2026 marked the third time I attended Stokercon, but the first time I attended while embracing my reality of being on the autism spectrum. This is a new diagnosis for me, and some may say why bother with a diagnosis this late in the game? I will tell you why: Because it is liberating beyond words to finally understand why I've always felt so different—and to finally feel like it's okay to just be me instead of constantly trying to adhere to societal expectations.
This was by far my best Stokercon experience—in spite of a
stimulation level so intense I'd most accurately describe it as an ordeal.
But it was an ordeal I moved through as my genuine self, without masking or "faking
it." And that led to some truly enjoyable interactions with strangers.
I've always had issues with "small talk." What is
it? What is its purpose? Why do I want to waste my energy on empty chatter?
I've labeled myself "shy" for a long time, but the issue is deeper
than that. I can't "compete" in a group conversation. And there's
nothing about my natural abilities or inclinations that would lead me to
approach people in a party-like setting.
I accepted all of that this year, and found a place with a
small grouping of comfy seats where I could plop myself, out of the way, before
all of my Stokercon activities. But a rather amazing thing happened: People approached
me, and I had more conversations with strangers than I've ever had.
Of course it helped that at Stokercon everyone had mutual interests. It also helped that everyone was wearing a name badge. (I loved flashing my badge rather than vocalizing my name!) But even more helpful were the people who opened up—often within sixty seconds—about their own neurodivergence, which gave us an instant, meaningful thing that we had in common. And this happened multiple times.
For the first time in my life I got to swap info about traits—about
needing hours to prepare to go somewhere, and getting stuck in waiting mode.
About the noise, the lights, the mayhem. About the difficulty in recognizing
faces. About the need for copious amounts of downtime. The overload of
Stokercon is hard for people on the spectrum—but it made for the perfect
opportunity to find kinship.
With Taylor Grothe
Have I ever been myself in public before??
I have spent my life "looking fine" to everyone.
Everywhere. All the time. Somewhere along the line, I learned that
"looking fine" was the way to go, to not seem the least bit
troublesome or needy. But you know what happens after decades of that? Your
needs are never met! Eventually I'd started to wonder what my needs actually
were. And I started to question if I had to remain the version of myself that
I—and others—have accepted as "me."
I've been on a very intentional journey for a couple of years now. (Maybe sometime I'll tell you the tale about how I discovered the truth about being on the autism spectrum after joining the kink community.) My goal has been consistent: To peel back the layers of bullshit, the years of acquired patterns, and be my full, real self. This version of me might not look you in the eye as much. I might make less effort to sit still. I might not bottle everything up as much, or smile as a default. Slowly, a more authentic version of myself is emerging.
There are also some specific things about being on the
spectrum that made being a panelist at Stokercon quite challenging. As
mentioned above, I can't "compete" in a group conversation. There are always one or two people on panels that end up doing most of the talking—and I
can't interject myself. By the time I decide if I should speak up, the relevant
moment has passed. And I also came to realize—now that I'm coming to terms with
the realities of how I process things differently—that I don't always
understand the moderator's questions. Truly, my brain is sometimes interpreting
everything differently, and I found myself feeling like a contrarian because I
wasn't always on the same page as everyone else. 
With Christine Harrold
At this point I'm questioning if I should volunteer for any
panels when Stokercon returns to Pittsburgh next year. On the one hand, panels give
me somewhere specific to be (rather than sitting somewhere out of the way like
a lost person). On the other hand, there is this lingering sense that panels
are hard and stressful. I don't know; I have many months to decide. In the
meanwhile, I can entertain thoughts about my ongoing journey, and where it will
take me. And who I might be by the time Stokercon 2027 rolls around.
