Sean Pultz's Tumblr

I was born in 1986, and like many kids, movies became my sanctuary. I still remember watching Spielberg’s Raiders of the Lost Ark on VHS as a child – the thrill of Indy dodging that giant rolling boulder, the terrified gasp at snakes in the chamber, and finally the horror and awe in the closing scene as the Ark is opened and Nazi Toht’s face melts (a moment where good triumphs over evil in the most cinematic way). Indiana Jones wasn’t just an action hero – he taught me bravery and wonder. Similarly, Ivan Reitman’s Ghostbusters (my all-time favorite movie) spoke to my outsider soul. I didn’t see it as just four guys catching ghosts – I saw Peter Venkman, Ray Stantz, Egon Spengler, and Winston Zeddemore (lovingly called “the weird scientists”) building their own world outside the stuffy ivory towers of academia. The green blob Slimer, the terrifying deity Gozer, and the gigantic Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man weren’t just movie monsters – they showed me that different could also be powerful and fun. These films and their heroes – Spielberg’s vision and Scorsese’s later gritty stories (from Taxi Driver’s lonely city nights to Goodfellas’ chaotic hustle) – became my constant companions. As a child with autism (undetected since age 3), I felt safe in the dark of a movie theater – a place I came to treat like Sunday church – and I learned that storytelling could hold the chaos of the world at bay.

Movie and TV heroes filled the void of real friends. I grew up on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, The Real Ghostbusters cartoon, Batman: The Animated Series, and even Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers. I loved the Rangers not for their superpowers, but for the moments when they were just Jason, Zack, Billy, Kimberly, Trini, and Tommy joking around – humanity unmasked and real. I remember having the biggest crush on Kimberly (Amy Jo Johnson) – she was beautiful and in her 20s, while I was just an awkward grade-schooler. Hanging out with my Power Rangers posters felt like visiting a club I could never really join. These storybook images were my “cast mates,” and eventually I found community on stage. In 1998 I landed my first theater role in Cinderella: I played a fountain. I had to shove a mouthful of water into my cheeks and, on cue, unleash it when the stage lights came up. It was tedious and ridiculous – but the audience loved it. That little fountain became a perfect metaphor for my life: I was holding a reservoir inside, ready to pour out when the light was on me. (To this day, I picture that statue whenever I feel the pressure of holding in a secret.)

Yet even as I thrived on stage and screen, I carried a heavy secret: I was masking my autism. Masking means acting out a script I never auditioned for – constantly “performing normal.” I learned to mimic social niceties: smiling when I wanted to shout, laughing when jokes confused me, and mumbling my true feelings so I wouldn’t seem weird. In a sense, I was doing “method acting” in a role I never chose – like channeling Daniel Day-Lewis (the greatest actor in the world) to pretend I was someone else. Each interaction was a scene where I had to guess lines I didn’t fully understand. But this endless performance took a toll. Research shows that autistic masking is linked to serious mental health struggles. One study found that higher levels of masking are associated with more anxiety, more depression, and chronic exhaustion or burnout. In fact, people who mask a lot often report past trauma (like being bullied or shamed) and much higher rates of anxiety/depression than those who don’t mask. Another report notes that “the day-to-day stress of living in a neurotypical world” – especially when feeling forced to hide your real self – directly drives up anxiety and depression for autistic people. Imagine living every day with your foot on an invisible gas pedal, heart thudding, looking for danger like the scene in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex sits outside the car. You hold your breath, try not to move. For many autistic people, that is life all the time – chronic hypervigilance with no safe break. That moment in Jurassic Park isn’t just a movie scene; it’s what it feels like when your nervous system is stuck in fight-or-flight 24/7.

Constant fight-or-flight causes deep stress. When you’re perpetually scanning for hidden threats or imagining “what if I said something wrong?”, it dysregulates your body. The nervous system stays revved up. Over time you literally burn out – emotionally, mentally, even physically. Studies highlight that long-term masking can lead to burnout, chronic depression, and even suicidal ideation. It’s like living with adrenaline coursing through your veins all day, every day. My own body has felt this: panic attacks when someone’s tone seemed off, insomnia racing through worst-case scenarios, jaw clenching from tension.

Yet there are real remedies. The same science that shows fight-or-flight impacts us also shows how to reset it. One effective tool is deep pressure. Think of a firm hug, a weighted blanket, or even a tight sports hug: it sends a message to your brain that says, “You’re safe now.” Temple Grandin, a pioneer in autism care, discovered that deep pressure (like her famous hug machine) calms the sensory system. Experts note that steady, firm pressure activates the parasympathetic nervous system (the “rest and digest” mode), slowing heart rate and easing anxiety. In other words, that bear hug or compression vest floods your body with proprioceptive input and feel-good neurotransmitters, counterbalancing cortisol and fight-or-flight. For me, a firm hug from a trusted friend or a long squeeze from a therapy ball literally grounds me. Suddenly that imagined T-Rex isn’t roaring so loud. It’s science: deep pressure literally shifts the autonomic balance toward calm.

Another strategy is finding the right setting. In some settings I realized I can “unmask” more easily. For example, I often gravitated toward female-led groups and social spaces. Why? Communication styles in these groups tended to be more direct and nurturing, which meant less guessing and posturing. In groups where everyone knows they have to “protect their image” (like some male-dominated circles), it felt unpredictable and overstimulating; I was constantly bracing for the unseen social blow. But in environments where people were openly supportive and direct. I found the “sensory climate” was safer. I didn’t have to wonder What do they mean? or Am I allowed to say this? It was like being on a film set where everyone has the same script template. (Spielberg might call it finding your franchise – in such spaces I’m playing a role I can finally relate to.)

These observations aren’t just personal anecdotes. Many autistic people find predictable, non-competitive environments less draining. If you’ve ever noticed how some ASD-friendly gatherings are successful, it’s because they remove the guesswork and competition. Harvard Health even emphasizes that there is no one “right” way of thinking or behaving – differences should not be viewed as deficits. Embracing neurodiversity means building spaces that highlight each person’s unique strengths rather than forcing conformity. This also applies at work: companies are learning that small tweaks (like quiet workspaces, clear communication norms, flexible breaks) make a huge difference for neurodivergent employees.

Indeed, better workplaces and communities exist. There are toolkits and networks explicitly for neurodivergent people. For example, the U.S. interagency committee on autism lists numerous employment guides and toolkits to help job seekers and employers create accommodating workplaces. Organizations like the Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN) publish plain-language guides on employment rights. Autism Speaks has curated lists of online and local support groups for autistic adults (from book clubs to game nights to professional mixers) because “finding community matters” – it “creates a sense of purpose” and “increases happiness and health”. These groups remind us we can belong and be authentic. And job sites and nonprofits like NEXT for Autism or the Neurodiversity in the Workplace initiative offer career counseling, mentorship, and advice on accommodations. In other words, you can unmask with a network behind you, whether that’s a coworking affinity group, a mentorship circle, or an online forum of peers.

Importantly, dropping the mask isn’t a betrayal of success — it’s self-advocacy and strength. We autistic people are not failed neurotypicals. We are often creative thinkers, passionate specialists, and compassionate friends. Recall Dan Aykroyd: when he went public about being on the spectrum, he credited his Asperger’s-induced obsession with ghosts and law enforcement – plus his fascination with ghost hunter Hans Holzer – for dreaming up Ghostbusters. Autism gave him a vision, not a hindrance. We too can celebrate our interests and skills. Autism is a way of looking at the world, not a moral failing. If people can’t accept us as we are, that’s their failing in empathy – not ours.

So let us stop being the silent fountain, hoarding the water of our truth until someone turns on the lights. It’s time to step out of the wings. Drop the mask. Let the audience see the real star you are. We can do this together by educating others that autism is a difference to be embraced, not fixed. By rewriting the script: not “neurotypical versus neurodivergent,” but “all of us learning from each other.” I want a world where neurodivergent people aren’t seen as strange or “problematic,” but as unique contributors. It’s funny – despite everything, I still choose to see the good in people, even when politics (or an entire nation’s leadership) seems like a clown show. It makes me feel safer than clinging to anger.

Above all, remember: you didn’t fail because you’re autistic. Autism isn’t a villain in this story. It’s time we become the directors and scriptwriters of our own lives. As I like to say, “We are not failed neurotypicals. We are the directors, the thinkers, and the Ghostbusters of our own lives.” It’s time to claim that role. Unmasking won’t just help us — it will help society see the amazing actors we really are.

Call to Action: If you’re a neurodivergent person hearing this, know that help and community are out there. Seek out neurodiversity-friendly workplaces and mentors (resources from EARN, JAN, ASAN, etc. are available). Join an autistic social group (even a virtual one – dozens are listed by major autism organizations). Advocate for yourself: request those accommodations (a quiet room, clear instructions, written agendas). Talk about your experiences; educate allies. If you’re a friend or family member, listen. Believe us. Accept that the world can be scary for us, and instead of judging, offer support and understanding.

Because at the end of the day, it should never feel like a failure to be yourself. It’s the world’s job to make room for our differences, not ours to hide them.