It was around sixth grade or so that Mom told me I was autistic. Of course, it’s one thing to learn you’re autistic. It’s another to understand what autism is and what it means to be autistic. When I’d ask Mom or Dad about it, they’d typically tell me that autism was a “developmental disorder,” and they’d give examples of autistic “symptoms,” from when I was “little.” I was around 11 or 12, but even with my limited vocabulary, there seemed to be something negative about the word “disorder.” One time, I made the mistake of bringing up being autistic at my middle school. My teacher's response to my diagnosis was, “Autism is a type of mental retardation.” A student next to me immediately started teasing me about it. “Haha, you’re a retard.” You’d have thought the woman could have been a bit more tactful. And then there were all the appointments. Once or twice a week, I had some form of therapy or specialist to go to, typically at places with names like “the Spectrum Center,” some upwards of an hour or so away from the Baltimore suburb of Pikesville where we lived. All those appointments and all those hours of Floortime play paid off. Upon graduating high school, I spent a gap year in Israel. Then, having been awarded a Georgia HOPE Scholarship, I graduated from Georgia College with a major in Creative Writing and a minor in Philosophy. I have written numerous short stories and am currently at work on my first novel. I tutor teenagers on the autism spectrum, am an active member of several adult autism communities and two writing groups. I plan on applying to social work graduate programs in the months ahead. I’ve spent years working out my relationship with autism and what it means to live with dignity inside an identity the world doesn’t always know how to see. This book shares my journey and my voice.