Nat, one of our wonderful Spoony community members, shares her experiences of being diagnosed as Autistic in a beautiful piece of writing that captures the similarities between her journey and the story of The Wizard of Oz.
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When I was diagnosed with Autism in July of 2024, it was as though I had been whisked away by a cyclone, plucked from the ordinary sepia tone of the life I had known and set down in a land that was both dizzyingly enchanting and eerily uncanny. My mind, which once felt like an untamed Kansas plain, now revealed itself as a land of hidden paths and intricate patterns. The diagnosis was my house crashing down upon a seemingly wicked witch—not a tragedy, but a sudden, jolting arrival into the land of Oz.
The revelation came like stepping out of sepia and into a realm where the sky burned brighter than it should, where every edge shimmered with an unspoken truth. It wasn’t a cyclone that carried me, but a quiet unravelling, a feeling that I had always been moving, but never quite here. The diagnosis was not a fall, but rather, a landing—a jolt into a world that had always been waiting, familiar and alien in the same breath.
At first, I wandered, unsure of my footing, marvelling at the Technicolor truths blooming all around me. The way my mind danced with details, noticed the flicker of a leaf in a storm or the subtle shift in someone’s tone—it was all so vivid now. What I once thought were weeds in my mind’s garden was, in fact, a wildflower garden brimming with potential. Then, the yellow brick road stretched before me, winding through the terrains of self-acceptance and societal misunderstanding, promising me answers if I dared to follow it.
The road beneath me glowed gold, but its curves were not linear. They spiralled, doubled back, branched into paths that whispered of understanding and isolation. I moved forward, though forward felt less like progress and more like remembering—remembering how to see the colours that had always pulsed beneath my skin, unnoticed in the grayscale blur of before.
I have encountered companions along the way. The Scarecrow has reminded me of the times I doubted my own intelligence, tangled in the brambles of societal expectations. The Tin Man has echoed my eternal ache of feeling too much or too little, of being told I lacked a heart simply because I experienced love and attachment differently to the Flying Monkey neurotypicals. And the Cowardly Lion walks beside me, my faithful companion, carrying the weight of every moment I have felt too vulnerable to roar.
These archetypes have always been my lifelong companions, though their faces have not always been so clear. One, a construct of tangled straw and shadows, echoed the questions I’d once whispered to myself in the dark: What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just—? Another figure, hollow and metallic, reaching out a hand nobody could take, their emptiness mirroring my own fears of social isolation and alienation. The third, a lion, not of fur, but of smoke, embodying the fragility of all the moments I’d tried to be brave but couldn’t quite grasp the shape of courage.
The Wizard, of course, was a symbol of the neurotypicals vision of normalcy. An imposing figure built on a foundation of smoke and mirrors, convincing me that if I only tried hard enough, I could rule Oz too. But just like Dorothy, my diagnosis pulled back the curtain, and saw it for what it was: a fragile illusion reinforced by arbitrary rules. In that moment, I realised the power had always been mine, woven into the ruby-red threads of my being. I didn’t need to practice someone else’s brand of magic when my own was already shimmering under my skin, radiating through my veins.
Ahead, the towering illusion of counselling and medication loomed, promising answers in its green-tinted glow. I stood before it, uncertain whether to kneel like Glinda or revolt like Elphaba. Yet when the curtain was finally drawn, there was no great revelation—just the soft voice of Lisa, my therapist, in my mind, saying: Look down. You’ve had the answers all along. And I did. My shoes glinted red, not with glamour but with grounding, each step heavy with the truth of who I’d always been. There’s no place like home, after all—wherever that may be.
When I returned to Caloundra, my Kansas, the colours didn’t fade. Instead, I carried them with me, reframing the world I thought I knew. I wasn’t the same as before the storm, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. The adventure hadn’t changed who I was; it had simply shown me who I’d always been.
Reality has not shifted an inch since my return. My field of vision stretches before me as it always has. The sky glows with its eternal shade of periwinkle. But I am different. The iridescent dust of Oz clings to me, the impossibly bright Technicolor colours threading themselves through the sepia fabric of my daily life. The question is no longer whether I belong, but how do I belong, here? Now?
Nat is a writer with a passion for art, music, and nature. Through writing, she explores life and humanity with curiosity and insight.