. The one the doctors use. The one that's written in the reports.The one the child is struggling to make sense of.

It’s the door they’ve walked through.

Neither term captures what life is really like. But I choose the words that are clearest, most helpful and most honest - for that child, in that moment.

The goal isn’t to fight over labels. It’s to use the words that help the child in front of us feel seen, safe and understood. And sometimes that means not using the popular terms.

Here’s the bigger problem: we’re looking in the wrong direction.

The whole conversation is focused on acceptance, inclusion, rights.
That’s good. Necessary. But it’s not enough.

If your nervous system is on fire, no amount of social understanding is going to calm it down.
If your child is throwing up from sensory overload, telling their teacher to be more inclusive is missing the point.
If your child is melting down every night, if their brain can’t rest, if their skin crawls at the touch of a sleeve - No amount of social inclusion will change that.

We’ve spent too long pretending that the root problem is outside the autistic person.

It’s not.
It’s inside the body.
Inside the brain.
Inside the sensory nervous system that’s constantly overwhelmed, underdeveloped or stuck.

We need to stop looking at autism through the lens of behaviour and start looking through the lens of sensory safety.

That’s what no one is saying. That’s what this conversation is still missing.

Until we address that, nothing really changes.

So no - I won’t stop saying “autism.”
I won’t stop talking about pain.
I won’t apologise for offering real solutions that actually help children feel better in their own skin.

If you think my work is about fixing autism, you haven’t looked close enough.
If you think it’s about enforcing neurotypical standards, you haven’t listened long enough.

What I want -what I’ve always wanted-is to stop the suffering that no one sees.

To stop masking it with vague words.
To stop glossing over it with political correctness.
And to start healing it at the root.

Because if we want real change, we have to start there.
We have to stop pretending that “understanding” and “acceptance” are enough.
They’re not. They never were.

Autism hurts.
And sometimes, it can heal.

That’s what I stand for.
That’s what I do.
And I’m not going to apologise for it.