The high school where I worked operated without the basic structures most people associate with education. There were no bells, no traditional classes, no grades. Students moved between community internships and loosely defined independent projects, navigating spaces filled with noise, movement, and constant sensory stimulation. Each day unfolded unpredictably: schedules rewritten mid-morning, expectations shifting without warning, and systems meant to support them—such as the buses shuttling students to internships—often ran late or arrived at the wrong location. The transportation department was chaotic and unreliable, making it difficult for students to plan their day. Rules existed in theory but dissolved the moment they were needed. This wasn’t unique to our school; it reflected patterns in many environments where disruption, not routine, defines the day.
For kids on the autism spectrum, this lack of structure wasn’t a minor inconvenience. It was disorienting and relentless. A school without predictable rhythms demands constant recalibration, and the burden of that recalibration fell entirely on the students themselves. They had to anticipate unpredictability, adjust continuously, and build their own systems to navigate environments that offered very little consistency.
And they did.
One student learned to plan alternate routes, carrying materials and backup plans when a bus didn’t arrive. Another anchored into a portable set of tasks, reading or practicing skills whenever the day’s schedule fell apart. Others developed practical, inventive, self-taught strategies to manage constant disruptions—from transportation delays to sensory overload to last-minute project changes. The responsibility of keeping themselves on track rested on them, yet they met it with remarkable clarity and skill. Resilience wasn’t decoration. Adaptability wasn’t optional. It was survival.
Meanwhile, the broader world clung to symbols. The puzzle piece, introduced in the United Kingdom in 1963, originally showed a crying child inside the shape, presenting autism as both a mystery and a source of distress and portraying people on the spectrum as incomplete. Later, Light It Up Blue campaigns centered on color and spectacle rather than lived experience. Even the infinity symbol—more accurate, more expansive—still reduces a complex reality to an emblem.
None of these symbols capture what it means for a child on the spectrum to navigate environments where predictability is scarce and support is inconsistent. They do not reflect the ingenuity required to move through systems not designed with neurodivergent brains in mind. They do not acknowledge the daily labor of adapting to expectations that shift without warning, including unreliable transportation and ever-changing schedules.
These students process information differently and should be encouraged to follow their own cues, take the time they need, or move at their own pace. Giving them that space allows their true thinking and abilities to emerge, rather than limiting them to adult expectations. It ensures we recognize what they can do instead of misreading potential as limitation.
This April 2, before reaching for a blue shirt or posting a symbol, pause. Look past the campaigns. Look at the kids who move through unpredictable spaces with clarity, creativity, and strength. Awareness is not a color. It is the willingness to recognize the brilliance already in motion.
Sandra Astrid Cooper is a writer and illustrator based in Newport, Rhode Island. Her work centers on seeing people as they truly are, without labels, sentimentality, or pretense, and honoring the dignity of overlooked lives. To contact the author, email astrid.creative.studio@gmail.com.