Do We Really Need an Autistic Barbie? (Or: When Representation Becomes Another Box)
When Mattel released their "autistic" Barbie, complete with headphones, fidget toy, and tablet, it sparked conversation. Some celebrated. Some critiqued. Some probably didn't notice at all.
And honestly? I had mixed feelings.
Because as an actually autistic person, my first thought wasn't "finally, representation."
It was: "Wait... who decided this is what autism looks like?"
The Problem With Making Autism Look Like Something
Here's the thing: autism doesn't have a look and any Barbie could be autistic.
I'm autistic. I rarely wear headphones in public, I'd rather have awareness of my surroundings, even when the noise is overwhelming. Fidget toys? Never really attached to them. And tablets? Everyone has one. That's not an autism thing; that's a 21st-century thing.
The articulated joints so Barbie can hand-flap? Also not my experience. Most of my stimming is internal, invisible to anyone watching.
So if you met me, you wouldn't think "autistic Barbie." You'd just think... person.
And that's the point.
If you've met one autistic person, you've met one autistic person. We're not a monolith. We don't all present the same way, need the same accommodations, or experience the world identically.
By creating a Barbie that says "this is what autism looks like," we're doing the exact thing we claim to be moving away from: putting people in boxes.
When Representation Reinforces Stereotypes
I appreciate that this Barbie opens a conversation. I do.
But it also reinforces a very narrow idea of what autism "should" look like, and that's dangerous.
Because now, the autistic kid who doesn't use headphones or fidget toys might feel like they're "not autistic enough." The parent who sees their child stimming differently might think something's wrong. The teacher who meets a quiet, masking student might miss the signs entirely because they don't match the Barbie.
We've turned autism into an aesthetic.
And in doing so, we've created yet another standard to measure people against, another way to decide who's "right" and who's "wrong," who fits and who doesn't.
What If We Stopped Labeling Altogether?
Here's a radical idea: what if we moved away from labels entirely?
Not because differences don't exist, they do. But because the labels themselves create the boxes.
We're all people. We all have different brains, different nervous systems, different ways of processing the world. Some of that is genetic. A lot of it is shaped by environment, upbringing, trauma, support.
There's no one right way to be human.
So why are we still deciding that certain ways are "normal" and others need a special Barbie to prove they exist?
The Real Question Isn't About Barbie
It's about society.
Who decided what "normal" means?
Who gets to say what's a disability versus what's just... a different way of being?
Why are we so obsessed with categorizing, diagnosing, and labeling instead of just accepting?
When a baby is born, we count fingers and toes and declare them "perfect." But who decided ten fingers is the standard? Why does missing one make you less whole?
We all have a soul. That's the truth of who we are.
Not what we look like. Not how we stim. Not whether we wear headphones or play with fidget toys or prefer our own company.
What About the Strengths?
If you've listened to something like The Telepathy Tapes, you know: we've been overlooking the gifts of neurodivergence for a long time.
We focus on what's "wrong"—the disability, instead of what's extraordinary.
Autistic people often have incredible pattern recognition, deep focus, honesty, creativity, and yes, sometimes even heightened intuitive abilities that we've been conditioned to dismiss as "weird."
But we don't make Barbies celebrating those strengths. We make Barbies that say, "Look, they need accommodations. They're different. Let's help them fit in."
What if we stopped trying to make people fit in and started designing a world that celebrated difference as default?
The Barbies I Do Appreciate
For what it's worth, I think the Barbies with visible physical differences, wheelchair Barbie, prosthetic-leg Barbie, serve a different purpose.
Because those are differences you can see. A child in a wheelchair benefits from seeing themselves reflected. It's not about stereotyping what disability looks like; it's about showing that someone who looks like them belongs in the story.
But autism? ADHD? Sensory processing differences?
Those are invisible. They're internal. They're not a costume you can dress a doll in.
So What's the Alternative?
Honestly? I think we stop making "special" Barbies for every neurotype and start teaching kids (and adults) that all people are different, and that's not just okay, it's beautiful.
We stop asking, "How do we represent autism?" and start asking, "How do we create a culture where no one needs to be represented because everyone is already seen as fully human?"
We move away from:
Labels that limit
Stereotypes that box in
Hierarchies that say some ways of being are "better" than others
And we move toward:
Acceptance without categorisation
Curiosity without judgment
A world where success isn't measured by how much money you make or how "normal" you seem, but by how fully you get to be yourself
The Real Conversation
The autistic Barbie isn't the problem.
The problem is that we still live in a world where we need one.
Where we're still deciding what's "right" and what's "wrong." What's "normal" and what needs accommodation. Who gets to just be, and who has to prove they belong.
What if we stopped needing proof?
What if we just accepted that we're all people, having different experiences, and none of us has the right to decide whose experience is valid and whose isn't?
That's the world I want to live in.
Not one where autistic kids see themselves in a doll with headphones and feel represented.
But one where no child ever feels like they need special representation to know they're enough exactly as they are.
My Truth: Diagnosed in my 40’s
Here's what I haven't said yet: I was diagnosed autistic in my forties.
And honestly? Part of me is glad I didn't know earlier.
Not because I didn't struggle, I did. For decades, I fought against myself, wondering why I couldn't just function the way everyone else seemed to. Why the traditional workplace felt like wading through concrete. Why I was exhausted just from existing in a world that wasn't built for how my brain works.
But if I'd been labeled earlier, 20, 30 years ago, I know what would have happened.
People would have made their minds up about me. About what I was capable of. What I wasn't. What boxes I belonged in.
The label would have defined me before I ever got the chance to define myself.
And that's the double-edged sword of labels, isn't it?
They can offer relief, finally, an explanation, but they can also become a cage if we're not careful.
What Actually Changed
The diagnosis itself didn't change me.
What changed was this: I learned to accept and love myself exactly as I am.
Does that mean I never criticise myself? No. I'm human. The voice is still there sometimes.
But it's so much quieter now.
Because I understand who I am. I understand why I struggled. I understand that there was never anything wrong with me, I was just trying to thrive in systems designed for someone else's brain.
And now?
Now I'm creating a life that fits around my truth. Around my strengths. Around the way I actually work.
And I'm flourishing.
I'm blooming into a version of myself that's actually authentic. That's not performing. Not masking. Not contorting to fit into someone else's idea of "professional" or "successful" or "normal."
I'm living a life I actually want to live.
And to me? That's true success.
Not the career. Not the bank balance. Not the amount of stuff I own.
Success is living a life where I can exhale. Where I can float. Where I can just be me.
The Greatest Gift
I think the greatest gift we can give anyone, neurodivergent or not, is to allow them to be exactly who they are and love them for that exact reason.
Not tolerate them. Not accommodate them.
Love them.
Not in spite of their differences, but because of their wholeness.
Because we're all whole already. We always have been.
We've just been taught to see ourselves as broken.
If This Resonates With You
If you're reading this and thinking, "Wait, is this me?"
If you've recently been diagnosed as neurodivergent, or suspect you might be, and you're still trying to find your way back to yourself...
You're not alone. And you're not broken.
You're just waking up to the truth of who you've always been.
And if you need support navigating that, if you're ready to stop fighting against yourself and start creating a life that actually fits, I can help.
Through coaching, energy work, and psychic guidance, I support people in seeing who they really are. In designing lives that work for them, not against them. In discovering what flourishing actually feels like when you stop trying to be someone you're not.
This is my work. This is my gift.
Helping people come home to themselves.
If that's calling to you, let's talk.
Because the world doesn't need you to fit in.
It needs you to be you.
