Blending life with magic
By Lee-Anne Ford
Sundays, meal prep days
Needs music, words, plays
No need for headphones
Free sound in my zones
The sizzle of a hot pan is chemistry research
The idea of grilled peaches is sweet, pert
The song is light purple, glistening
The words are red, passionate
The recipe glows, alchemy
Kitchen chemistry? No. Magic blooms
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I have no voice, how can I scream
By Lee-Anne Ford
From a liquid cocoon into a noisy room
Autistic from birth in a world not ours
Overheads lights, can’t enter this room.
Stim in twilight for hours
Impossible tastes, food is doom
Am I hungry? Can I eat flowers?
The seam allowance burns, awful loom
Wear inside out. Not your bowers.
That smell gags, can’t you zoom,
Run away from the stench towers?
Noise hurts, burns, run from room
Echoes, headphones, give succours
Your world hurts. Make it stop.
My world heals. Never stop.
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The breath between
By Lee-Anne Ford
A mind that walks the spaces ‘twixt it all,
The breath between the beats, the beats ‘neath breath.
You cast your laws, your walls, your hallowed halls,
Yet fail to see the rhythm underneath.
The western wind hums low—a hollow call,
A note that bends but will not break in time.
Autistic hands stretch wide, defy the thrall,
Yet still, you cage the ones who hear the chime.
But who else knows the base of eight, the sum,
Of atoms spun to music carved in spars?
Who counts the spaces, thumb to ghost of thumb,
And maps the void where voices echo stars?
Be deaf, be blind, be dumb—we rise in waves.
The edge of eight is ours—you cannot save.
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A childhood in deficit and afficit
By Lee-Anne Ford
She’s not gifted, just smart.
She’s not talented, just smart.
She’s a girl, she can’t do that.
She’s a girl, she can’t be that.
Brutal put-down, not my shutdown
Let me throw down, take you down
Do I shine too bright? Wear sunglasses.
Do I fall too low? That’s your shame.
Do I dig too deep? That’s your shallow.
Do I see too much? That’s your blindness.
Brutal shut-down, fallen crown
Let me lie down, adjust my gown
You judge too much. Not my fault.
You’re blind to see. Not my fault.
You cannot touch. Not my fault.
You cannot hear. Not my fault.
Allistic let-down, don’t dare frown
Autistic touchdown, go to town.
We are, we have, we do.
We just don’t do you.
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Harlequin, pierrot or me?
By Lee-Anne Ford
In an acting class, you learn
Voice, so you can earn
Speech production, so you can earn
Physical expressivity, so you can earn
Character, so you can earn
Acting methodologies, so you can earn
Script analysis, so you earn
In autistic life, you mask
Voice, though speaking hurts; don’t ask
Speech production, pitch and tone; a task
Character, mimicry, improvisation; can’t bask
Acting methodologies, which character, how, I ask
Script analysis, a different language, is that Basque?
Acting for money
Acting for survival
One is milk and honey
The other avoids revile
One is for pleasure
The other brings pain
One is for acclaim
The other to avoid blame
Celebrated existence
Criticised resistance
The Mardi Gras mask, much loved.
The autistic mask, heavy load.
The harlequin, the pierrot.
But what I wear brings me low.
Lest I be thought brute, a-fidget
Hung, reviled, in a social gibbet.
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High fire danger warning
By Lee-Anne Ford
They said: Adrenal fatigue. Chronic stress. Thyroid imbalance.
My body, a tired machine—sputtering, misfiring, failing.
A cup of ginseng tea, an adaptogen capsule,
A list of herbal tonics to rebuild what was lost.
Rest, recover, reset.
Except I did, and still—
The exhaustion gnawed at my bones,
My brain fogged like morning mist
That never burned away.
They said: Take time off, breathe, relax.
I did. I sat in silence, in stillness, in sun.
Yet the light burned, the air scratched,
And the world remained too loud.
I rattled off dates like a script—
Lines I knew but had never rehearsed.
29 June. He died.
10 July. We buried him.
10 August. Ashes returned to earth.
17 August. My Sammy, gone.
She listened.
Then asked the question that shattered the script.
Are you autistic?
And in that moment,
Every misdiagnosis fell away.
Not just tired. Not just stressed.
A brain running on overdrive
For too many years,
Masking, stretching,
Until the system collapsed.
Is that why Reiki attunements failed?
That autistic heart resisting?
Is that where the burnout started?
Yet Reiki treatments fired healing—
How could it be wrong?
Is it rooted in attachment issues?
From birth to now? Anxious, avoidant.
Autonomic system in disarray.
Does autism mean herbs work differently?
Are different herbs needed for autism?
So many questions. What’s MTHFR?
And still—autistic burnout.
A broken nervous system.
A burnt-out nervous system.
From a burnt-out autistic brain.
The shock and heartbreak.
Skill regression. More than depression.
Neurological disablement.
Lifelong skills, lost.
Where am I? How do I heal?
When does this end?
Take heart, dear heart.
Inner child and old.
Look to your music, to Thirsty Merc.
“She’s the kind of grind that I don’t really mind…
Stand up, little love, I’m about to blow my cover.”
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Dear me
By Lee-Anne Ford
Ripped from mother at birth
Questions of what you are worth
Tipped to new parents
To reduce their laments
Hiding early reading
Where is this leading
It led to you, beautiful girl
Let books open your world
Old before your time
On prose, text and rhyme
This award, that award, receive
Step forward, you’re not a thief
That friend who played to hate your guts
Heartbreak of a thousand cuts
You learned for yourself
Not to compete against stealth
Broken home, twixt mum and dad
No matter what, you weren’t bad
Teenage rebellion, no, it was PDA
Not teenage hellion, it was just your way
The Bolshie strike was your only tool
To make them, all of them, listen to you
Dear me, my girl, recast it all
Be not held in rejected thrall
You are always, have always, will always be
Dear me
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10,000 Hours of Practice vs. A Lifetime of Masking: Reflections on Mastery in Autism Camouflage
Malcolm Gladwell’s popularization of the “10,000-hour rule” suggests that achieving mastery in any field requires approximately 10,000 hours of deliberate practice. It’s an appealing concept, simplifying the path to expertise into a measurable framework. But as a late-diagnosed autistic adult, I find myself contrasting this idea of practice with the unchosen, unrelenting “practice” I’ve had in masking—51 years of it.
On my autism assessment, I scored in the 96.4th percentile for masking and the 94.2nd percentile for assimilation, numbers that represent the decades I’ve spent learning to suppress, disguise, and override my natural self to navigate a neurotypical world. These scores are a quantification of something intangible: survival through performance. What emerges from this reflection is the concept of a Medal for Autistic Camouflage Mastery—an ironic yet poignant acknowledgment of the incredible, and often devastating, effort it takes to “pass” as neurotypical for half a century.
Gladwell’s rule centers on intentional practice: deliberate, focused work aimed at refining a skill. Masking, however, is rarely deliberate in the same sense. It begins as an instinctive survival mechanism, an unconscious adaptation to the discomfort, rejection, or confusion of being “other.” Over time, it becomes habitual, almost automatic—an internalized choreography of micro-expressions, tone modulation, and scripted responses.
Consider the sheer volume of practice:
Unlike the 10,000 hours Gladwell describes, the “practice” of masking isn’t chosen. It’s demanded. And unlike the mastery of a craft, the rewards of masking are bittersweet: social acceptance at the cost of self-erasure.
If masking were a skill judged on effort and results, I’d have long ago qualified for a medal. The imaginary Medal for Autistic Camouflage Mastery would represent:
Yet, this medal would carry the weight of its price: chronic exhaustion, identity fragmentation, and the toll on mental health. Mastery in masking doesn’t feel like success—it feels like survival at a profound cost.
In a society obsessed with productivity, the value of a person is often measured by their output—how efficiently they can perform, contribute, and conform. For undiagnosed, unsupported, and highly masked autistic individuals, this system demands relentless effort to meet neurotypical standards, often at great personal cost. Masking allows autistic individuals to navigate workplaces and social systems, but it comes with consequences that ripple far beyond the individual.
The capitalist model thrives on hidden labor, and masking is one such invisible cost. The mental and emotional toll of sustaining this level of performance—while managing sensory sensitivities, social anxieties, and burnout—is rarely acknowledged or accommodated. This unrelenting demand often leads to chronic health issues, mental illness, or total withdrawal from the workforce when burnout becomes insurmountable. Society loses the potential contributions of brilliant, creative minds, not because these individuals lack capability, but because the system fails to support them in ways that honor their neurodivergent needs.
When autistic individuals are left undiagnosed or unsupported, society pays a significant price. The energy spent on masking could otherwise be directed toward innovation, problem-solving, and creativity—qualities many autistic people excel at when allowed to flourish authentically. Instead, this potential is often squandered as individuals are funneled into rigid molds that suppress their strengths.
Consider the systemic implications: higher healthcare costs due to burnout, mental health crises, and comorbid conditions; the loss of diverse perspectives in workplaces and communities; and the missed opportunity to build more inclusive systems that accommodate varied ways of thinking and working. Moreover, the emotional toll on families, the community strain of misdiagnosed or misunderstood behaviors, and the perpetuation of stigma further erode social cohesion.
In this light, the capitalist fetish for productivity isn’t just damaging on an individual level—it actively depletes society of the rich contributions neurodivergent individuals could make if only they were supported. Recognizing and accommodating autistic people isn’t a matter of charity—it’s an investment in a future where everyone’s strengths are valued, and no one’s potential is wasted in the shadows of survival.
As I reflect on 51 years of masking, I realize that my “mastery” can evolve. I can shift from being a master of camouflage to a master of self-acceptance, advocacy, and authenticity. The time and energy I once spent on masking can be redirected to pursuits that bring joy and meaning, breaking free from the survival paradigm.
For anyone who, like me, feels they’ve earned that imaginary medal: wear it with pride, but don’t let it define you. Mastery in masking was never the goal. Freedom from the need to mask—that is the mastery we truly deserve.
The Auld Skald's Fudgel 