I remember the first time I realized that my Cisco switches and I shared a common language. They required a specific sequence of commands, a precise syntax, and they didn’t care about my tone of voice. In the quiet of a server room, the world made sense. There was a protocol for everything.
But the boardrooms and the “huddle spaces” of the startup world are not governed by TCP/IP. They are governed by subtext, eye contact, and the “vibe” of the room (variables that my Autistic brain often struggles to parse in real-time). Being the “Autistic in the room” in a leadership role feels like trying to run modern software on hardware that was built for a completely different architecture.
We talk a lot about “disruptive” ideas in tech, but we rarely talk about the person who is actually disruptive to the social fabric of the office.
My brand of disruption isn’t intentional. It is the result of a brain that values truth over hierarchy and clarity over comfort. When a Product Manager presents a roadmap that is logically inconsistent, I don’t see a “vision” to be massaged. I see a null pointer exception. I point it out, not to be difficult, but because I believe the most empathetic thing I can do for the team is to prevent them from building a bridge that will inevitably collapse.
In the startup world, this is often misread as “not being a team player” or “lacking soft skills.” But what we call soft skills are often just the ability to navigate neurotypical social rituals.
The irony is that the tech industry was built by people who thought like me. The early internet was forged by individuals who preferred the Usenet to a cocktail party. We built Linux and the World Wide Web because we wanted systems that were open, logical, and predictable. We created a world where we could communicate through text and code, bypassing the confusing “wiring” of face-to-face interaction.
Now that tech has become the dominant culture, we have brought back the very barriers we once escaped. We have filled our offices with open floor plans (which are essentially sensory torture chambers for an Autistic person) and we demand “radical candor” while simultaneously punishing anyone who is actually candid about the things that matter.
Empathy in the tech sector needs to move beyond the superficial. It isn’t just about being “nice.” It is about recognizing that the person who isn’t making eye contact in the meeting might be the only one who sees the catastrophic flaw in your API design. It is about understanding that my “bluntness” is actually a form of deep care for the mission.
We need to stop trying to “patch” Autistic people to make them compatible with neurotypical environments. Instead, we should look at the environment itself. If your company culture cannot handle someone who speaks the literal truth, your culture is the one with the bug.
When I sit in those rooms now, I no longer try to hide the wiring. I accept that I am the legacy system that still holds the most important data. I am there to remind the room that while feelings matter, the laws of logic and the reality of the code are not optional.
