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.”

One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do was let go of a version of my life that looked perfect on paper.

Everything made sense. I knew my role. My relationships felt clear. My path felt mapped out. It was structured. It was safe. It was familiar. It was mine.

And that’s exactly why walking away felt so heavy.

I used to think I was grieving the season itself. But really, I was grieving my attachment to it. In Buddhist thought, we’re taught that suffering doesn’t come from change — it comes from clinging. I wasn’t in pain because life was shifting. I was in pain because I wanted it to stay.

I wanted permanence in something beautifully impermanent.

But life moves the way breath moves — in and out, rising and falling. Nothing is meant to be held forever. Not roles. Not certainty. Not even the versions of ourselves we once felt so sure about.

Growth doesn’t always arrive as expansion. Sometimes it arrives as release. Sometimes it asks you to loosen your grip before you understand why.

When I stopped resisting the transition and began to meet it with acceptance, something softened. I could see the season for what it was: not a destination, but a teacher. A chapter, not the whole story.

A seed doesn’t become a tree by staying whole. It breaks open. Not because it failed — but because it’s ready.

Letting go wasn’t weakness. It was practice. It was trust. It was choosing alignment over attachment.

That season shaped me deeply. I carry its lessons with gratitude. But it was never meant to contain me.

If I could live as someone else for a single day, I’d choose to be my wife, Mrs Bob. Not for the novelty of stepping into another life, but for the chance to understand myself through the eyes of the person who loves me most. She carries a version of me that I don’t always recognise — one shaped by patience, affection, deep love and a kind of steady belief that I sometimes struggle to feel for myself.

There are moments when I doubt; when I fall short in my own mind; when I can’t quite see what’s worth loving. Yet she does. She always does. Spending a day as her would let me witness the small things I overlook, the quiet ways I matter, the reasons she stays close even when I’m not at my best. It would be a chance to see myself without the fog of self‑critique, to understand the warmth behind her choices, and to appreciate the version of me that she holds on to.

One day in her shoes wouldn’t just teach me about her — it would teach me about the parts of myself she’s been seeing clearly all along.

What started as a simple favour for a mate quickly turned into one of those projects that becomes a story you tell for years. My friend William had just converted his garage—thanks to a bit of collective elbow grease—into a bar/lounge complete with DJ kit and the obligatory smoke machine. Naturally, the next step was a new shed to store everything that no longer fit in the garage-turned-nightclub.

The only problem? The local hardware superstore didn’t stock anything close to the size he wanted. So we shrugged, looked at each other, and decided: Fine, we’ll build one ourselves.

We hired the kit, prepped the ground, and poured a concrete base before the mountain of timber and materials arrived. There was a lot of it—far more than any of us expected—but that became part of the fun. Over two weekends we grafted, laughed, sank a few beers, and even entertained ourselves by shooting empty cans with the nail gun (not recommended, but undeniably satisfying). Each day ended with a BBQ and a bit of a party, because what’s the point of a DIY project if you can’t celebrate the chaos?

The best part? Twenty years on, that shed is still standing strong—watertight, sturdy, and now fully kitted out with running water and electricity. Not bad for a couple of weekends’ work and a group of friends who mostly just wanted an excuse to hang out.