by Anonymous
I stayed in the same seat all day.
It sounds like a small thing, almost a joke, but it mattered. I even mentioned it at the start, half-apologetic, half-amused. The training room shifted and flowed around me, and I stayed exactly where I was. That, in itself, felt like permission.
The day was thought-provoking—one of those rare days that doesn’t just give new ideas to take back to work but also lingers on your mind. I kept thinking, I hope I can carry this into my daily practice. But somewhere along the way, the learning took a more personal turn.
Earlier this year, I was diagnosed as autistic.
At first, the diagnosis came wrapped in concern. I was told I would need a lot of help and support. Adjustments at work. Support groups. Forms to fill in. PIP applications. A new label: disabled. All well-meaning. All kindly delivered. And slowly, without realising it, I began to absorb the message underneath.
I started to doubt myself.
Things I had managed all my life—making decisions, trusting my instincts, navigating the world in my own way—suddenly felt fragile. As if the diagnosis had rewritten my story. As if I could no longer rely on the person I had always been.
The strange thing is nothing about me had actually changed. I had been autistic my whole life. I had achieved so much before the label arrived. And yet, the label had power. It quietly eroded my sense of autonomy. Since the diagnosis, people treated me as if I were more vulnerable, more breakable. As if I needed protecting. And without noticing, I agreed. I accepted it. I lapped it up.
Until today.
Something in your words stopped me in my tracks. Not dramatically—just a sudden, unmistakable clarity. I saw how easily learned helplessness can creep in. How quickly support can turn into substitution. How autonomy can be taken away not through cruelty, but through kindness.
And in that moment, I understood our patients and families differently.
I saw how easily people can be guided into believing they cannot cope, cannot decide, cannot trust themselves—simply because we are so eager to help, to fix, to carry things for them. How good intentions can quietly shrink someone’s sense of self.
Today didn’t just change how I think about my work. It reminded me of myself.
Thank you—for the training, for the pause, for the permission to reclaim autonomy. Your message made a difference.
(I will still need to stay in the same seat, though.)
And as I was leaving, one line kept echoing in my mind:
“I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.”
And today, for the first time in a while, I truly believed it.