by Oddly Robbie

I had a moment recently in Inner Worlds (a very good VR platform for people who wish to just talk about life challenges) that left me a little steamed.

A well-meaning moderator—sweet tone, bless her—wrapped up her shift by inviting me to the autism group.

Nice idea. Bad fit.

I tried, gently, to explain that autistic groups don’t usually work for me. That we’re often more divergent from each other than neurotypicals ever seem ready to admit.

She smiled and said, “You’d be surprised how much we have in common.”

She meant it kindly. A bit of fluff. Something soft and safe.

But it completely missed the mark.

Because here’s the thing: autistic common ground isn’t comfort food. It’s not hugs and haikus and late-night Zoom calls where everyone shares their sensory preferences.

It’s often logic. Precision. Boundaries. Fractal-level thinking.

And paradoxically, our common ground is often how wildly different we are.

We don’t all want circle time and shared experience sessions.

Some of us are analyzing the architecture of language.

Others are mapping internal galaxies in color-coded emotional algorithms.

Some are silent sensors, others are linguistic lightning rods.

We’re not one big quirky tribe.

We’re systems. Sparks. Solvers. Floaters. Builders. Deconstructors.

Sometimes all at once, and sometimes not even on the same planet.

It keeps happening:

Neurotypicals gather us like scattered marbles they can’t stand to see rolling off the table.

“Let’s put them in a group,” they say,

“As if shared neurology means shared everything else.”

But we are not a flock.

⸻

If you’ve ever stared into a campfire, you’ve seen us.

Every now and then, a spark escapes.

It doesn’t ask. It doesn’t follow. It just flies.

Up, sideways, spiraling, zigzagging—

writing its own wild language in air.

That’s us.

And some folks don’t like it.

They want containment.

They want cozy.

They want labels that click neatly into place.

But sparks don’t do neat.

⸻

Let me be clear: I’m not slamming autistic community.

Some find immense connection in group spaces. That’s beautiful.

But stop assuming we all want that.

Stop assuming “support” means rounding us up into pastel-colored Zoom rooms with breathing circles and empathy prompts.

Sometimes the most supportive thing you can do for someone like me

is leave the gate open.

Some of us speak in synesthesia.

Some in math.

Some feel language like it’s sandpaper and silk all at once.

Some build entire realities in VR, or music, or carefully crafted silence.

We are not a single song—we’re a playlist: chaotic, mismatched, brilliant.

And almost always, playing in a key you didn’t expect.

⸻

So the next time you build your cozy neurotypical campfire,

and try to herd the sparks back in for “connection” or “healing” or “fellowship”…

Just know:

Some of us are already out in the sky,

lighting our own fires.

Far away from your padded little fence.

If you want a group? Group yourselves.

We’ll be over here—writing new patterns in the dark,

doing what sparks do best:

flying where we damn well please.