We’re Not All Tech Bros: Expanding the Public Imagination of Autistic Identity
Bridgette Hamstead
When most people think of autism, a very particular image comes to mind. That image is often shaped by media portrayals, hiring campaigns, and diagnostic assumptions that prioritize white, cisgender, male individuals with high aptitude in STEM fields. The archetype is familiar: the socially awkward tech genius, the emotionally detached programmer, the math savant who struggles to connect but excels at coding. This stereotype dominates not only public perception but also many professional spaces, funding streams, and even clinical assessments. While some autistic people may indeed align with those traits, the problem is not that this kind of autistic person exists. The problem is that this has become the only kind of autistic person the world is trained to see.
This narrow framing of autism has real consequences. It flattens the immense diversity of autistic experience and erases the stories of those who do not fit the mold. Autistic women, nonbinary and trans people, people of color, disabled people with higher support needs, those in creative or care-centered fields, those living in poverty, or those who were misdiagnosed or undiagnosed for decades are often left completely out of the picture. The result is a public imagination that sees autism as a kind of fixed profile rather than a wide-ranging neurodevelopmental identity that expresses itself differently in different people and contexts.
One reason this stereotype persists is that it aligns with dominant cultural values about intelligence, labor, and productivity. The tech bro archetype is palatable because it aligns with capitalism. It suggests that autism, while maybe a little awkward, is ultimately profitable. It reinforces the idea that neurodivergent people are valuable when they can contribute to innovation, efficiency, and technological advancement. These portrayals reassure the public that autistic people are not a burden as long as they are exceptional. This kind of conditional acceptance does not challenge ableism. It simply repackages it.
In the workplace, this stereotype has shaped the way companies approach neurodiversity hiring initiatives. Autistic candidates are often recruited specifically for tech-heavy roles under the assumption that all autistic people have a natural affinity for data analysis, programming, or engineering. While these opportunities may benefit some individuals, they leave out countless others whose strengths lie in communication, design, teaching, writing, caregiving, or the arts. The assumption that all autistic people are technical thinkers not only creates access barriers for those in other fields but also reinforces the pressure to conform to a specific model of productivity. Autistic people who are deeply relational, emotionally attuned, or creatively expressive are rarely seen as representative of the spectrum, even though they absolutely are.
The clinical and diagnostic systems have also played a role in shaping this narrow view. Historically, autism research was conducted primarily on young white boys, and diagnostic criteria were developed based on how autism presented in that group. This led to a gendered and racialized understanding of autism that continues to cause harm. Many women and nonbinary people were missed entirely because their traits did not match the expected profile. Their social masking, sensory sensitivities, emotional intensities, and internalized struggles were either overlooked or mislabeled. Even today, clinicians often hold implicit biases about what autism “looks like,” and those biases are deeply influenced by the tech bro narrative.
Popular media reinforces these patterns through its character tropes. From television dramas to biopics, autistic-coded characters are almost always male, white, and brilliant in stereotypical ways. They are often emotionally detached, blunt, and difficult to be around, but their genius is tolerated because it benefits others. This framing turns autistic people into tools of utility rather than full human beings. Rarely do we see autistic characters who are poor, Black or brown, queer, nonverbal, nurturing, struggling with daily living tasks, or navigating chronic illness. And if we do, they are framed through pity rather than power.
The problem with this limited imagination is not only representational. It shapes how support systems are built. Services are often structured around one kind of autistic profile, which leaves others without adequate resources. Educational accommodations may cater to academic strengths but ignore executive functioning challenges. Therapy may focus on social skills while ignoring sensory regulation. Workplace programs may recruit tech-oriented applicants while overlooking the need for accessible communication, emotional support, and flexible scheduling. When only one kind of autistic experience is recognized, everyone else is told implicitly or explicitly that they do not count.
This erasure is particularly painful for late-diagnosed and self-identified autistic adults. Many of us spent years believing we could not possibly be autistic because we were not math geniuses, did not work in tech, or were deeply emotional and intuitive. We assumed we were simply broken, too sensitive, too scattered, too weird to fit in. Only later did we discover that our traits were, in fact, common among other neurodivergent people. But by then, we had already internalized years of shame and disconnection. We had been excluded not only from support but from the category itself.
Expanding the public imagination of autistic identity is not just about adding more stories. It is about challenging the very systems that uphold limited representations in the first place. It is about listening to autistic people who have been historically ignored. It is about honoring the full spectrum of need, communication, culture, race, gender, and expression. It is about resisting the pressure to make ourselves palatable or profitable. And it is about building communities, workplaces, and systems that are not designed around a single profile but shaped with the knowledge that neurodivergence is not a monolith.
Expanding the public understanding of autistic identity requires a fundamental shift in how we define and value neurodivergence. It means moving away from narrow, stereotyped portrayals rooted in capitalist ideals and toward a broader, more inclusive vision that reflects the full spectrum of autistic experience. Autistic people exist across all genders, races, ages, and abilities. We work in every field, live in every type of body, and express ourselves in countless ways. Recognizing this diversity is not a matter of political correctness or representation alone—it is essential to building systems of support, access, and justice that truly meet the needs of our community. Until we dismantle the narrow archetypes that have defined autism in the public imagination, too many of us will continue to be overlooked, misdiagnosed, and left out. Real inclusion begins with seeing us clearly, in all our complexity.