From Silence to Laughter: My Autistic Life, Unfiltered

There are days when words just stop working.

June 21st was one of those days. I was in full autistic shutdown—silent, still, and nonverbal. My body couldn’t take anymore, and neither could my mind. I wasn’t trying to be dramatic or distant. I just... couldn’t speak. And the world didn’t pause to let me catch up. It kept spinning.

But here’s what people don’t always see: silence doesn’t mean nothing is happening. Inside, everything was loud. My thoughts were racing, my body buzzing. I was fighting to stay grounded while drowning in sensory overload, stress, and emotional exhaustion.

It lasted nearly two days.

Then something beautiful happened.

On June 23rd, around 3 PM, I laughed. Really laughed. My mom was getting on to my niece Haley, and the face she made? Priceless. I was shaking from holding in the laughter. My niece Destiny saw me and bolted into the hallway. I followed—and we both collapsed in laughter. I couldn’t move. I almost peed myself. We got busted, of course. My mom overheard and told us to leave the room. But I didn’t care. I had my voice back. And I remembered what joy feels like.

Being autistic means moments like these hit harder. The shutdowns. The meltdowns. The laughter. The wins. The whole rollercoaster. I’ve learned that I need time to recover after emotional build-up. I need space to feel. Tools to regulate. And people who get it—or at least try to.

It’s not always pretty.

Like the other day at work. I got a phone call about a delayed paycheck, and it hit me like a freight train. My face went pale. I started sweating. My body couldn’t hide the panic, even if my voice did. I held it together, but barely. That’s how stress lives in an autistic body—it’s not “just anxiety.” It’s full-body chaos.

But I’m learning. I’m growing.

I'm learning to use my voice when I have it—and to honor my silence when I don’t. I’m learning that joy can break through the heavy. That regulation tools (like my Buc-ee beaver, Nee Doh cube, and stim spinner) aren’t silly—they’re lifelines. That asking for help is not weakness. That my autistic life isn’t broken. It’s just wired differently. And it’s still worthy.

This post is for anyone who’s ever misunderstood a shutdown. For anyone who thinks “you were just fine yesterday.” For anyone who laughs so hard they forget how hard things were five minutes ago.

And for every autistic person learning how to navigate a world not built for us—I see you. Your silence is valid. Your laughter is sacred. Your story matters.

So here’s mine.

From shutdown to laughter. From fear to joy. From silence... to me.

– Caleb 🐺🖤

Autistic. Shapeshifter of emotions. Still here.