Disability accommodation doesn’t mean unfair advantage. It removes barriers to learning that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. As I consider accommodations for autism at work, I’ve been looking back at my school days. Certain things always seemed to be more difficult than they were for my peers, but pre-diagnosis I considered it my own responsibility to find a way to push through.
While I can’t turn back time, these reflections do help me brainstorm what might be helpful to me now. Here are five autism accommodations I wish I’d had during my school days.
Allow sensory support tools in the classroom
The office culture at my current job fortunately allows for things like noise cancelling headphones and a monitor shade to block the sun. But between dress codes, social conventions, and a lack of awareness, such things were not acceptable in school.
Take fluorescent lighting. Wearing a hat or hoodie is so helpful to me in preventing overstimulation and headaches. The connotation to a lot of teachers, though, is that you are not paying attention or trying to hide something. Brainstorming with the school could perhaps have led to a creative solution. Earplugs during noisy classes or events, and headphones during study hall would both have upped my engagement and productivity, perhaps going against the perception of these supports as causing disengagement.
Engagement requires people to be at a certain level of autonomic arousal, or activation in the autonomic nervous system. This is called the Yerkes-Dodson law. If a task is easy, background noise or music might help with concentration. Think white noise or the buzz of a coffeeshop. But for more difficult tasks, such noise might interfere. This shift might occur at a different threshold for autistic folks. By reducing background noise, lowering lights, or covering up intermittent sounds with something more regular and calming, I can make my days significantly less stressful.
Participate in discussions by writing
Up until my senior year of high school I was very comfortable participating in class. The teacher would ask a question, and if I knew the answer, I would raise my hand. I even learned that it was not socially acceptable to volunteer for every answer, so I would moderate how much I spoke up.
I remember vividly the day that things shifted. When I walked into my English class, the entire layout had changed. Gone were the neat rows of desks, and in their place were two concentric circles. The teacher explained that the inner circle would have a freeform discussion about last night‘s reading from The Crucible. The outer circle would observe and take notes. I was chosen for the inner circle that first day.
A changing landscape
Like always, I had done the reading. But as the discussion began, I had no idea how to jump in. People spoke loudly, interrupting each other and changing the subject constantly. They looked like they were having fun. But every time I got a handle on what I wanted to say, we’d already moved on to a new part of the play. As my anxiety rose, it felt like a hand was closing around my throat. I couldn’t access my thoughts or my voice. And by the end of the class I had not said even one word.
Because I knew our grade was based on how many contributions we made, I went up to the teacher after class. “I don’t know what happened,” I said. “Can I try again tomorrow?”
I’m grateful to this teacher for allowing me to take another turn in the inner circle the next day so that I could save my grade. Some might’ve assumed that I just didn’t do the reading. Perhaps my track record of participation told her otherwise.
So the next day, I walked in and took my place in the inner circle again, now self-conscious about the fact that I was not switching groups like the rest of my peers. Through sheer force of will, I managed to make a contribution to the discussion by pointing out a particular quotation from the play. By that point, my fear of failing the activity was great enough to override my confusion over when and how to say something.
Pushing Through
Thus began the long period of my life in which I learned how to “speak up.” As a humanities student, most of my college and graduate classes would be discussion based. I would painstakingly prepare for every class, writing out potential things to say and flagging passages with highlighter and sticky notes. Tally marks, noting how much I had talked in each class, marched across the top margin of every page of my notes.
As time went on, I did learn some life hacks. For example, talk first or last, and you’ll be remembered later on no matter how much you talk in the middle. But it continued to be a painful experience throughout college and into graduate school. So many of the polite rules I had learned seemed to go out the window. it’s rude to interrupt, but if I don’t, I’ll never speak. I’m not supposed to change the subject too much, but that’s the only topic I can think to talk about right now.
Things started to shift when I learned about sensory processing sensitivity. Finally, I saw what I had never been able to realize before. It wasn’t a matter of being shy or unprepared. I was overwhelmed by the loud chaos of freeform discussion, which explained why I was perfectly able to volunteer when the teacher wanted an answer to a specific question. Realizing this helped me focus on calming myself during discussions, rather than on over preparing. And the more I participated the less nervous I felt.
I was also able to translate this into other forms of participation. For example, I would much rather give a formal paper or fulfill a volunteer position at a conference than go to the opening night cocktail hour.
Communication vs. content
On top of that, once I was diagnosed as autistic, I realized that I was having social difficulties in those discussions. While keeping up with the reading and memorizing details was easier for me, socialization was harder. This was the opposite experience of a lot of my peers, who were able to lean on their social skills in group discussions, even when they hadn’t read.
A simple solution for this would have been to allow me to submit in writing anything that I wasn’t able to get into the conversation. It was certainly a valuable skill to learn, but to learn while I was in survival mode was not ideal. I strongly suspect that without the fear of a failing grade over my head, I would have been able to contribute successfully sooner.
Limit exposure to crowds
Can I spend time in a crowd and have fun? Yes, sometimes. But it costs me. Every pep rally and assembly was a drain on my resources. Other kids crowded around me on the bleachers, brushing up against me and talking loudly. The canned music coming through the speakers crackled and blared. I’d sit frozen in the middle of this crowd, trying to mask my discomfort and avoid standing out. Smile? Yell? Sorry, those services are currently offline.
Other students were clearly caught up in the excitement of the cheerleaders and athletes, and joined in the yelling and dancing. But none of it felt natural to me. Think Wednesday Addams at summer camp. Teachers, peers, or outside speakers seemed to want a level of enthusiasm that I couldn’t just flip a switch to activate. While others were clearly energized by this environment, I was deflated.
The exception was attending games with the marching and pep bands. I played the mellophone, the marching version of a French Horn. While the football and basketball games were certainly loud and raucous, I understood the structure and my place in it. I learned to watch the progress of the game to predict when the band director would have us play. And then I could express my “team spirit” through the music, rather than having to perform enthusiasm on my face.
Everyone shows school spirit differently. That’s why I wish that I had been allowed to forgo the loud assemblies and instead spend that time in the library, or even in a structured role helping behind the scenes. Why force this when I have so much to offer in other ways?
Do alternate activities in gym class
On a similar note, gym class was extremely overwhelming, and ruined my relationship with exercise for years. I now consider myself an athlete and love to work out. But you won’t find me on the volleyball court or the company softball team. I prefer solo or lightly collaborative exercise. Think running, a small group kickboxing class, or even a short stint on a recreational rowing team.
In contrast, the complicated rules, the yelling, and objects flying at my head was just not going to work for me. Even pickleball, the current darling of recreational fitness, was just too much. I’d walk out covered in bruises from those plastic wiffle balls, launched at my legs on purpose from the rackets of the boys from the tennis team.
Learning to love fitness
The kicker is that our gym teachers would say they wanted us to learn these games so that we developed a good relationship with fitness. In fact, the combination of bullying and sensory overload made me feel like I was not cut out for any type of athleticism, in spite of being active in my free time as a kid. It was only through small group fitness classes in graduate school that I was able to regain my confidence.
For this reason, I wish that I had been able to do an alternate physical activity sometimes in gym class. I would’ve been much happier most days just running laps around the track, or keeping score for team activities.
It’s also why I am currently training to become a fitness instructor. Staying active has been so helpful for my mental and physical health, but it was so difficult to get to this place. I hope by leading small group classes that I can help others feel confident in what they’re doing and welcome in the world of fitness.
Peer support
On a related note, challenges like this gym class bullying affected me less during periods when I had social support. But this could be hard to find.
Many autistic folks find friendship difficult both in childhood and as adults. This can stem from communication differences, sensory challenges with certain activities or events, and other factors. That’s why a structured peer support system would have helped me immensely. Whether peer mentoring, or sensory-friendly after school activities, I could have used a social boost especially in middle school.
Thankfully, I was able to find some outlets myself as I got older. High school marching band, craft circles, and book clubs have all been very comfortable spaces for me to socialize. I like to focus on an activity and not feel pressured to speak the whole time. And when we do speak, we already know something that we have in common.
I’m also grateful that my current workplace supports neurodiversity. Several of my team members have spoken openly about their experiences. This helped me feel comfortable letting others know that I’m autistic. With that knowledge, I hope we can all respect each other’s needs and preferences, and let everyone work and socialize however is best for them. Not everyone flourishes under the same conditions, and that’s a natural and beautiful part of diversity.
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What autism accommodation ideas and tips do you have? Let me know in the comments.
