100 Books Like Unmasking Autism

I am a clinical psychologist who was surprised to realize that I am both Autistic and an ADHDer in my late 40s. I have always been fascinated by psychology, and now Autism and ADHD have become my areas of “special interest” (“spin”). I have been reading widely to learn more about myself, find practical ways to alleviate the chronic sense of overwhelm I experience and recover from burnout. Most of my clients are also late-diagnosed neurodivergent adults who have complex mental and physical health problems, so the reading I’ve been doing has given me fresh insights to share and helpful strategies we can test out together. 

In 2011, after years reporting on media and technology for Wired, I published The Art of Immersion, about how digital technology is changing the way we tell stories. Then I joined Columbia University’s Digital Storytelling Lab, started the executive education course Strategic Storytelling, and put together the toolkit that inspired The Sea We Swim In. The ostensible subject of all this was storytelling, but the common thread, I came to realize, was the role stories play: They facilitate pattern recognition, the skill we need to make sense of our random world. The pattern that’s governed the past 15 years of my life, in other words, has been pattern recognition. 

As a young businessperson in London in my early 30s, I was as ignorant of neurodiversity as much of the rest of the world. In the mid-2010s, I got fascinated by the topic thanks to conversations with autistic family members, who encouraged me to bring some of my expertise in corporate diversity programs to the field of “neurodiversity at work”. The topic of neurodiversity chimed with me, too, as I’d suffered a traumatic brain injury in a serious car accident, and there were aspects I could relate to. I founded neurodiversity training company Uptimize to help ensure organizations across the world understand how the importance of embracing and leveraging different types of thinkers.

I'm writer, educator, disability advocate, and mother of a teenage son with multiple disabilities. Since my son’s diagnosis with autism at age three, I've been on a quest to not only understand the way that his unique brain works, but also to advocate for a more just and equitable world for people with disabilities and their families. When researching my book The Little Gate-Crasher, I discovered how much my great-grandmother was a powerful advocate for her son Mace who was born with a form of dwarfism. Our society has evolved in the last one hundred years in terms of inclusion and accessibility—and yet, people with disabilities and their loved ones are often isolated.

I am a professor of psychology and psychiatry at Cambridge University. I've been conducting autism research for 40 years, and this has taken me deep into understanding how the mind works, in both autistic and neurotypical people. I've focused in particular on two aspects of the mind, empathy and systemizing, to understand how these develop, how individual differences in these arise, and how we can celebrate such neurodiversity and provide support for people who struggle with these. My research spans psychology, neuroscience, genetics, endocrinology, clinical practice, education, and vulnerability. 

We all have important stories to tell. So my mission in life is to tell stories from many different perspectives. To date, I’ve written novels narrated by a 13th-century woman, a gruff North Idaho detective, a 14-year-old boy, a sorcerer, and even a tree! To write all my characters, I start with my own experiences of course –March Wong in The Eagle Tree draws on my own experiences growing up in China and from my experience working with neurodivergent children. But I don’t stay locked in my own perspective. Instead, I use my stories to continuously stretch our understanding of what it means to be human. 

I’m an autistic writer with a passion for neurodiversity representation in fiction. As a child, I struggled to get into reading because I couldn’t see myself in any of the characters. That changed when I discovered Calvin and Hobbes, a comic strip about a precocious boy with a big imagination who struggles with making friends and is always getting in trouble for his poor self-control. Finally, I thought—a character just like me! For people who are neurodivergent, discovering fictional characters who resemble themselves can be a powerful experience. That’s why I think neurodiversity representation in fiction is incredibly important. 

My journey began as a high school camp counselor at the Ability Center of Greater Toledo in Ohio. As I worked with children who had neurodevelopmental differences and collaborated with a co-counselor who had cerebral palsy, I saw how people with differences were marginalized and devalued despite being insightful, empathetic, passionate, funny, and talented. My appreciation for their strengths and perspectives shaped my approach as a pediatric neurologist, BCBA, neuroscientist, researcher, and founder of Cortica, which is focused on a whole-child, neurodivergent-affirming approach to care for autism and other neurodevelopmental differences. Reading is an important way for me to stay connected to the strengths-based lens I began cultivating in my teens.

As an autistic person, I know just how critical authentic autism representation is. It was a book that first opened up the possibility for me that I might be autistic—and looking back, I realize that that book may have some problematic portrayals of what it means to be autistic. But I was so hungry for representation that I took what I could get. Because of this, when I see myself in books with autistic protagonists, I can’t help but cheer! I know there are quite a few great books with autistic representation, and there are so many more I’d love to include here, but here are five of my favorites. I hope you enjoy!

The heroes and heroines in the Seven Kingdoms Fairy Tales face challenges inspired by my own fears, like giving a presentation in the front of the class, getting lost in an unfamiliar place, finding my place in a new school, or working out how to be fair to my friends when we disagree about the rules. Fears tell us a boring life is “safe.” They hide our extraordinary life behind their backs. I write books for and about kids attempting things that are absolutely positively “not for them”. Because kids are the bravest people around. That’s why they’re so magical.