📛 Session 12: When Advocacy Reinforces the Status Quo

🌿 Transformative Education for Neurodivergent Liberation

“The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” — Audre Lorde

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📌 If you’re just joining us, I recommend reading [Session 1 – Why I’m Leading This Workshop (My Positionality)] for shared agreements and to understand how this space is held.

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We’ve spent the last few sessions tracing how autistic people—especially those living at the intersections—are often unseen by systems, erased by structures, and excluded even from spaces built for us. Today, we turn the mirror inward.

This session is not about blame.

It’s about reflection.

It’s about the subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways advocacy efforts—even those rooted in justice—can unconsciously uphold the very paradigms we are trying to transform.

We’ll look at:

• How “awareness” campaigns often center palatable narratives

• How professionalized advocacy can create new gatekeepers

• How access to platforms often mirrors systems of privilege

• And how we move toward advocacy that is truly liberatory—not performative

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🖼️ The Optics of Awareness

Autism “awareness” is everywhere now. Blue lights, puzzle pieces, branded campaigns, corporate statements.

But what are we really being asked to be aware of?

Often, it’s not our lived experiences. Not our grief or joy or contradictions. Not our critique of the systems that failed us.

It’s a curated image of autism that’s easy to digest:

• The smiling white child who flaps.

• The quirky genius trope.

• The brave parent “advocating” for their child by speaking over them.

This kind of awareness doesn’t disrupt systems. It comforts them.

It says: “We see you… as long as you behave.”

It asks for representation, not redistribution.
It elevates visibility, not accountability.
It centers voices that reassure, not those that confront.

And for those of us who do confront—who speak to injustice, misdiagnosis, misrecognition—we’re often told we’re being too angry. Too divisive. Too much.

But the problem isn’t the discomfort we create.

The problem is the comfort these campaigns maintain.

📣 Platform Power Isn’t Neutral

In a decentralized world where anyone can post, influence can feel democratized. But let’s be clear: platform power is not neutral—and it’s never distributed equally.

Algorithms reward certainty, not nuance. They uplift charisma over complexity, repetition over reflection, and often, white voices over racialized ones. Those with large platforms don’t just share ideas—they shape narratives. They frame the public imagination around what neurodivergence is, who counts, and what it means to be valid.

That’s not inherently wrong. But it is inherently powerful.

And with power comes responsibility.

It means naming the limits of your lens. It means citing the people whose lived experience you’re describing. It means acknowledging that a thought isn’t truth just because it goes viral.

When people with positional power speak with sweeping authority—especially about minds that move differently than theirs—they can inadvertently cause harm. They can pathologize what’s actually adaptive. They can erase nuance by collapsing it into diagnosis. They can misname, misframe, and mislead—even when they mean well.

Here’s an example.

A widely followed neurodivergent creator recently described autistic metacognition as a “form of dissociation.” With confidence and charisma, they framed recursive thought as a detachment from presence—something to be regulated or fixed. And for some, maybe that framing resonated.

But for many of us—especially those living in recursive awareness as a lifeline, a sense-making strategy, a way of staying tethered to ourselves in a world that fragments us—it felt erasing. Pathologizing. Flattening.

Not because the person was malicious. But because they didn’t name the limits of their perspective.

That video went viral. Their certainty echoed. And suddenly, a layered, deeply embodied experience became reduced to a clinical soundbite—detached from the lives it impacts most.

In Session 11, we explored how systems erase lives that don’t fit their models. This is one of those systems—an informal, cultural one, powered by platforms rather than policies. But the effect is similar: those closest to the margins are the most likely to be misrepresented or ignored.

That’s why responsible platforming means more than not doing harm. It means actively creating space for the voices most often left out—nonspeaking autistics, disabled Black and Brown organizers, queer and trans neurodivergent folks, those without academic or algorithmic legitimacy.

Because representation without redistribution is just optics.
And visibility without accountability is just influence in disguise.

We don’t need more voices speaking about us.
We need more people creating space with us.

And if you have a platform, the question isn’t “Am I helping?”

It’s: Who am I amplifying? Who am I forgetting? And what am I willing to make room for—besides myself?

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⚠️ Advocacy That Centers Palatability Is Not Liberation

Not all advocacy is liberatory.
Some of it is assimilation with better branding.

When advocacy is shaped to soothe institutions, win funding, or maintain personal influence—it often ends up reinforcing the very systems it claims to challenge. Especially when:

• “Awareness” campaigns ignore the realities of ableism, racism, and class violence

• Inclusion is measured by proximity to normativity (speaking, working, “functioning”)

• Advocacy platforms filter out rage, grief, and unpolished truths to stay “on message”

What we’re left with is a sanitized version of activism—one that centers access for the already adjacent to power, while leaving the rest behind.

This isn’t always intentional. Some of us start by telling the truth and then slowly, subtly, start shaping our stories to fit what’s digestible. We get told “you’re a great spokesperson,” “you say it in a way others can hear it,” “you should be the face of this.”

But here’s the thing: if I become more palatable than the community I’m speaking for, I’m no longer speaking for us. I’m performing a curated fragment of us, designed for a neurotypical gaze.

And if our goal is justice—not just representation—we can’t afford that.

True advocacy doesn’t center access to systems as they are.
It imagines something different. It agitates, disrupts, redistributes.

It doesn’t just demand a seat at the table—it questions who built the table, and whether the table ever served us to begin with.

So if our advocacy:

• Reinforces function-based hierarchies

• Prioritizes politeness over truth

• Silences dissent to maintain cohesion

• Platforms only the “professionalized” voices

• Avoids naming power to preserve brand safety

…then we have to ask: Whose comfort is it protecting? And at what cost?

Because if your advocacy is only celebrated by the system—it’s probably not challenging it.

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💥 Disruption Is a Form of Care

We’ve been taught to fear disruption.
To associate it with chaos, aggression, non-compliance.
To see it as the opposite of care.

But sometimes, care is disruption.

It’s refusing to keep things comfortable when comfort relies on erasure.

It’s asking the hard questions, naming the things we weren’t supposed to name, unsettling the narratives that were built to keep us quiet.

Disruption isn’t cruelty—it’s clarity.
It’s drawing a boundary around truth and saying: this matters too.

When someone says, “You’re being divisive,” what they often mean is, “You’re making it hard for me to ignore what I’ve been able to ignore.”

When someone says, “You’re making us look bad,” what they mean is, “You’re saying things that complicate our image.”

But liberation was never meant to be simple.
It was never meant to be easy.
And it certainly wasn’t meant to be brand-safe.

Disruption means holding the line when inclusion becomes assimilation.
It means amplifying the voices that make people uncomfortable—because those voices often carry the clearest truth.

It means choosing accountability over applause.

Because care is not passive.
It’s not always soft.
Sometimes, care is sharp. Direct. Non-negotiable.
Sometimes, it’s the refusal to let silence win.

So let this be a reminder:

If your voice shakes the room,
If your truth causes discomfort,
If your presence disrupts the performance—

That doesn’t mean you’re unkind.
It means you’re paying attention.

And in a world that rewards performance over presence, that is a radical act of care.

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🎯 Centering & Decentering: What It Really Means

We talk a lot about centering marginalized voices. But what does that actually mean?

It doesn’t mean erasing yourself. It doesn’t mean silencing your story. It doesn’t mean pretending you don’t exist.

It means locating yourself in the web of power, privilege, and proximity.

It means asking:

• Am I speaking from lived experience, or about someone else’s?

• Am I taking up space, or creating space?

• Am I framing the narrative, or amplifying those who’ve been misframed?

To center yourself is a necessary act when your truth has been distorted, denied, or erased. It’s how we reclaim voice, story, agency.

To decenter yourself is a necessary act when your presence, perspective, or privilege risks drowning out those who have not yet been heard. It’s how we practice solidarity—not saviorism.

You can hold both.

You can speak your truth and stay attuned to who hasn’t had the mic.

You can name your pain and ask who still isn’t safe to name theirs.

You can share your story and shift the spotlight.

This is not about shame. It’s about stewardship.

It’s about using our platforms, positions, and privileges to widen the circle—not just stand taller in it.

Because centering isn’t a metaphor. It’s a material shift. It changes:

• Who gets resourced

• Who gets published

• Who gets cited

• Who gets believed

• Who gets protected

When we center marginalized voices, we don’t just include them—we follow them. We trust that those closest to the margins often hold the clearest vision of what needs to change.

So if you’re wondering:

“Should I speak right now?”

Ask yourself:

“Whose voice am I making more possible?”

Center yourself when you’ve been erased.
Decenter yourself when others haven’t yet been seen.
And keep returning to this dance—not as a performance, but as a practice.

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🩰 Learning the Dance (The Hard Way)

I didn’t always understand what it meant to center or decenter.

I learned by messing it up. By being called out. By being misunderstood.
By navigating that painful space between intention and impact.

I’ve been accused of centering myself—ironically, in moments where I was actively trying to center others. I didn’t name my positionality clearly enough, and people filled in the blanks. Assumed things about me. Projected. And that’s part of the learning.

But here’s the other side:
When I did name my positionality—when I said I’m autistic, I’m trauma-informed, I’m a system builder, I’m someone who walks this path from inside the margins—I still wasn’t believed.

And that hurt even more.

Because when people doubt your truth after you’ve risked telling it, it reinforces the very exclusion you’re trying to undo.

I learned that being careful with your language doesn't guarantee you’ll be understood. I learned that power dynamics aren’t always visible. I learned that being vulnerable while holding space for others takes an enormous amount of internal regulation. And I learned that some people won’t like you no matter what you do—especially if your presence disrupts the hierarchy they’ve built around who gets to be “centered.”

But I also learned this:

• I can speak from my own wounds and still hold room for others.

• I can name where I’m located and still name where I long to go.

• I can be a mirror without erasing my reflection.

This is what it means to move with integrity.

Not to be perfect—but to be reflexive.

Not to be silent—but to be responsible with sound.

Not to be above criticism—but to keep growing through it.

So if you’ve ever been told you’re “too much,” “making it about you,” “not allowed to say that” because of how you seem—but you know you’re showing up from truth, care, and lived experience—I see you.

This dance is not easy.

It’s not choreographed in advance.

But with each step, we learn to hold more. More contradiction. More community. More clarity.

✨ Embodied Reflection

As you reflect on this session, take one full breath in—and let it out with sound.

Let yourself land.

Notice what parts of your body softened as you read, and what parts may still feel tense or charged.

Now gently ask yourself:

• Where am I speaking from lived experience—and where might I be filling space that belongs to someone else?

• When has centering myself been necessary for truth-telling—and when has it risked overshadowing others?

• What does it feel like, in my body, to share space with difference?

There’s no need to rush toward clarity. Just be with what arises.

Because collective liberation is not just an idea. It’s a practice—a rhythm we learn in our bodies, through relationship, over time.

Let this be one small step in that rhythm.

🌀 This Session Is a Co-Creation

This session isn’t just mine—it’s ours.

It’s not a monologue. It’s a weaving. A gathering of threads—some mine, many yours. And it’s different for that reason.

Because if we’re going to talk about advocacy, we can’t just critique it from above. We have to listen from below. We have to center the stories that haven’t been spotlighted, the truths that haven’t been shaped into platforms or polished for consumption.

I asked some of you to help me build this. To name what advocacy has felt like—for better and worse. What you’ve carried. What you’ve lost. What you still long for.

This is where I walk the walk.

And now, I’m asking again:

🧭 What does advocacy mean to you—when no one’s watching?

Have you ever been tokenized, silenced, or erased in the name of visibility?

Have you ever felt like advocacy asked you to abandon yourself in order to be heard?

Have you experienced harm in spaces that claimed to be inclusive?

Have you found moments of real connection, real change, that reminded you advocacy can be a return—not just a performance?

🌀 An Invitation to Speak in Your Own Language

This is your invitation to share—on your terms, in your time.

There’s no right way to respond. There’s only what feels true.

You can write a few words or many. Send a voice note. Share a drawing, a photo, a poem, a song. You can speak through movement, memory, or silence. You can hold it in your heart and still be part of this weaving.

Whether you share in the comments or privately in my DMs… whether it’s polished or raw, joyful or aching, whole or still unfolding…

If it’s true for you, it belongs here.

This space doesn’t ask for performance. It asks for presence.

Come as you are. Speak in the language your truth arrives in. We’ll meet you there.

This session is a living archive. A co-created reflection. A space where our stories build the shape of something deeper than critique—something like truth.

And in case no one has told you lately:
Your story matters.
Even if it’s messy.
Especially if it’s messy.
Even if you’re not ready to share it yet.
Especially then.

You don’t need a platform to be powerful.
You don’t need perfect words to be worthy.
You don’t need to advocate like anyone else in order to matter.

You just need to be real.
And you are.

💬 This space is open. The circle is wide.
Let’s weave something true—together.

💫 New Sessions Every Monday & Wednesday
This 12-week journey unfolds twice a week—every Monday and Wednesday—with each session building on the last.

You can view the full session lineup here, and here’s what’s coming next:

✨ Session 13 – Visibility ≠ Liberation
We’ll look beyond representation to explore how visibility can become a trap—especially when it’s not accompanied by safety, nuance, or structural change. Who benefits from being seen, and who gets exposed? What happens when our stories are consumed but not protected?

💬 Share your reflections, insights, or creative responses in the comments—or privately. This space grows stronger with our truths, not just mine.

💖 A Note on Support
This work will never live behind a paywall. It is meant to be accessible, co-created, and shared freely.

If you have the means to support it through a paid subscription, your contribution helps sustain this work and supports The Compassion Collective—a community rooted in justice, mutual care, and transformative change.

Every subscription, every share, every message of resonance keeps this space alive and grounded in care.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for showing up real.

🌿
Shamani of The Compassion Collective