Some spaces just feel electric. The Psychotherapy Networker Symposium was one of those places. Thousands of therapists gathered in DC from all over the world to learn from the best in the business. At 7 am, the lobby of the hotel was packed with buzzing therapists who were curious, humble, and hungry to learn. So naturally, I grabbed my lanyard, my coffee, and ran to my room to freak out before everything started.
This is the conference. The one where therapists gather from around the world to sit in rooms with the best minds in the field. We’re talking Esther Perel, Tammy Nelson, Dr. Ramani Durvasula, George Faller, Sahaj Kaur Kohli, Frank Anderson…the kind of clinicians whose names are synonymous with thought leadership in our field.
To have the opportunity to present alongside these voices, in the same lineup, in the same rooms, is not just an honor, it’s a responsibility. It felt like reminder that conversations about modern, high-masking Autism belong exactly in these spaces. Neurodivergence is still treated like a niche…something only “specialized” therapists take on. But if you’re helping clients navigate love, sex, trauma, identity, parenting, or grief… you’re already working with Autistic people. Whether you know it or not.
Shaking up the helping professions and challenging the outdated ways we understand Autism? It’s a battle. It’s messy. It’s exhausting. (More on that soon.)
But after six days surrounded by some of the sharpest minds in the field, I didn’t just leave tired, I left with a renewed sense of purpose. And honestly? That spark came from the people who weren’t afraid to do things differently.
George Faller cracked my therapist heart open with a simple truth: there’s nothing worse than seeing your partner in pain and not knowing how to help. A former NYC firefighter who lived through the unimaginable loss of 9/11, George pivoted into counseling to support others who had been through hell. That career shift, born from heartbreak and resilience, was a reminder that it’s never too late to start helping people in new ways. His presentation focused on high-conflict couples, but the message that hit me hardest was this: so many partners live in a state of helplessness, not because they don’t care, but because they don’t know how to be the partner they want to be. And maybe that helplessness…that freeze, is what it’s like for many Neurodivergent folks in relationships all the time.
The Nap Ministry’s Tricia Hersey taught us about rest, not just as a luxury, but as resistance. And as survival. As someone who burns at approximately 800 degrees internally, I’m still metabolizing that message (slowly.)
Brown Girl Therapy’s Sahaj Kaur Kohli reminded us that community is not just comforting, it’s healing. Her words echoed deeply for those of us who constantly feel the tension of straddling two worlds. While she spoke about the immigrant experience, her insights resonated hard as an Autistic therapist, someone who walks the line between being a clinician and being part of the population often misunderstood by clinicians. She talked about finding the people who get it. Those who don’t need the long explanation, those who understand our complexity. She reminded us that support can look like just finding the right room…even when that's a “room” online. More on this “two worlds” feeling coming soon…
And then there was me.
I walked in knowing my presentation was different. My slides were bright, loud, colorful… and wrapped up in a lot of humor. I opened with a deeply personal story about my own path to Autism, and to that room. Even moments before stepping up, I debated scrapping the “me” part entirely. But I’m really glad I didn’t.
My presentation was upbeat, hopeful, and celebratory of Autistic adults, but it was also honest. I made people feel. I brought client stories, humor, and vulnerability. And I reminded the room: Autism isn’t pathology. It’s creativity. It’s intensity. It’s pattern-seeking. It’s connection. It's passion. And also, it's incredibly misunderstood.
I managed to cram way too many slides into my two-hour presentation (shocking, I know), and still, many participants stayed after to ask questions. I’ve spent days replaying moments in my head…what I said, what I didn’t, the facial expressions of the crowd, and whether I chose the right points to focus on.
During the talk, I joked that presenting on this topic felt like being naked on stage trying to convince people the sky isn’t blue. But in reality, it wasn’t like that at all. This room was different. The therapists in those seats were locked in, curious, engaged, and ready. That gives me so much hope. It was a room of 50 in a conference of thousands. But in that tiny room, I saw the spark in other helpers who are starting to recognize what I see every day.
And still, there’s so much work to be done. The stakes are high, and the system is slow. If I'm being honest, I never feel like I'm doing enough to change our system. (Anyone who lives with me will disagree). I let the weight of that sit on my shoulders for a few days after my presentation. How do we do the work to move Autism from “niche” to mainstream in the world of helpers?
On the last full day of the conference, an older gentleman approached me, and grabbed my arm as I walked out of a conference room. “Hey!” he said. I immediately recognized him as the guy in the third row in my presentation the day prior. I asked my husband if this guy seemed pissed, because I couldn't help but notice his face seemed angry throughout my talk. My husband said that was NOT the case. “That guy was your biggest fan. I heard him talking in the hall afterwards.” This day, he held my arm (a little too tight) and said, “This presentation was good, really good. But yours was absolutely brilliant. You know that, right? People need to hear what you have to say. Keep going.”
He had no idea how stuck I was in my own head. No idea how much I needed to hear that. I hope he’s right.
Because this work can feel heavy. Lonely. One ignorant post about Autism being a “fad” can send me spiraling for days. Sometimes it feels like shouting into the void with a PowerPoint clicker and a ticking clock—trying to convince a room that the sky isn’t blue, that Autism isn’t what we were taught, and that Neurodivergent clients deserve more than checkbox diagnoses and outdated frameworks.
But if you’re lucky, on the day you need it most, a stranger grabs your arm, looks you in the eye, and says, “Keep going.” And somehow, that’s enough to open your laptop, take a deep breath, and remember exactly why you started.
So I will. I’ll keep going—with my too-bright slides, too many words, and zero chill. Because this story isn’t finished. And neither is the work.
