Isabelle Blum on what it’s like to navigate life at UCD as an autistic student.
Let’s set the scene: your typical Tuesday morning, good aul Theater L in Newman; for the majority, the hustle and bustle, the smell of coffee wafting from a society’s coffee morning, and the fluorescent lights are hardly anything of note. As it approaches ten to the hour, students throng out of the doors, and the waiting students head in to replace them. For the majority, there is nothing bothersome about this. But for me, an autistic person, this is the definition of utter hell. The crowds of people mess with my already poor balance, all the noise is too loud, too much. The lights feel like machetes hacking into my eyes.
For me, being autistic feels like having my senses turned up on the world. I feel things (emotionally and physically) at an intensity far higher than allistic (non-autistic) people do. The hour approaches, I make my way in; I can hear everything from the electricity in the walls to the constant chattering coming from every single seat. All of this makes it nigh impossible for me to be able to hear the lecturer talking. The lights are often too bright, like daggers stabbing right into my eyeballs. I have my meager coping strategies, such as wearing Loop ear plugs, having sunglasses to hand, and sitting on an aisle seat close to the door should the need arise for me to step out and take a movement break. But it is all so exhausting trying to survive in a world not designed for people like me.
I have my meager coping strategies, such as wearing Loop ear plugs, having sunglasses to hand, and sitting on an aisle seat close to the door should the need arise for me to step out and take a movement break. But it is all so exhausting trying to survive in a world not designed for people like me.
I am quite comfortable and confident in self-advocacy at this stage in my life, after having been diagnosed at age 11 and getting support from the community in AsIAm, Ireland’s autism charity. When engaging with groups of students whom I don’t know very well (or at all), I am quite solid when it comes to disclosing my diagnosis and my support needs. But that isn’t all to say that I still don’t struggle. On a daily basis I observe social situations between neurotypical students that simply don’t make any sense to me. How do they know when something is and isn’t a joke? How do they know when it is appropriate to laugh or not? How do they know when their peer is making fun of them or not? This line of questioning could make a column in and of itself. What has helped me in the past with engaging in society events that I am eager to attend is getting in touch with the society ahead of time asking for as much information as possible in advance.
At the start of the year I was looking forward to attending the History society’s Treaty of Versailles debate, but as I had never been to a society debate before at the time, I was anxious about what to expect in terms of crowds, noise levels and structure. A very helpful committee member sent me a video of a previous debate which helped hugely in anticipating what I could expect. I would like to note here that I, a cisgender female, am considered “lucky” for having been diagnosed as young as I was — while most cisgender males are diagnosed before the age of 5, 80% of autistic cisgender females will remain undiagnosed by the age of 18. A primary reason for this (one of a sheer multitude) is down to how girls are socialised from such a young age. We are encouraged to mask our discomfort and always be polite to others, and to keep our emotions well regulated — it is essentially the complete opposite for boys.
Having entered as a DARE (Disability Access Route to Education) student, my diagnosis was already known to the Access and Lifelong Learning (ALL) Centre. I spoke with a very kind occupational therapist there and went into more depth about my required support needs and she disclosed to me how UCD could cater to them. As someone who struggles immensely with auditory processing, being able to record lectures and see what the lecturers are saying helps me hugely. However, one (of quite a few) bones I have to pick is with regards to the accessibility of the transition room and sensory study spaces. While I understand that there is naturally a huge demand to access them, the fact that one must book to use them is rather diabolical to me — with all due respect one cannot plan or schedule when they are going to go into sensory overload/have a meltdown or enter a heightened state of distress!
I study psychology — the study of the mind and behaviour, if you will. Given my advocacy background, I find it fascinating interacting with people whose brains (like my own) deviate from the societal norm. Since commencing my studies, my hyper-focuses have hugely pertained to neuroanatomy, neuroscience and neuropsychology. This has allowed me to thrive in my modules, as I become immersed in the course content and wider reading. I have also been able to link aspects of my lived experience directly to psychology assignments, which have both “educated my educators” if you will, and left me with good marks.
There is a lot to be said about how to be an autistic ally. For context, I have been involved with AsIAm for almost five years now, and have been advocating directly with Adam Harris since 2023. For two years, I was a youth advocate, where I spoke and advocated for more acceptance, inclusion and resources for autistic teenagers. I am now an Ambassador for AsIAm, as well as a regular volunteer at Neuroconvergence. Those that know me will know my infamous catchphrase, Hear. Our. Words.
And that is something I will preach for eternity; to those that want to know how they can best support or accommodate us, simply treat us like the human beings that we are and listen and read what we have to say. I am lucky that the friends that I have made have been more than open to accommodating me in ways such as opting for quieter hang-out spots, not being bothered that I may bring my own food to their homes, and sitting beside me next to the door in lecture halls. It is a privilege to say that that is only the tip of the iceberg in how accepting my own friends have been. But for those who want to be more accommodating to their autistic friends, let me reiterate one final thing:
Hear. Our. Words.