Why ‘You Don’t Look Autistic’ Is Not a Compliment
Bridgette Hamstead
When someone tells me, “You don’t look autistic,” I know they probably mean it as a compliment. They may think they are reassuring me, expressing that I seem socially competent, articulate, or successful. But what they don’t realize is that this statement is rooted in deeply ableist assumptions about what autism is supposed to look like. It reinforces outdated stereotypes that hurt autistic people, particularly late-diagnosed and self-identified autistic adults who have spent years masking their traits and struggling to be understood. This phrase is not just dismissive; it is harmful because it erases the diverse ways that autism presents and invalidates the experiences of those who do not fit the narrow, medicalized image of what society assumes autism should be.
The idea that there is a specific “autistic look” or behavior comes from decades of misinformation and misrepresentation. For much of history, autism was primarily studied in young white boys who displayed highly visible traits, such as nonverbal communication, repetitive movements, or intense fixations on specific topics. This narrow view of autism led to a diagnostic framework that excluded many autistic people, particularly women, nonbinary individuals, people of color, and those who learned to mask their traits in order to survive. The result is a cultural perception of autism that does not reflect reality. Autistic people exist in all genders, races, and backgrounds. Some are hyperverbal, some are nonverbal, and many fall somewhere in between. Some stim openly, while others have spent a lifetime suppressing their natural movements to appear more socially acceptable. Some struggle with eye contact, while others have trained themselves to force it. There is no single way that autism looks, yet society continues to rely on outdated assumptions that harm those of us who do not fit the stereotype.
For late-diagnosed and self-identified autistic adults, hearing “You don’t look autistic” can be particularly painful because it dismisses the years of struggle, self-doubt, and misunderstanding that often precede an autism diagnosis. Many of us spent our lives feeling different but not knowing why. We were told we were too sensitive, too intense, too emotional, or too rigid. We were labeled as difficult, anxious, or awkward. Some of us were misdiagnosed with depression, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, or social anxiety. Others were simply told that we needed to try harder, push through discomfort, and force ourselves to fit into a world that was not designed for our neurodivergent minds. When we finally receive a diagnosis or come to the realization that we are autistic, it is often a moment of clarity, relief, and self-acceptance. But when we share this discovery with others, we are too often met with skepticism, disbelief, or outright dismissal. “You don’t look autistic” tells us that our struggles do not count, that our experiences are not valid, and that our identity is up for debate.
Another reason why this phrase is so damaging is that it reinforces the idea that appearing non-autistic is preferable. When people say, “You don’t look autistic,” they are often implying that this is a good thing, that I have somehow escaped the negative traits associated with autism. But I have not escaped anything. I am still autistic, even if my autism does not look the way they expect. If I appear to function well in social situations, it is because I have spent decades masking, forcing myself to perform neurotypical behaviors at great personal cost. If I seem articulate, it is because I have learned to script conversations, rehearse responses, and analyze social interactions with the precision of someone studying a foreign language. If I succeed in my work, it is because I have carefully structured my environment, set up accommodations for myself, and chosen a career where my neurodivergent strengths are valued. None of this makes me less autistic. It simply means that I have had to work harder than most people realize to navigate a world that does not accommodate my needs.
The expectation that autistic people should “look” or behave a certain way is not just socially harmful; it has real consequences for diagnosis, support, and accessibility. Many autistic individuals go undiagnosed or are denied services because they do not fit the expected profile of autism. Women and nonbinary people, in particular, are often overlooked because they tend to mask more effectively or present differently than the outdated male-centric model of autism suggests. Autistic adults who have developed coping mechanisms to survive are frequently told that they “function too well” to need support, even though they may be struggling with anxiety, executive dysfunction, sensory overwhelm, and burnout behind the scenes. When we perpetuate the idea that autism has a specific look, we make it harder for people to seek diagnosis, receive accommodations, and be recognized as their authentic selves.
Instead of telling someone they don’t look autistic, a better response is to listen, validate, and accept their experience. When someone shares that they are autistic, it is not an invitation for debate. It is not a test that requires proof. The best thing we can do is believe them, ask how we can support them, and recognize that autism is a spectrum with a wide range of presentations. Autistic people do not owe the world a performance of what autism is supposed to look like. We do not need to justify our diagnosis, prove our struggles, or conform to expectations that do not reflect our lived reality.
The next time someone tells me, “You don’t look autistic,” I will remind them that there is no one way to be autistic. Autism is not a set of external characteristics. It is not a stereotype. It is a deeply personal, internal experience that shapes the way we process the world, engage with others, and move through life. And every autistic person, regardless of how they present, deserves to be recognized, accepted, and supported without having to fight for the legitimacy of their own identity.