As an autistic person, school was never a place I felt truly safe, included, or supported. Recently I came across a social media post based on the Autistic Not Weird 2022 Autism Survey. Seeing statistics like these—where almost 70% of autistic students reported having a negative school experience—unfortunately doesn’t surprise me at all. I was one of those students. My struggles in school weren’t just because of my autism but because of the way I was treated because I was autistic. And if that wasn’t enough, early puberty made things even worse for me.

I started school with a lot of challenges. I was non-speaking until I was five years old, which immediately set me apart. While I eventually became verbal, I still had significant learning delays and required special education support. I was on an Individualized Education Program (IEP) until fifth grade, and school was never easy for me. I struggled to keep up, I struggled to understand social dynamics, and I struggled with the way people treated me.

I remember feeling like I didn’t belong, even from an early age. My classmates could tell I was different, and in a school system that doesn’t do enough to foster understanding, that difference made me an easy target. Other kids would mock the way I spoke, the way I moved, the way I engaged with the world. I was made fun of for the things I loved, for the way I stimmed, and for needing extra help in class. No matter how hard I tried to fit in, I was always othered. And the worst part? No one really did anything about it. Teachers would tell me to ignore the bullying, to focus on my work, and to stop reacting.

But I was a child being constantly belittled for just existing, and I had no way to truly escape it.

Then, just as I was starting to find my footing academically, puberty hit. That opened an entirely new door of misery for me. I wasn’t just bullied for being autistic anymore—I was also bullied for my body. I was being harassed in ways that made me feel even more unsafe

I wasn’t an adult. I was a child being objectified and humiliated on a regular basis. And when I spoke up? Nothing changed. Schools are supposed to be safe spaces, but for me, they were anything but. Instead of protecting me, the system told me to “cover up,” “stop making a big deal out of it,” and to “just ignore them.” But how do you ignore daily harassment? How do you ignore being treated like a joke, like an object, like you don’t belong?

To make matters worse, school behavior systems like PBIS (Positive Behavioral Interventions and Supports) only reinforced the idea that I was the problem—not the environment that failed me. PBIS is built on the idea of rewarding “expected behaviors” and discouraging “unexpected behaviors,” but for autistic students, this often means punishing us for simply existing in a way that isn’t neurotypical. When I stimmed, I was told to stop because it was “disruptive.” When I struggled with transitions, I was expected to comply instantly or risk losing privileges. PBIS isn’t about support—it’s about compliance. It conditions students to suppress who they are in order to be deemed “good” by the system. But no amount of sticker charts or token economies could change the fact that I was being harassed, that I was being excluded, that I was being made to feel like I didn’t belong. And when I did follow the rules? The bullying didn’t stop.

PBIS teaches schools to reward kids for masking their struggles, but it does nothing to address the actual causes of student distress.

Despite all of this, I kept pushing forward. I had to. I moved through school carrying these experiences with me. While I had a few positive moments, the reality was that school never truly became a safe or welcoming place for me. The system wasn’t designed for autistic students like me. It wasn’t designed to protect kids from harassment the way it should have been.

Despite it all, I made it. Not only did I graduate, but I went on to earn my Bachelor’s Degree in Interdisciplinary Studies, with minors in literacy, history, and special education, from the University of the Incarnate Word. I didn’t stop there—I’m now pursuing my Master’s in Educational Policy and Leadership, specializing in Special Education Law, at Texas Tech. I became a special education teacher because I know how broken the system is. I lived it. And I refuse to let other kids go through what I did without a fight.

When people see statistics about autistic students having overwhelmingly negative school experiences, I hope they really think about what that means. It’s not just about struggling with classwork or feeling different—it’s about being actively mistreated, ignored, and sometimes even harmed by the very institutions that are supposed to uplift us. PBIS and other behavior management systems don’t solve these issues—they make it easier for schools to ignore them. If schools don’t make real changes—if they don’t start listening to autistic voices and prioritizing student safety—then we’re going to continue seeing stories like mine. And that’s not okay. No child should have to experience what I did.