No matter what they say, there is nothing wrong with you.

No matter what they say, there is nothing wrong with you.

As a child growing up with autism, I never thought I saw the world in black and white. I thought that was the world. And for me, it still is. When you grow up inside a mind that works differently, you don’t spend much time questioning it. Your experience feels complete, unquestionable, like the only possible way reality could exist. I didn’t sit around thinking, “I see things differently than others.” I just lived in what felt natural to me, a world built from rules, patterns, contrasts, and clarity that others sometimes seemed to miss.

For me, black and white wasn’t about the absence of color. It wasn’t about dullness or lack of imagination. It was about structure, boundaries, and an unshakable way of organizing the world. I understood things in absolutes—yes or no, right or wrong, safe or unsafe. The gray areas that so many people seemed comfortable living in always felt slippery, almost dishonest. I needed the world to have a framework, a kind of map that kept me steady when everything else felt uncertain.

The challenge, of course, was that most people don’t live like that. They live in colors, in shades of gray, in fluid interpretations. They thrive on flexibility, negotiation, and the ability to bend rules. To me, that looked chaotic. It looked unsafe. It looked like people were constantly lying to themselves and to each other, while I was simply holding onto the truth.

Growing up, this way of seeing often set me apart. In school, I would follow directions literally, while other kids seemed to understand hidden meanings or social cues that slipped right past me. Teachers would tell us to “be quiet,” but what they really meant was “be quiet enough that I don’t notice.” I didn’t understand that. To me, quiet meant silent. So, I would sit there, silent, while others whispered and giggled, and I couldn’t understand why I was being treated differently when I was the one following the rule exactly.

This pattern carried into friendships, too. People seemed to drift in and out of relationships without much weight, as if friendships were casual, temporary, flexible things. To me, a friend was absolute. If I trusted you, I trusted you completely. If I considered you close, then I was loyal in a way that felt permanent. That intensity sometimes scared people away. To me, it wasn’t intensity. It was just honesty. It was black and white.

It took me years to realize that most people weren’t lying or betraying me when they lived in the gray. They were just operating from a worldview that was foreign to me. They were navigating life with a set of tools I didn’t naturally have. And yet, my own tools—the sharp clarity, the pattern recognition, the ability to see things stripped down to their essence—were just as real, just as valuable.

What I once thought was a limitation, I’ve come to understand as a different form of vision. When you see the world in black and white, you notice details that others overlook. You see rules where others see only suggestions. You see danger where others ignore it, but also truth where others might be fooled. That kind of clarity can be a gift, though it often doesn’t feel like one when you’re young and just trying to fit in.

As I grew older, I began to notice something strange. The very thing that made me feel isolated was also the thing that gave me insight others sometimes lacked. When people got lost in endless debates or emotional entanglements, I could often cut straight to the core of an issue. I could say, “Here’s what’s happening. Here’s what matters.” And more often than not, I was right. Not because I was smarter or better, but because my brain filtered out the noise that others seemed to drown in.

But here’s the other side of that truth: living in black and white also meant living with rigidity. I struggled with change, with uncertainty, with letting go of control. Life has a way of throwing curveballs, and the black-and-white world doesn’t bend easily to meet them. It breaks. I’ve had to learn, slowly and painfully, that sometimes, surviving means letting a little gray in. Sometimes it means loosening my grip on the absolute and allowing things to be uncertain, unfinished, or unresolved. That doesn’t come naturally, but I’ve discovered it doesn’t erase who I am. It just adds dimension.

What I want people to understand is that autism doesn’t mean a lack of imagination or a lack of feeling. If anything, it often means feeling more deeply, imagining more intensely, and holding onto truths more tightly than others can. My black-and-white world is not empty. It’s full of meaning, full of depth, full of clarity. It just looks different from the way most people experience theirs.

If you’ve ever felt like you see the world in absolutes, like you’re out of sync with the way others move through life, I want you to know this: your vision is not broken. It is a lens. And like any lens, it reveals things others cannot see. There is value in seeing the truth starkly. There is value in a world of contrast. The key is learning how to hold onto that vision while still allowing space for others who live differently.

I still see the world in black and white. That hasn’t changed. But I’ve learned to accept that others see it in color, in gray, in shifting shades I may never fully understand. And that’s okay. Their world doesn’t cancel out mine, and mine doesn’t cancel out theirs. Together, they create something larger, something richer than either of us could see alone.

So, when I look back now at that child who thought black and white was all there was, I don’t feel sad for him anymore. I feel grateful. Because that child gave me the clarity I carry today. That child gave me a foundation to stand on when the world feels overwhelming. And though I’ve had to stretch beyond it, I’ll never let go of it. It’s not a limitation. It’s my truth. It’s my world.

As humans, we are all different, every one of us. But together we form beautiful realties made of shared perspectives, experiences, and thoughts. The subjective nature of time and reality is what allows this. Don't fall for the lie that something is wrong with you.