Resources & Community Voices

I am writing from the perspective of a speech-language therapist, a professional who helps individuals communicate with others, for those who may be wondering what we do.

There are individuals with autism spectrum disorder (ASD) who are verbal, while others are nonverbal. Being nonverbal does not mean they do not have the desire or need to communicate and express themselves. Rather, they may find it difficult to use spoken language. One possible reason is that producing spoken language requires a much higher sensory and cognitive load. They often need to process a large amount of information from their surroundings, making it more challenging to formulate and produce speech.

In addition, some individuals with ASD have co-occurring childhood apraxia of speech (CAS), a motor speech disorder that affects the planning and programming of speech movements, resulting in difficulty producing spoken language. Research suggests that apraxia is relatively common among children with ASD. According to the American Speech-Language-Hearing Association (ASHA, 2015), nearly two-thirds of children initially diagnosed with autism were also found to have apraxia.

If I could change one thing for individuals with ASD, it would be to promote greater acceptance of different modes of communication, particularly augmentative and alternative communication (AAC). AAC comes in many forms, including writing, gestures, pictures, communication boards, and many more. Throughout my work, I have seen many individuals with ASD express themselves and communicate far more effectively through AAC.

Unfortunately, the people around them, the parents, family members, teachers, and even society as a whole, often do not fully recognize the value of AAC. Instead, there is frequently a strong emphasis on spoken language because being verbal is often associated with being normal, capable, and competent, while being nonverbal is unfairly perceived as abnormal, incapable, or inadequate. As a result, the communication attempts of nonverbal individuals are sometimes overlooked or not given the respect and recognition they deserve simply because they are not using spoken language.

I hope more people will come to understand that communication should always come first. Spoken language is only one way to communicate, there are many other equally meaningful ways for a person to express their thoughts, needs, feelings, and ideas. Unfortunately, the lack of acceptance of AAC often limits its use to therapy sessions alone, with little or no support for using it at home, at school, or in the community. When AAC is taken away from someone who relies on it, it is like having our mouths zipped shut and our hands tied and we are unable to express ourselves. Imagine the frustration, helplessness, and isolation that would bring.

Lastly, I recently attended the SPELL Framework: Understanding and Responding to Autism course by Dr. Zahilah. I highly recommend it to anyone who wishes to gain a deeper understanding and insights of individuals with ASD and how we can better support them. Rabindranath Tagore once said, “The problem is not how to wipe out all differences, but how to unite with all differences intact.” True unity in society comes from offering acceptance and support to one another, while addressing each other’s unique needs. With everyone doing their part and putting in sincere effort, there is hope that we will continue to move toward a more inclusive and supportive society.

It was an accidental touch that started it all. When I was still unaware of what’s going on around me, all I remember from that time was how the world seemed to revolve around what shirt I wore. Different shirts, different stitching, which entails a unique bump that would appear at the side or sometimes at the corner of a collar. That was what I wanted. The perfect bump.

I would obsess over the ones that were smooth and had the right shape. At first glance, my hands seem to be simply resting at my side, but if you look closer, you’d notice the darker shade on the bump my fingers are constantly rubbing. My favourite is a shirt my mom bought for me from Padini. What I dislike about it is the fact that the shirt is white, which made the gray spot painfully obvious.

My fingers would instinctively reach for the bump, instantly feeling relieved the moment I rub it. I remember looking at my friends’ hands one day when we were on an outing, and then realised that their hands never hover around their sides as much as mine did. I knew it wasn’t “normal”, and so I quietly fidgeted and wrapped part of the hem around my finger, pressing the bump directly onto my skin, hoping that no one would notice.

A lighthearted joke, sarcasm meant to do no harm, gestures that are widely understood or unspoken rules. I wonder, what exactly am I missing? It’s as if everyone was given an instruction booklet at birth and mine was lost. There must be no other explanation as to why everyone seems to know what to do, but not me.

Over the years, I learned to observe. I knew what I was supposed to do, but it never felt natural when I attempted to act like everyone else. I hated how I didn’t know how to correctly react to situations, it was awkward, tiring even. I dream of the day where I can hold a conversation without the need to avert my eyes. It felt alienating, like I didn’t belong anywhere, as I felt like I was different from everyone around me.

I had been trying to find a certificate of mine one day, knowing it was hidden away somewhere in the cupboards. I rummaged through the papers, and found a letter from my psychiatrist, I opened it.

“...is showing signs of autism.”

At first, I refused to believe it. With social media influencing teenagers to believe that autism was an aesthetic or associate autism with the word “cringe”, I noticed that many of my peers liked to make fun of them. I didn't want anyone to find out, thinking that I would fall victim to their mockery, but at the same time, I felt relieved.

I wish that people would stop using “autistic” as an insult. I have already accepted myself, more than before, but sometimes their intentions hurt. I know I act differently, no matter how hard I try to blend in and it wasn't just one time that I had gotten the question, “Are you autistic?”, with the mocking look on their faces. Maybe I don't need a guide on how to act, I just need my voice to be heard and understood and for the stigma to be broken.

It still feels horrifying, how I’m unable to navigate around society without feeling lost. This year's April felt special, it was the first time I felt like I was part of society, of humankind. I still try to be as aware as possible, and I understood that it's completely fine to be different.

I’m not alone anymore, I have the support from many people now, and I will never forget my companion throughout this journey, the bump on the hem of my shirt.

Silence? Never heard of it. We sit in the same classroom, listening to the same lesson yet we are living in two completely different realities. You hear pencil scraping against the paper. The faint whisper from the back. Someone chewing gum. The relentless buzz of the fluorescent lights. To you, they are just background noise. To me, they are screaming all at once. Imagine every sound demanding your attention at the exact same moment, refusing to fade into the background. That is my reality. People think I am distracted but they don’t see the effort behind it.

Eye contact? Please don’t force me. My brain goes into overdrive when I am looking into your eyes. I cannot help but notice everything - the tiny freckles on your face, the wrinkles around your eyes, the dark circles beneath them. Every little detail competes for my attention. It feels as intense as standing under a spotlight while everyone is watching you. Looking away makes it easier to listen and understand what you are saying. You might think I am ignoring you, but in reality, it is the only way for me to truly hear you.

Conversations? Small talk? I struggle with them, unless you ask about something I love. Then suddenly, I can’t seem to stop talking. For me, dinosaurs, chemistry, astronomy, trains aren’t just some topics but they are the only things that make my mind feel alive. I could spend hours talking about them, not because I want to look smart or dominate the conversation, but these things genuinely intrigue me. It is one of the purest ways I know how to connect with the world. Sometimes, my silence isn’t a sign of indifference. It is simply me waiting for the right question that unlocks my world.

Routine? Please don’t change it. It’s the only thing that keeps my world familiar. You may think it’s a prison. To me, it’s an anchor. You may think small changes are insignificant but each unexpected change, whether small or big, can leave me anxious, overwhelmed or, at times, trigger a meltdown. Imagine walking home along the familiar street you’ve known your entire life. The same streetlight. The same nosy neighbour waving from the same porch she watches the neighbourhood while drinking coffee. The kids laughing and running around. Then, suddenly, everything changes. The landmarks disappear. The street that once leads to safety, suddenly feels no longer familiar. Now you are lost in a place where it should have felt like home. That’s what I feel when there is a change, completely lost and panicked. I don’t cling to routine because I’m stubborn. I cling to it because familiarity quiets down the chaos in my mind.

Sensitivity. I’m trying my best, even if it doesn’t always look that way. Smell, taste, bright light, loud noises, even emotions. To you, these things are ordinary - easy to adjust, easy to ignore. To me, they can feel overwhelming. Bright light pierces my eyes. Strong smell they grab my attention away. Loud noises echo in my head long after the sound is gone. Strong emotions, they can last for weeks. Even for months. People think I'm too sensitive, but they don't realise how exhausting it can be when the world feels louder, brighter, and stronger than it does for everyone else. Being sensitive isn’t weakness. Sometimes, it’s the way I experience the world. It can be both beautiful and dangerous at the same time.

Normal? People keep asking me to be it. Maybe the problem isn't me. Maybe it's the belief that there's only one way to think. What if "normal" isn't something people are born with? Maybe it's something society expects us to be or something the society thinking it’s right. People have an image of what it's like to be "normal," but who was the one to determined it? Every person is born different and unique, so whom exactly fits the stereotype of being normal? Sometimes, I act and think differently from others, but why does that make me different? Sometimes, I react differently to things that may appear ordinary to you. Sometimes, I prefer places or spaces that feel different to you. If all these behaviours are simply different ways of experiencing the world, why do people call them "strange" instead of simply different?

Sometimes, life isn't the same for everyone. And when you learn to accept that, the world becomes a better place for both you and me.