It’s not actually a question.
It’s the moment someone says to me:
“Oh! But you don’t look autistic.”

I know people usually mean it as a compliment. They think they’re saying I seem capable, social, or “normal.” But what it really reveals is a stereotype — the assumption that autism has a specific look.

Autism isn’t a costume. It isn’t a facial expression. It isn’t something you can spot from a quick glance across a room.

It’s a neurological difference that shapes how I experience the world — how I process sound, communication, social cues, routine, and emotion. And like many autistic people, I’ve learned to mask some of those differences so I can navigate environments that weren’t designed with people like me in mind.

Sometimes it feels like my diagnosis is being quietly erased.

So when someone says, “You don’t look autistic,” what they’re really saying is:
“You don’t match the picture of autism I had in my head.”

The truth is, autistic people look like everyone else.
The stereotype was the problem — not me.

Early in my career, I worked on an engineering (R&D) project that completely failed. We had the wrong assumptions, rushed decisions, and in the end the result simply didn’t work, at the time it felt like a setback, even embarrassing. But that failure forced me to slow down, reflect, and question how I approached problems. It taught me patience, humility, and the importance of building strong foundations rather than chasing quick wins.

Looking back, that experience shaped my character more than any easy success could have. In a small way, it reminds me of a Buddhist idea: setbacks are not obstacles to the path—they are part of the path. Failure creates space for awareness and growth. Each mistake becomes a quiet teacher.

Because of that experience, I now approach challenges more thoughtfully and resiliently. What once looked like failure became the foundation for better decisions, stronger habits, and ultimately better outcomes.

Sometimes the step that feels like falling backward is actually the one that steadies your footing for the climb ahead.

My story begins with a simple truth: I never saw any of this coming.

Growing up, I never imagined I’d become an R&D engineer, a photographer, or—least of all—a poet.

There are a few objects that quietly anchor my days, the small things that make life feel stitched together. My phone is the first—less a gadget and more a pocket‑sized notebook where half‑formed poems land before they drift away. Then there are my comic books, those bright-paper portals that let me step out of the world for a while and into somewhere louder, stranger, and wonderfully unreal. And finally, the constants: my wife and my cat. They’re not objects, of course, but they’re the companions who turn the ordinary into something worth coming home to.

The experiences that helped me grow the most were the ones that came closest to undoing me. The easy chapters never asked much of me, but the hard ones stripped life down to its bare truth, the way a brief moment of stillness can clear the mind just enough to see what’s real. In the middle of loss, upheaval, and the quiet fear that I might not make it through, I learned what I was clinging to and what I needed to release. Those moments revealed strength I didn’t know I had and tenderness I didn’t know I was allowed to keep. In a way that echoes a small thread of Buddhist thought, the suffering wasn’t a punishment but a teacher — not gentle, but precise. The things that tried to destroy me became the very forces that shaped me into someone steadier, clearer, and more awake to my own life.

“I’m not sure if the universe has a plan, but it certainly has a sense of humour. I joined the Army on what would turn out to be my future wife’s birthday, long before I knew her. Then we met because of a book on string theory. If that’s not destiny having a bit of fun, I don’t know what is.”