When I found out I was pregnant, I expected the usual challenges: morning sickness, endless appointments, unsolicited advice from strangers. What I didn’t expect was how often I would find myself defending my right to be an adult, a parent, and a member of my own family.
I’m autistic and queer. During my pregnancy, those two identities shaped my experience in ways I could never have fully anticipated.
As an autistic adult, I am used to people underestimating me. I’ve lost count of the number of times someone has spoken to my partner instead of me, assumed I don’t understand something, or treated my communication style as evidence that I’m incapable rather than simply different.
Pregnancy amplified all of that.
Healthcare professionals often spoke to me in the same tone people use with children with the head tilt and all. Simple questions about my sensory needs were met with patronising smiles. When I requested clear explanations instead of vague reassurances, some staff reacted as though I was being difficult rather than advocating for myself.
There seemed to be an assumption that because I am autistic, I couldn’t possibly understand my own body, my own needs, or the decisions I was making about my pregnancy.
I remember one appointment where I explained that certain examinations were likely to be overwhelming because of sensory sensitivities. Instead of discussing accommodations, the response focused on whether I truly understood why the procedure was necessary.
The question was clear: Are you really capable of this?
The answer, of course, was yes. Autistic people become parents every day. We love our children. We learn. We adapt. We make mistakes and grow, just like any other parent. Yet society often struggles to see autistic adults as adults at all.
At the same time, being queer introduced another layer of challenges.
My family didn’t fit the image many people seemed to expect. Forms frequently assumed a mother and father. Casual conversations with healthcare staff often contained assumptions about the gender of my partner. Some people stumbled awkwardly when corrected, others seemed visibly uncomfortable, occasionally, some were even hostile!
There were moments when medical professionals addressed questions to me in ways that erased my partner’s role entirely. There were parenting resources filled with language that assumed heterosexual families. There were conversations where I had to decide whether correcting someone’s assumptions was worth the emotional energy it would cost.
Each individual incident might seem small in isolation. Together, they created a constant background noise reminding me that many systems were not designed with families like mine in mind.
The most frustrating part was how these experiences intersected.
Sometimes I felt infantilised because I was autistic. Sometimes I felt excluded because I was queer. Often, it was impossible to separate the two.
When people already see you as less competent, any deviation from social expectations can seem to reinforce their assumptions. As though there is only one correct way to build a family. As though parenthood belongs exclusively to neurotypical, heterosexual people.
It doesn’t.
Pregnancy taught me many things, but one of the most important lessons was the value of self-advocacy. I learned to ask for accommodations without apologising. I learned to correct assumptions when I had the energy. I learned that I didn’t need anyone else’s permission to claim my place as a parent. Most importantly, I learned that my child does not need a perfect parent.
They need a parent who loves them.
My autism does not diminish my ability to provide love, nor does my queerness
I want a world where autistic people are trusted to know their own minds. I want a world where queer families are recognised without explanation. I want healthcare systems that understand that diversity is not an exception to accommodate but a reality to embrace.