When ‘Low Support’ Becomes High Stakes: On Experiencing Autism as a Disability

Ordinarily, if you asked me, I probably wouldn’t reach for the word “disabled” to describe my day-to-day life. I’ve spent a lot of my time—especially since my late diagnosis—identifying as “low support needs.” There are, of course, more things that I struggle with than most people are ever aware of, but I’ve become an expert architect of my own camouflage; I mask well. Perhaps too well.

When I was first handed the diagnosis of ASD—Autism Spectrum Disorder—that word, Disorder, didn’t really sit comfortably with me. It felt clinical, cold, and slightly at odds with the successful, functioning life I thought I was leading.

But recently? Recently, the routine of my life has shifted, and that “low support” label feels like it no longer applies.

The Cost of the Performance

You see, demands have recently exceeded my ability to cope. I have, quite spectacularly, overextended myself without pausing to think of the consequences.

Usually, I work remotely—my own safe space; limited noise; a standing desk; a walking pad and work that I feel comfortable with. But lately, I’ve been working longer hours, and I’ve been on-site. This means I have been masking—consciously and unconsciously suppressing my autistic traits —for at least eight hours a day.

I am no longer used to this level of performance. It is exhausting.

The Sting of Rejection

To compound matters, I’ve been focusing on an aspect of my work which is unfamiliar and complicated. For an autistic brain that craves competence and certainty, this is kryptonite. It has led to a constant, buzzing internal monologue questioning everything I’m doing.

This is where the science steps in to explain the sinking feeling in my gut. It’s a classic visit from Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD)—that intense emotional pain linked to the perception of failure or rejection. I worry constantly that I’m not doing a good job. And that fear? It bleeds out into everything else.

Parenting on Empty

The theme of “not doing a good job” hasn’t stayed at the office; it followed me home.

I don’t feel confident at work, so I come home depleted, and then I don’t feel like I’m being a good enough father. My two children deserve the best of me—my patience, my engagement, my joy—but lately, they’ve been getting the scraps. I worry I’m spending so little quality time with them because I’m simply trying to recover from the day.

The Kitchen Crash

I have been having meltdowns at home.

There was a moment recently where I just stood in the kitchen, completely incapacitated, tears running down my face, unable to move or speak. I’d been loud and shouty. I’d fallen into old, bad coping strategies that I thought I’d left behind years ago.

If you look at Spoon Theory—the metaphor used to explain the limited energy reserves people with chronic conditions have—I haven’t just run out of spoons. I’ve dropped the spoons, broken the drawer, and set fire to it.

Disabled by Overwhelm

It has been a stark realisation. Recently, I have felt like my support needs are high. I have been disabled by overwhelm.

It’s a humbling thing to admit, especially as a father who wants to be the rock for his family. But there is a clarity in the storm. I haven’t managed well but, unlike before my diagnosis, I know what is happening. It’s like I’m standing in the centre of a hurricane, buffeted by the winds, but with the awareness of what the weather system actually is.

Finding the ‘Way’ Through

So, where does that leave us?

I have some takeaways from this crash. Primarily, I will not put myself in this position again. It is very much my own doing in many ways; I agreed to the hours, I agreed to the workload. But trying to keep others happy at my own expense is not something I can afford to do anymore—and I won’t.

Some of my poorer coping strategies are things that have brought me immense shame in the past. And whilst I am ashamed of myself, there is a part of me—the part that has done the work on self-acceptance—which isn’t beating myself up about it. I can hold the shame without letting it drown me.

Treading Lightly

I’m not okay. Not yet. I think it may be a while before I am fully back to my baseline. Luckily, I’ve managed to snatch a couple of days away with my family, a brief respite to reset the nervous system.

As I return to normality, I’m going to take things a little easier. I’m going to lower the demands I place on myself.

I’m going to tread lightly.