GEORGE

Grieving on the Spectrum Grief doesn’t look the same for everyone. For those of us on the autism spectrum, it can be especially complex, layered, and often misunderstood. When someone I love dies, it’s as though the world shifts out of focus. But unlike what people expect from grief — tears, hugs, public mourning — my experience is often quieter, more internal, sometimes even delayed. People might assume I’m not grieving because I’m not reacting in the “expected” way. But inside, there’s a storm — just not always one I know how to express. Being autistic means I often process emotions differently. Sometimes it takes me a long time to even realize what I’m feeling. I might shut down, go nonverbal, or need a lot of time alone — not because I don’t care, but because I care so much it’s overwhelming. The sensory overload, the disruption of routine, the sudden absence of a person who grounded my world — it can all feel too big to handle at once. One of the hardest parts is how lonely grief can be. Social norms around mourning can feel like a performance I don’t know the script for. I don’t always know how to comfort others or respond when someone tries to comfort me. Sometimes I want to connect, but don’t know how to bridge the gap between my feelings and the right words. But grief on the spectrum also holds its own kind of depth. I remember the details — the sound of their voice, the way they laughed, the routines we shared. My love for them might have been quiet, but it was constant, and it still is. That love doesn’t disappear just because they’re gone. I might not grieve the way others do, but my grief is valid. Just because it looks different doesn’t mean it’s less real. It’s just mine.