I am Zülal Tannur, a Bachelor of Science (B.S.) student in Neuroscience and Cognitive Sciences at the university of Arizona. I am a young woman who was born visually impaired. I have a high level of intelligence and I am on the spectrum. In other words, I am what is termed twice exceptional — both autistic and cognitively gifted.

There is almost no data in the scientific literature on individuals who are autistic, visually impaired, and women. Direct self-cognitive case analyses do not exist at all in the global scientific literature. I refuse to accept this absence.

This text is one of the first steps toward leaving a record in that void and beginning to generate scientific data in this field. This cognitive case analysis is the world’s first case study of a visually impaired, autistic woman, and it is my contribution to the neuroscience literature.

I work with autistic colleagues, and I have long collaborated with autistic individuals and families who use the technologies I have developed. For years, I have been working, developing, and learning with them. But this article is not about them — it is about my autism.

I received my autism diagnosis in adulthood. It is no surprise that the system recognized me late, because the system was not designed to recognize people like me. For a long time, the criteria for autism were developed based on male children. Women — more masked, quieter, more compliant — were overlooked. Visually impaired individuals, even when they exhibited behaviors specific to autism, had these behaviors explained away as stemming from visual impairments, without causal links being made. This has made receiving an autism diagnosis much harder for them. To this day, there is still not even a valid IQ test designed for the visually impaired.

My cognitive differences were not easily visible from the outside. But they were constant. And that constancy delayed the diagnosis.

I grew up in a very attentive family, with great care. I was a child whose every aspect was nurtured. For this reason, when my autistic traits were not recognized in time, it was not due to negligence — it was because my cognitive processes were not disruptive enough to stand out. The late diagnosis, therefore, did not surprise me. Yet at some point, I wanted to look back and put names to certain things.

Recently, I listened to the BBC podcast Autism, Empathy and Psychopaths (Nelson, 2025). In the program, it was explained how misconceptions in the field of empathy and autism were being corrected by autistic researchers themselves. After listening to it, I decided not to be content with just researching. This time, I wanted to record my own patterns, my cognitive differences, and my personal experience — not only in scientific terms but also with personal honesty.

Because being unseen does not mean not existing. And my stance exists precisely to show that.

WHAT IS AUTISM? — Explaining Through Functioning, Not Diagnoses

Autism is often defined by behaviors: not making eye contact, repetitive movements, limited social interest, unusual forms of communication… But these definitions do not appear the same in everyone. They were not the same in me, either.

Autism is not only a set of outwardly observed symptoms; it is a different system of how the brain interacts with its environment. For me, autism is not a behavioral pattern but a difference in functioning. It is a structure that differs in each process — processing sensory input, directing attention, establishing internal order, interpreting social contexts, and generating responses.

My brain works like a computer. It processes incoming data quickly, multilayered, and sometimes simultaneously. In some environments, this system works very efficiently; in others, it does not match external stimuli but instead operates according to its own priority system. This is not a disorder; it is the algorithm of the system itself. And this algorithm is part of what we call neurodiversity.

In its current definition, Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) is a neurodevelopmental difference characterized by persistent differences in social communication and restricted, repetitive patterns of behavior (American Psychiatric Association, 2013). The neurobiological foundations of autism are associated with observed connectivity differences in specific regions of the nervous system (Lai, Lombardo, & Baron-Cohen, 2014). The prefrontal cortex is responsible for executive functions such as attention management, planning, and decision-making. The amygdala regulates emotional responses to social stimuli. The cerebellum (the “little brain”) is not only active in motor coordination but also in cognitive timing and internal synchronization processes. The temporoparietal junction is associated with understanding others’ mental states and empathy. When the connectivity structures in these regions differ, the responses given to the environment also differ. From the outside, these differences may appear “unusual,” but internally they operate in a very consistent and systematic way.

My autism was not very apparent from the outside. I did not make eye contact because I could not see. I had social regulations, but they followed my own internal logic. My communication was direct and fluid. But behind all this, there was an information-processing system with its own unique functioning.

That is why, in this article, I present autism not as a label but as a way of understanding my own cognitive system — because it is not merely a diagnosis; it is a structure that has been working with me throughout my entire life.

My Encounter with Autism and My Path to Diagnosis

I was born with low vision.

I learned how to use what sight I had on a computer screen I started using at four and a half. Together with my family, we strengthened my brain’s visual capacity by practicing face, color, and object recognition. Thanks to neuroplasticity — the brain’s ability to reorganize itself through experience and to process missing input via alternative pathways — even with about 5% vision, I could make sense of shapes, colors, and objects (Kolb & Gibb, 2011). At age ten, I lost my vision completely.

A few months after that loss, I met a child in a hospital waiting area. He touched my white cane. The directness of that contact — needing no social mediator — caught my attention. His mother said he was autistic. It was the first time I had ever heard the word autism. As soon as I got home, I started researching. I was a child, but with fierce curiosity I read, watched, and searched for days, trying to understand. As I tried to grasp autism, I was unknowingly moving closer to myself. I was still in the age of play, and I began including autistic children in my games, building little scenarios. I didn’t realize it then, but I was actually probing my own inner world.

In high school I joined autism-related projects and worked with autistic people. Over the years, autistic individuals kept entering my life again and again. It became too regular to be explained by coincidence: in teams I worked with, on the street, on a boat in the middle of the sea — families with autistic children, teachers, children whose diagnostic processes I accompanied, people I connected with in moments of crisis… On planes, in fairgrounds, at the busiest spot of a conference, or when I was emotionally most vulnerable — these encounters kept happening. It was as if life wasn’t only bringing me together with these people; it was repeatedly calling me into this domain.

Because I had never encountered any data on it, I didn’t know that visually impaired people could also be autistic. During my entrepreneurial period, some visually impaired users of the technologies I developed exhibited autistic behaviors. I had a clear realization: systems had almost never recognized the fact that visually impaired people can also be autistic. As I observed my own differences, I began to wonder whether I might be part of this invisible profile. At the time, I was studying Psychological Counseling and Guidance at Boğaziçi University, and I consulted the neuropsychiatrist academics whose courses I was taking. They confirmed the differences in me, but said, “At this age, you’ll be labeling yourself. You’re already in a good place; getting this diagnosis may not change anything significant in your life.” I heard similar comments from other specialists as well.

My concern was not only clarity for myself; it was also to create a meaningful and truthful record about people whose data I had never even seen. Looking at my undiagnosed visually impaired autistic users, I wanted to show them they were not alone and to help make a scientific definition of this profile possible. My decision was firm. Since there is still no valid IQ test for the visually impaired, my IQ could not be measured; however, behavioral and developmental assessments clearly stated that I am on the spectrum.

I received the official diagnosis and have never concealed it. For the autistic part of my close circle, it was no surprise; many others were startled, because I did not match the autism patterns they knew. Some said, “This label will hinder you in your career.” But as someone blind from birth, I had long since learned that the system wasn’t built for me. Nothing changed for me. But this record could change a great deal for others. The reach of hope had grown.

So now, let’s take a deep look together at the differences in how my brain functions — the differences that led me to this diagnosis.

Processing External Sensory Input: The Difference Between Tolerance Threshold and Preference Scale

In my system, not every sensory domain operates with the same neurocognitive logic. Taste and smell are the areas where I show the most pronounced differences within the context of sensory processing differences commonly seen on the spectrum. In these domains, incoming stimuli are first evaluated according to the level of dislike. But then a second, critical step comes into play: the tolerance threshold. In other words, my system measures how much it can endure that input at that moment and then either continues processing or halts it. This behavior is defined in the spectrum as sensory over-responsivity with self-regulation filtering (Schoen et al., 2008).

For example, stimuli like clotted cream, black olives, or butter usually cannot cross that threshold for me. Yet on some days, the very same stimuli may pass through at a different threshold level. This reflects that the sensory system is not fixed, but it remains consistent in its patterns.

When it comes to sound and touch, my evaluations are based more on preference levels. On the spectrum, this is explained as affective modulation — a preference-based filtering that lies outside the poles of “sensory seeking” and “sensory avoidance” (Baranek et al., 2001). That means I am not at the extremes of either completely rejecting sounds or excessively seeking them. The tone or rhythmic structure of a sound directly affects my mental processing space. This effect intensifies especially with rhythmic, steady patterns such as a clock ticking. This corresponds to what is described on the spectrum as auditory perseveration — the entrapment of rhythmic sounds in cognitive loops (O’Connor, 2012).

In the tactile domain, tactile discrimination differences may appear. Contact with certain surfaces mentally regulates me, while others cause mild discomfort but do not provoke a strong reaction. However, I do have one very distinct limit here: there are certain areas of my body that even I do not like being touched. When there is involuntary contact with those areas, my system reacts immediately. This is defined on the spectrum as tactile defensiveness. The response is reflexive and cannot be suppressed through cognitive control. But this sensitivity is restricted only to specific regions. Across the rest of my body, I can usually tolerate external touch quite comfortably.

This high tolerance developed over time. As a visually impaired person, I was often physically guided through touch, and eventually I grew accustomed to it. Yet this adaptation can be described on the spectrum as learned sensory compliance. If I had visual context, I likely would not have needed such frequent physical guidance and would not have developed this tolerance.

When processing sensory input, not only physical but also cognitive thresholds come into play. I process some inputs better when I am rotating an object in my hand or pacing in circles. On the spectrum, this is defined as motor-mediated cognitive regulation (Thelen, 2000). When my mind is under heavy processing load, my body also enters into rhythmic cycles. This helps me both balance the sensory burden and maintain processing continuity.

My system is not defined by a fixed sensitivity. For every piece of input, it decides whether to process it by asking: “Do I like it?” or “Can I tolerate it?” And each sense relies on a different mechanism to reach that decision.

Sensory Overload and Crises

Sensory overloads are common on the spectrum. They occur when multiple external stimuli cannot be processed simultaneously, leading to states of overstimulation. This happens when senses such as sound, light, touch, or smell create an excessive processing load in the system. For some individuals, this overload can result in behavioral crises — for example, meltdowns, shutdowns, or avoidance responses (Kapp et al., 2019).

Therefore, I want to emphasize the importance of these responses in the system. They are self-protective reactions to overload — alarms given to restore regulation. It is just as wrong to assume that every autistic individual will display these reactions as it is to fail to provide appropriate guidance when they do occur.

How My Brain Works — Speed, Focus, Load, and Imagery

My brain works fast. But this speed is not fixed — it shifts according to its own internal priorities. Some inputs I process and internalize very quickly, while others I deliberately slow down. This is not a delay but, on the contrary, an unconscious measure taken for cognitive balance. On the spectrum, this is described as selective cognitive pacing (Ozonoff, Pennington & Rogers, 1991).

When something captures my interest, my attention naturally flows there. But this is more than just focus — it is a true hyperfocus. In those moments, time blurs, my surroundings fade, and my body’s needs quiet down. I can work with the same piece of data for hours. When I “forget” to eat or drink, it isn’t really forgetting — my brain is simply too absorbed in processing something else. This state is known as monotropic attention: the brain’s preference to process only a limited number of pathways at once (Murray, Lesser & Lawson, 2005).

For instance, once I pushed this limit so far that I found myself still working in the same spot after the eleventh hour, trying to create an accessible brain map. Knowing this tendency of mine, a wide circle of people — from my family, to my colleagues in the office, to our partners in Silicon Valley — remind me to eat or drink while I work. I am lucky, because otherwise my coffee cup could sit full on my desk, only to end up cold or completely forgotten.

My way of sequencing information also differs from neurotypicals. My brain orders incoming data not by logic, but by sensory weight, emotional relevance, and processing load. This is why I may hold onto certain dates, seconds, or sentences for years, while dismissing other information immediately. From the outside this may look like “forgetfulness,” but internally it is clear load management.

When data enters my brain, I process not only its meaning but also its associations. A sound links to an image; that image links to a word. This chain-like functioning is called associative chaining and is quite common on the spectrum (Baranek et al., 2006). Sometimes, when I pause before speaking, it is because I am locating where I am within that associative chain.

My brain likes structure. I want information to arrive sequentially and in context. Disorganized input increases my processing load because I must first organize it. This need for structure is described on the spectrum as executive functioning rigidity (Happé et al., 2006). For me, this is not a limitation, but a system that requires more preparation.

The same applies to behavioral tasks. For example, I do not drink while eating. That is because my brain is executing the “eating” task at that moment, and drinking is a separate task to be placed in sequence. This is not only a sensory issue — it is also a limit of cognitive simultaneity. My brain does not want to carry out two tasks at once, because each task occupies its own processing space. On the spectrum, this is connected to executive sequencing preference (the tendency to do tasks sequentially rather than simultaneously) and learned sensory compliance (Murray et al., 2005; Happé et al., 2006). I apply this even to foods: I do not eat different items side by side at the same time. Even those have an order in my mind. Two different tastes feel like two separate tasks.

After I lost my vision, the images in my brain did not disappear. As a child with low vision, I had seen the world — about 5% of it — for ten years. Colors, shapes, directions, and distances were familiar to me. But over time, they became more than just visuals; they fused with sensation, meaning, and context. This process is called visual mental representation. When visual input decreased, my brain began to fill the gap itself. We describe this as visual imagery plasticity (Kupers & Ptito, 2014).

Colors still hold meaning for me. Every day, every month, every number, every name has a color. This resembles color-grapheme synesthesia, but in my case it works more like the reshaping of early visual memory through imagination. Even though I cannot physically see, my brain knows where the colors belong.

In the end, I can say this: My brain works with data — but it makes decisions based on the form, order, sound, meaning, and weight of that data. These decisions are not automatic. Each is made and processed within the system itself.

My brain system functions differently — but it is not inconsistent. Within itself, it is solid and deeply familiar.

Memory, History, and Emotional Connections

For me, a moment does not simply happen and end. The tone of a voice, the instant a word is spoken, the date an event occurs — all of it is recorded together in my brain. But this record is not stored with information alone; it is kept with emotion, context, and meaning.

This structure is known as episodic memory: the ability to store one’s life experiences within their context (Tulving, 2002). In me, this system is not only functional but almost always at the forefront. Years later, I can recall an important sentence someone said to me, the exact hour it was spoken, the sound playing in the background, and the object I was holding at the time.

This is not just a strong memory. It is the way my brain processes data — because every piece of information is encoded not only by its meaning but also by the context in which it arrives. On the spectrum, this is called context-bound encoding (Crane & Goddard, 2008).

Some moments resurface involuntarily. A scene lived years ago but encoded with a strong emotional response can be recalled instantly by an ordinary trigger. A tone of voice, the emphasis of a word, or even a smell can make me relive the entire moment. On the spectrum, this is defined as autobiographical memory amplification — the intensified reliving of personal memories (Ben Shalom, 2009). It is not only remembering; it is re-experiencing. And this combines not only with emotional intensity but also with cognitive load.

My brain often organizes memories by emotional intensity. In other words, instead of chronological order, they are arranged by emotional bonds. A very old memory can feel much closer because of its emotional impact. This shows that in the spectrum, the organization of emotional memory tends to function “by bond order rather than logical order” (Bonete et al., 2021).

But I do not remember everything. Sometimes, while my family recalls a memory with laughter, I find there is nothing in my mind about it — even though I was physically present in the same place at the same time. Nothing has remained, because I did not form a bond with it. My brain only observed it, but did not process it.

That is why for me, memory is not about strength; it is about what has been carved in semantically. I carve what I bond with. And once I carve it, I may struggle to erase it. This system is described on the spectrum as affective salience-based retention — storing information based on emotional significance (Mottron et al., 2006).

In other words, my brain does not decide to keep a piece of information simply because it “existed.” It decides based on how I felt about it. And if I did not feel anything, I do not carry it. But once I do carry it, I cannot easily erase it. This is why I try to filter carefully what I consider important — because what I deem important becomes permanent, and its presence in my memory space must have meaning.

I do not want to store something temporary for too long in my memory simply because I once formed a bond with it. That would mean occupying my brain’s memory space unnecessarily. If something is temporary yet, because of my bond, I must give it a place in my life, erasing it later becomes difficult. The challenge is not its absence, but the burden of having to recall it again and again, along with its entire context. That, for me, is the real problem.

My Empathy System: Not Understanding, but Feeling

For me, empathy usually works not through thought, but by directly feeling. I feel before I understand. Sometimes I begin to sense what the other person is feeling even before they themselves become aware of it. But this empathy is not only intuitive — it is also a system I mentally build and construct.

Since childhood, in the daydreams I often had before sleep, I would imagine myself as an adult in a profession such as a psychologist or psychiatrist, analyzing emotions and supporting people in different emotional or mental states. These daydreams would repeat, shift in form, but I always did the same thing: I tried to understand. In childhood and adolescence, this happened more frequently, but as real-life experiences grew, the need for it lessened and so did its frequency.

This is not just fantasy — it is an emotional simulation system that works with synthetic data. I construct my empathy not only through real experience but also by mentally modeling the unexperienced. Through this, I do not just define emotions and states within myself; I also generate synthetic imagery and, by doing so, create the appropriate physical responses I would need to show in those situations. In other words, I keep adding to and building on what I learn in real life. This includes the most reassuring handshakes, postures, and greetings.

In this world of mine, I expand my dataset with synthetic data while also adding knowledge from what my family taught me and from my experiences. On the spectrum, such a structure is defined as simulation-based empathy — reproducing another’s emotion internally by stepping into their place, rather than only interpreting external cues (Gallese & Goldman, 1998). My empathy system functions exactly in this model.

For a long time, the false generalization that autistic individuals lack empathy even appeared in scientific literature. Yet more recent studies highlight patterns of heightened sensitivity such as hyper-empathy and emotional contagion (Bird et al., 2010; Rogers et al., 2007). In me, empathy can sometimes be so intense that my outward responses slow down — because inside, the emotional space is already overflowing. Moments that may look “cold” or “walled off” from the outside are actually the result of that internal resonance being too full to express outwardly.

For me, empathy is not only understanding — it is carrying the emotion both internally and externally. And this carrying is nourished by both a natural and a simulation-based system.

Routines, Rituals, and the Need for Sequencing

For me, everything must have an order. This is not just habit — it is a need for my brain to function. Doing two things at once often feels inefficient, because each task opens a separate processing space. From the outside, this may look like “meticulousness,” but from the inside it is pure cognitive load management. On the spectrum, this pattern is described as executive sequencing preference (Happé et al., 2006). My system works best with sequentiality. Everything must have a before and after. When disorder enters my system, not only does my attention scatter, but my processing speed also slows down.

Even when a task looks like a single unit from the outside, I often break it down into smaller components: dressing, preparing a bag, doing makeup… each of these consists of sub-tasks. While processing them, I automatically calculate not only the sequence but also their impact on the whole, the time they will take, and how much energy they will leave me with for the next step. For this reason, once I establish an order, I rarely feel the need to change it — because changing it means extra processing load, which is inefficiency.

As an entrepreneur, I can say that thanks to traits like adaptability and tolerance, I am agile and flexible — but this trait works differently in everyone. We cannot expect the same kind of adaptability across the entire spectrum. When I am going to try something new, I first construct it in my mind, then I apply it. This mental rehearsal gives me a sense of control. That is why when the place, time, or manner of something changes, it is not my body but my brain that feels unsafe. On the spectrum, this pattern is described as predictability-seeking behavior and constitutes the cognitive basis of regulation (South et al., 2005).

What I call “rituals” are not outward behaviors but internal organizations. Opening the same thought always in the same way, following a fixed path between certain concepts, progressing in the same logical order… These are safe passageways in my system. They generate not sensory but cognitive comfort. Sometimes these patterns even merge with songs.

For example, if something bad happened after I listened to a particular song, my brain would tag that song as a “trigger.” I usually would not listen to it again. Conversely, if it was linked to a positive experience, I would replay the same song. In high school, before every exam, I would listen to the same song exactly three times. Not two, not four. At 1.25x speed — but never 1.5x, because that speed “broke” the song’s effect. In university, that system stopped working. It updated. I laugh at it now, but back then, this system felt like an algorithmic part of my brain.

Masking: The System Behind What Is Visible

For a long time, I was masking without knowing what masking was. Until I learned the definitions of autism, I didn’t even know those behaviors had a name. My system had automatically created layers to adapt. I learned to smile because I noticed that when I smiled, I appeared warm. I do not know other facial expressions because I have never seen them. People often find me “natural.” But this naturalness is the result of a carefully woven series of efforts.

Being visually impaired did not exempt me from this process. My family never dismissed my behaviors with “she doesn’t see anyway.” On the contrary, even though I could not see, they taught me from childhood to look directly at people when speaking, to keep my posture upright, that facial expressions matter, and how stimming-like behaviors might be perceived from the outside. I was not intuitively aware of what unseen expressions looked like; I was subjected to a systematic learning process.

In this process, I did not hide my emotions. I still cannot. My six basic emotions can be read directly from my face, which makes me socially too transparent. Above all, I love smiling. I use it deliberately and willingly. It is a conscious expression that I believe completes me. It makes me hormonally happy, and it makes the other person happy too. I do not have the same awareness with other expressions. I do not know how they are intentionally produced, nor have I ever intended to learn. I do not know whether this difference comes from my blindness or from my autism. But if it is possible to choose one expression, I choose smiling.

This behavioral pattern, common among autistic women, is described in the scientific literature as camouflaging (masking): strategies, conscious or unconscious, developed to suppress, adapt, or conceal autistic traits (Hull et al., 2017). Facial expressions are classified neurobiologically through six universal basic emotions: happiness, anger, sadness, disgust, fear, and surprise (Ekman & Friesen, 1971). However, a neurotypical individual can produce on average 21 different facial expressions (Jack et al., 2014). I do not know most of these.

Forming Connections: Order, Depth, and Emotional Resonance

As a child, people used to say I was far ahead of my peers in social relationships. The things they laughed at felt meaningless to me. I realized very early that they did not understand me, and most of the time I preferred to remain as an observer. I intuitively knew there was a deep difference between being present in a social environment and forming a connection.

But this changed in adolescence. My developing skills made me impressive and trustworthy not only academically but also socially. When forming bonds, my honesty and dedication deepened relationships. This is how it unfolded in my story — but unfortunately, the stories of many autistic adolescents are filled with exclusion, misunderstanding, and bullying. Especially those who cannot camouflage social roles invisibly are left out of the system. This exclusion does not only create loneliness; it produces an exhausting state of constant hypervigilance.

There is a common belief: autistic individuals perceive only the first, literal meaning of every word. This is not true. We are actually quite capable of analyzing context. However, if my processing capacity is already occupied with another task or if the cognitive load is high, my evaluation of context may be delayed.

Once, someone said to me, “Zülal, there are thousands of cars here!” and I seriously asked, “How did you count them?” At that moment, I could not filter the context. My close circle finds such situations amusing. My sister and some friends believe this is humor, but in those moments, I genuinely think that way. Later, I realize the context — but by then, everyone has already laughed.

On the spectrum, this pattern is explained with terms like contextual lag or literal initial parsing — the prioritization of the literal first layer of language (Ozonoff & Miller, 1996). This is not a deficit; it is a redistribution of processing power.

Is the Source of Success Autism?

Sometimes it is implied that the secret of my success comes from having “Asperger’s.” As if high-functioning autism were the source of all my outcomes. But this is a very superficial reduction — both of me and of the spectrum as a whole.

First of all, Asperger’s syndrome is no longer a separate category in diagnostic systems; it is part of autism spectrum disorder. And “high-functioning” is merely a classification based on outwardly observed performance. The internal complexity of cognitive, emotional, and physiological processes cannot be explained by this term.

If I have delved deeply into a field, it is not solely due to the patterned structure of my system, but also because of my effort, the direction of my curiosity, and my hard work. My field of interest became neuroscience — but for someone else it could just as well have been dinosaurs. It is not the field itself that matters, but orientation and persistence.

I do not owe my achievements to my autism. Autism is simply the infrastructure through which my mental map is differently organized. On top of that infrastructure, I built my own choices, talents, and areas of growth. As a visually impaired, autistic, young woman — existing in a system where all of these identities are made invisible — if I have come this far, it is not merely because I am neurodivergent, but because I recognized that diversity and was able to structure it. Assigning a single cause to success may be convenient, but I did not arrive here by easy paths. No single aspect of me can define me on its own.

Being autistic does not mean being a genius. But some autistic individuals have the capacity to specialize deeply in certain fields, which can lead them to high performance. Such success does not come from autism itself; it comes from the correct guidance of that system, the support it receives, and the individual’s own effort. Genius is not a fixed definition; it is a directed potential.

Newton may have been autistic; but what made him Newton was not merely a different brain structure — it was the pathways he built upon it, and the systems that unconditionally supported those pathways. Similarly, I am here not only because I am neurodiverse, but because I understood, managed, and transformed that diversity.

Recommendations

Research on visually impaired autistic individuals is extremely limited. When more research is requested, specialized research centers in this area are virtually nonexistent. Existing ones generally focus on autism as a whole, but today, from diagnosis to intervention processes, every step is designed for sighted autistic children.

The first thing that must be done here is this: when reporting blindness as the primary condition, do not overlook accompanying differences. Experts in the field must be properly trained in this direction. They must be equipped to distinguish between blindness and neurodevelopmental differences — or else ensure that those who have such expertise are assigned in practice. Every visually impaired child undergoes these reports when starting school or taking a national exam. If we can intervene with families even during those processes, significant progress could be made.

It is very difficult to work with a community of people for whom no data exists, because much remains experimental and cannot move forward. We need visually impaired autistic children, youth, and adults who can access correct and early interventions — so that together we can build the system that has never existed. Autism is increasing every day, and the gap is widening. We absolutely do not have time to lose.

Conclusion

This text is not only about my autism — it is a record of what is unseen, belatedly recognized, and underrepresented. As a young, visually impaired, autistic woman, I speak from an intersection that is erased both in scientific literature and in social memory.

This is not an exception narrative. This is the process of faces unrecognized by the system creating their own definitions. Without romanticizing my autism, without confining it to a framework of deficiency or superiority, I approach it as a difference in cognitive functioning — and I record life as it passes through that difference. Because to define neurodiversity not only as a concept but also as an experiential domain, personal narrative is necessary. This text is one such contribution.

As more women, more neurodivergent people, and more diverse forms of perception fill these gaps, both science and the world will expand. Visibility is not a privilege; it is the representation of a right. And this text is the world’s first record and self-cognitive analysis by someone at the intersection of blindness, womanhood, and autism — an act of claiming that right.

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The World’s First Cognitive Self-Analysis Written by an Autistic, Visually Impaired Woman Scientist

Introduction