Eruption of the vulcano at Kamchatka

“Why are you freaking out?”

“Calm down.”

“That child having a tantrum just needs some discipline.”

“What a brat!”

“What a weirdo.”

People on the autism spectrum, and their loved ones, unfortunately hear phrases like these every day. Why? Because they often experience sensory overload when too much sensory stimulus is occurring at once. It can be triggered by a crowded room, a TV turned up too loud, strong aromas, fluorescent lighting — or a hundred other things. It’s also associated with diagnoses like sensory processing disorder (SPD), chronic fatigue syndrome, fibromyalgia, post-traumatic stress disorder and more, although anyone can experience it. Often, a meltdown is the only way to relieve the building tension of sensory overload.

The outsider may perceive this as throwing a tantrum.

Let’s get a few things clear: a meltdown is not  the same as a tantrum, and people who experience meltdowns do not choose to break down. Every person has different techniques for preventing or getting through meltdowns. Different coping mechanisms work for different people. What universally doesn’t work? Judgmental stares, points and especially comments. But we’re not trying to call you out if you’ve ever mistaken a meltdown for a tantrum — we’re just here to help you understand the difference.

We asked autistic individuals in our community to describe what it feels like to have a meltdown. Hopefully their insight will help spread some understanding and empathy.

1. “It literally feels like my head is imploding. Building up to it gets overwhelming, but an actual meltdown is just like… like your brain is ceasing to exist. Of course, it doesn’t actually, but I lose control of my muscles and ability to talk, I can’t modulate my voice or really send any signals from my brain to my body to calm down. It’s as though my brain… as a last-minute thing, sends a bunch of energy to the rest of my body, but there’s no instructions for how that energy should be used, so it just goes all over and is out of my control.” — Shayna G.

2. “It’s like a volcano. It builds and builds, and it builds so fast into a big explosion and it is fire that destroys until everything is gone.” — Devra R.

3. “I feel trapped. I have a weird tension in my head or my arms I want to get out. Everything around me suddenly feels extremely real like I’ve just come out of the water, I feel all sorts of emotions all at once and I want to run away from them all. I lose sight of what is socially appropriate and start to say things I either don’t mean or something I’ve wanted to say deep down. Whenever that happens I end up hurting someone or confusing everyone. People think because I ‘only’ have Asperger’s I shouldn’t be able to have meltdowns, but I am. I know they’re not as “destructive” or as “obvious” compared to a meltdown my brother would have, but I’m still capable of having them. People tell me to ‘calm down,’ which only makes me feel more frustrated because I already know that.

Once the meltdown is ‘over,’ I can’t explain to others why it happened because it isn’t until later at night (or later than that) when I realize it was a meltdown. By the time I come to the conclusion, it’s too late. Others would have forgotten what happened or wouldn’t care. Either way I end up looking like some sort of ‘attention seeker.’” — Chi C.

4. “It’s like I’m spinning out of control — no ground, no air, no sky, just me and fear and rage and desperation. My bones vibrate, grate, splinter. My chest is hooked up to a vacuum, pulling through my chest. I wake up with bruises and cuts and scrapes from grabbing onto anything, everything that may pull me back to earth. My memories of meltdowns are usually erased by morning, and I can only remember vague feelings. If i dwell on those too long, it becomes too intense, and I have another meltdown. I’m not ashamed of being autistic. I refuse to be. Just because it shapes who I am doesn’t mean I have to let other people decide how it will. But God, meltdowns are indescribable. Too big for my small body. Too big for this small planet. Painful, like razor blades, not over your skin, but over your soul. Your entire being is twisted by an outside force, and when people say ‘it’s just a noise,” “just an argument,” they show they truly do not understand. And often, the solution is simple. Often, I’m screaming for it. Make the buzzing stop.” — Holly H.

5. “Uncontrollable, almost like Jekyll and Hyde. It makes me feel like someone or something flipped a switch in my brain and took over my body, abolishing any rational thoughts, reactions, and communication. The blood in my head pounds, and everything in it magnifies more than it seems it can hold or handle. There’s a small section of me in the back that recognizes what’s going on and wants to stop it, but it can’t override the system. My primal base and flight-or-fight is on high gear, so I end up instinctively isolating myself to get anyway from any other living energy form. Only then can it have the space to breathe to start to calm down eventually.” — Laura S.

6. “It feels like all the pressure that has built up in me (like a fizzy drink) explodes, and you can’t stop, and you lose control until all the pressure is out, and then you sleep to regain strength.” — Lauren H.

7. “I lose complete control of my ability to regulate my emotions — the ‘filter’ has gone, and I lose the ability to stop obsessing over whatever is upsetting me. Sometimes I have uncontrollable urges to throw things and make a psychical expression, but this decreases my ability to articulate the problem. A vicious circle. If I am scared rather than angry I will lose the ability to speak and engage with the world and will feel the need to hide in a space for hours. Always, exhaustion follows.” — Kym F.

8. “Scary, like an out-of-body episode. I lose my ability to think or process, and can only feel. And I feel everything. Every noise, every draft. I want to scream, and sometimes I do, just wordless screaming. And all the while I feel like I’m watching myself in third person, and that tiny part of my brain that is still capable of rational thought keeps thinking, ‘Why am I doing this? Calm down, control it!’ But I can’t control it.” — Tiffany D.

9. “For me personally, it’s like a huge, overwhelming tidal wave of emotion and sensory awareness, building up and up, before crashing down horribly. I’ll often break down crying or in anger or both — leaving people around me offended and/or confused. It leaves me completely washed/burnt out from head to toe, inside and out, unable to talk or sometimes even move. It can be a total shut down where I can’t speak to verbalize what I’m thinking, which can be several things at once. I need time and quiet space to come around, away from people, where I can engage in a favorite repetitive activity such as artwork/fiber arts which I find very calming and which helps me move past how I’m feeling to think clearly and function normally again.” — Kath S.

10.“I feel like I just want to be alone, and usually that’s what i do! I isolate myself either in my room or I go to the forest just to walk. When I tell my friends, they think I’m weird because I just don’t want to be with anyone.” — Kasper M. 

11. “It’s very intense and a build-up of extreme emotions all coming out at once. Sometimes, the only way you feel you can calm yourself down so I doesn’t last for hours is to hurt yourself because pain feels like a release of those extreme emotions.” — Kathryn B. 

12. “In my head it sounds like a hundred voices all taking at once and wanting to scream.” — Richard T.

13. “It feels like I can’t handle things anymore, and I can’t stop my reaction to it all. As if I’m no longer in control of myself. So I end up either crying and hyperventilating or both. I think about each problem I have, try to come up with a solution to it, can’t, and let out the emotions. I repeat this process until the emotions are out. Sometimes, I need something to help stop the process (stimming, a weighted blanket, etc.) or it will just continue to escalate. It’s not fun, and I don’t like when it affects others around me, but it’s also necessary sometimes to sort of ‘reset’ my system.” — Erin C.

14. “Just awful. Like no-one understands, everyone’s laughing or staring at you, and you’re just ‘making excuses’ or ‘making it up.’ What could happen next? I get arrested, or get hurt, or hurt someone else? Unfortunately, this does, and has, happened.” — Shaun U.

15. “It’s like a train that won’t stop! … Once it’s over, I feel emotionally numb. After a good night sleep I’m ready to conquer the next day!” — Jordan S.

Image via Thinkstock.

If you are on the autism spectrum, how would you describe what a meltdown feels like? Let us know in the comments below.

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Demi Lovato, a mental health advocate, spoke at the Democratic National Convention (DNC) this week, and she did not disappoint. The message she gave that really stuck out to me was:

“This is not about politics. It’s simply the right thing to do.”

Watch Demi’s entire speech here:

“What a wonderful thing to say,” I thought to myself. This is an important message for everyone in our country needing support, whether it be for mental illness, disease, disability, etc. Lovato then went on to discuss how she had access to the resources she needed for her own mental illness, but many Americans today do not.

Although I’m not living with a mental illness, I struggled as a child due to autism. However, because my parents were paying out of pocket, I was able to get the early intervention and support I needed to thrive. Now, as an adult, I speak as an autism advocate to our legislators about the need for autism and other disability legislation.

I’ve written before about Lovato speaking up for the cause, and I believe moving forward, we need more celebrities and advocates to start using their platforms to discuss these serious topics and help our loved ones. I applaud her for what she did and continues to do to be a champion for mental illness.

As she concluded, “every small action counts,” and we can never forget that. We can all make a difference.

You can read a version of this blog at Kerrymagro.com.


Do you know that I was once called Rain Man by a classmate in college? Wow. I was furious. When I look back at why anyone would say something like that, I think of some of the stereotypes about autism. Some think people with autism lack social interaction, and others think people with autism are good at math.

In the 1988 movie “Rain Man,” actor Dustin Hoffman plays a character who is autistic and is good with numbers, but he also lacks some communication skills. Because of the popularity of this movie and because autism was still very unknown during its release, it became, for better or for worse, a characterization of what autism could be.

But you know what the problem is here? I’m autistic and I’m nothing like Rain Man. I’m now an adult with great verbal communication skills, I’m not as good in math and the differences keep piling up.

You see, autism is very broad. No one diagnosis is the same, and therefore, when we think of Rain Man, we must think of Rain Man as only Rain Man. He is one symbol of the countless symbols of real people out there who have autism. I think that’s what makes our autism community great. We all are unique in our own way, and we all have the opportunity to have our “voices” heard.

Sometimes that voice is not a verbal one. Sometimes, it’s heard through our art or music or some other skill or talent we have. Sometimes, it’s simply a smile for our family members. Each and every individual with autism is a new and unique symbol of what autism is today and will be for our future. So in keeping with the future, to those who are reading …

Please don’t call me Rain Man. Call me Kerry. Don’t think I’m bad at verbal communication because, in fact, in my own way, I’m great at communication. I’m getting a master’s degree in strategic communication to boot. Don’t think I’ll be ready to help when it comes to numbers because all I’m going to do is pass you a calculator. And, most importantly, just look at me as me. I’m Kerry and there is only one of me. Just like there is only one of you. Let’s embrace the fact that there will only be one Kerry Magro, just like there will only be one Rain Man. We write our own stories based on the biography of life which we are all living through right now.

Let’s make sure the chapters we’re writing are good ones by living it just the way we are. So please call me Kerry the next time you see me because that’s who I was always meant to be.

This post first appeared on KerryMagro.com.

Lead photo source: Thinkstock Images


I am an avid reader. I read tons of books and even more blogs. As someone who considers himself to be a part of the special needs community, I read a lot of blogs about special needs families. Over the last two years, I’ve discovered there is a wealth of resources and reading material for parents who have children with special needs. As a result, the term “special needs parent” has become almost synonymous with that scenario.

I applaud and admire those parents and caregivers. They do a tremendous job and deserve to be recognized. All the parents I know who have children with special needs do it because they are parents. That is their child. That is their reason. That is their motivation.

With that being said, there is an entirely different population of special needs parents out there who can sometimes be overlooked and underappreciated. They are the parents like me, parents who don’t have a child with special needs. Instead, we are special needs parents because we are parents and we have a disability. There are many parents with disabilities that care very deeply and passionately about our children. The primary difference is that we are special needs parents because we are caregivers who at times need a little extra care ourselves.

In 2014 at age 36, I was diagnosed with ASD (autism spectrum disorder). I had a family, a career, and three children when I was diagnosed. I also had lived my entire life struggling with something that was both unknown and unnamed. From the outside looking in I was a regular guy to most, but to those who knew me well, like my wife of 15 years, there was an obvious struggle.

I have to admit that I have been blessed. My wife is an amazing woman who is extremely supportive. Since my diagnosis, we have embarked on a journey of discovery that has made life as a husband and father less complicated for me. We have learned how to allow me to slowly deal with my limitations while still being the best father I can be to our three beautiful boys.

Special needs parenting and being a special needs parent both require passion and persistence, but being a parent with special needs has taught me four ways spouses and co-parents can help provide an environment where we can participate in raising our children with the passion and love they deserve.

Lamar and his family.
Lamar and his family.

1. Understand our capacity. Life on the autism spectrum can be a roller coaster for me at times. To be honest, I’m not always sure when I will be up to performing some of the social tasks of fatherhood. Both my wife and all of our children are extremely outgoing. They love to hang out at the pool, walk around the mall for hours, and go out into the world with absolutely no agenda except to hang out all day. I have social anxiety, and I usually have the capacity to hang for about 2-3 hours before I have stepped over my limit. My wife understands that, so together we organize activities differently. For example, they may plan a trip out on the town, and I may join them around lunchtime to continue the day with them when I am ready to hang out. This strategy has worked very well for us.

2. Learn to take our cues. ASD sometimes limits my ability to pick up on social cues. Sometimes the world can be complicated, because I may miss important cues. Neurodiverse minds also have a system of social cues, and because most human communication is non-verbal, we must both realize that we are both constantly communicating through a system of social cues. My wife doesn’t just depend on me to pick up on neurotypical social cues; she has learned to pick up on my cues as well. This has been extremely important in our ability to parent together, because she is able to understand the things I am sometimes unable to verbally communicate.

3.Use creativity. Autism is a part of my neurology. My brain simply sees things in a completely different way. It is not always a matter of personal preference. While this is an unchangeable reality, the advantage is that it can enhance our parenting skills, and provides our children with a very creative environment to grow up in. In addition to our different personalities, our brains function quite differently. Our approach to
parenting must be unconventional. There are no “traditional” roles in our home, because we can’t afford to box ourselves in. Because of neurodiversity, our family is extremely creative in how we approach everything, from disciplining the kids to how we vacation.

4. Allow us to have some control. One of the misconceptions about people with autism or special needs is that they are incapable of handling certain tasks. While I admit there are a few things I struggle
with, I also have many strengths. I am not advocating for the right to be controlling, but I have found it helpful to allow the special needs parent to have major influence in their areas of strength. For example, as a person on the autism spectrum, I can be very detailed with certain tasks. Time is one of them. I am almost never late to anything, because I have an internal clock in my mind. While my wife and I do not share the same sense or sensitivity to time, we find that it is much better to allow me to have a major influence on time and schedule sensitive issues such as getting the kids off to school, getting the kids ready for bed at their designated bedtime, or even planning out-of-town trips. Being late to something isn’t always a bad thing, but being on time is always a good thing so it’s OK to let me take the lead on those
types of issues.

Parents of children with special needs answer the call every day to love and be caregivers for their children. For that I am grateful, but I am also eternally grateful for those of us who are special needs parents because we have disabilities. We too answer the call every day to care for our children, as we live life with our own
distinct needs and challenges, as well as our own distinct gifts and graces.


A few years ago, my husband bought a t-shirt that read, “May your life someday be as awesome as you pretend it is on Facebook!” We laughed and laughed.

Just about anyone with an active social media account can relate to that phrase, because we all have one or two friends whose posts seem out of touch with their actual lives. I still see the humor in the statement on that shirt, but lately, the truth behind those words really resonates with me.

Since joining the special needs community, my social network has grown exponentially. In an effort to find education and support following my daughter’s autism diagnosis, I have become an active member of several virtual communities. Where, before, I primarily used Facebook as a means to exchange casual updates with family and friends, now I find I utilize most of my time online engaging with other parents of children with special needs. These exchanges via social networking were what inspired me to share my journey through my blog.

I have committed myself to being candid about the experiences I share. I’m open in sharing about the challenges my family has faced. However, there is underlying positivity in nearly everything I write. I use my voice to show others how each challenge has been an opportunity to learn more about myself, and a chance to find strengths I never realized I possessed. While my experiences are unique, my point of view is not. Most of the other parents I’ve connected with in special needs communities utilize social networking the same way — to encourage one another and build each other up.

Sometimes, though, I believe we build each other up to a fault. When members of our communities express self-doubt, we rally together to remind them of the countless ways they are stronger than they realize (or believe). While such vehement support is needed at times, it can cause us to embrace a sort of “superhero” identity. When 50 people regularly remind us “we’ve got this,” we tend to believe them.

The problem is, we’re not superheroes. We’re parents, and all parents, whether they have children with special needs or not, are human. Sometimes we don’t “have this.” Sometimes it’s all any parent can do to clean up and get their children to bed before we break down and cry. We spend so much time reminding each other of our strength that we start to forget that it’s perfectly acceptable to break down.

The other day, scrolling through my regular newsfeed on Facebook, I broke down. I dropped the façade of the superhero mother who is completely at peace with her child’s autism, and realized I was human.

All it took to bring me back to reality was a simple post, another mom describing in detail how articulate her child (who is the same age as mine) is. I became angry and judgmental — the very things I have consciously tried to overcome. I unfollowed her and texted a mutual friend, who commiserated with me. It’s what I needed at that moment. I needed to realize that even though my daughter is amazing and I accept that she has delays, sometimes it’s going to hurt to see that some other children her age function on a different level.

Once the moment had passed, I reflected about the raw emotion that post brought out in me. The mom who shared it isn’t one of my closest friends, and I don’t see her regularly. It was easy for me to use her as a scapegoat. Was it fair of me to do so? Absolutely not. I recognized that, while the majority of her posts are centered around her child’s accomplishments, her intention was not to brag. She was proud, just like I am of my daughter’s achievements, which I frequently share. It’s all about perception.

What I gained from this experience was simple insight. Facebook is merely a highlight reel of one’s actual life and should be viewed as such. In failing to remember this, we are approaching it defensively and inviting others to offend us. A person is no more at fault for sharing her child’s accomplishments than I am for blogging about my challenges.

Image via Thinkstock Images


little boy in carseat I never expected the level of service you gave us. As a matter of fact, I was quite nervous when I called to schedule the appointment for my son. You see, we had just started going through the process for autism spectrum disorder (ASD) screening. And after his first haircut at your salon, I was prepared for the ultimate meltdown, especially since he is older and has an even harder time with change, noises, new people, etc. I explained this all to you when wanting to schedule his appointment and requested someone who has worked with children like him before.

You understood. You listened to every word I said. You sensed the worry and concern about the upcoming appointment in my voice. And then, you went over and beyond like I never would have dreamed.

I knew your salon opened at 10 in the morning, which is why I asked for the first appointment. I thought it wouldn’t be busy when you first opened, so it would be the best time to get him in.

But you knew what it’s really like when the doors open to your salon. You knew that wouldn’t be the case at all. And when you offered to open the doors 15 minutes early just to let us in, I’ll admit, I was taken aback. I immediately told you doing that just for us wasn’t necessary. You were calm in your response though, with a tone of understanding when you said you would love to do that for us.

You understood he wouldn’t handle it well with other people around, children playing, all the extra noises, and the constant coming and going. I knew you were serious about letting us in early, but you also understood my concern.

We showed up at 9:45 a.m., and you were ready. You asked if there was something that would help keep him distracted from the haircut. My son loves classical music. It’s the one thing that will calm him down, and since I knew you had Netflix available, I asked if you would be willing to have “Little Einstein” on. Without a word, you immediately went over to turn it on.

My son refused to sit in one of the cars you have in your salon for the children to sit in, so you didn’t push the issue. After asking if he would sit in my lap, you put a cover on me and asked if he would be OK without one. By that question, I knew you understood the struggle my son was currently going through.

He began to relax ever so slightly. He stopped fighting you with his squirming around and became comfortable enough to actually let you trim his hair with scissors as he started to focus in on Rocket from “Little Einstein.” Any time he began fidgeting, you encouragingly told him to “watch Rocket” and “where’s Rocket?” My nerves slid downwards to a level of calm I hadn’t experienced yet when taking him to a “new” place.

That was soon to change though, as your co-worker came in.

She noticed a little girl waiting outside with her mom in front of the door. There was still five minutes till your salon was scheduled to open, but she walked towards the door anyway. You saw her too. You asked her to wait the five minutes, but she refused. The door opened and the little girl came running in. She was quite excited about picking out a car to sit in, and my son instantly became agitated because of her excitement. His whole body tensed up, and he started squirming and fighting any time you would get close to his head.

You remained calm. You never once showed any frustration, instead asking ever so politely for the mom and her daughter to bring their voices down just a little bit, explaining only that my son doesn’t handle loud noises very well. While they didn’t heed your word, that didn’t deter you from continuing on with a level of patience and understanding I’ve yet to see in someone outside our close-knit family.

The environment became increasingly louder as a couple more children with their parents walked in. You were finishing up the last bit of strays as the first little girl started whining about how she wanted to watch “Scooby-Doo.” Your co-worker went to change it, but you quickly stopped her and asked that she wait, as “Little Einstein” was the one thing that had remained the same for my son throughout this appointment. She responded back insisting that because you were almost done, it would be fine. That’s when you instructed her to come over to us.

You gave her the explanation of how my son was going through the screening process for autism and how he wasn’t doing well with all the noises and such, which is why you allowed us to come in early. You asked her to be respectful of this last request and wait until we left before changing the show to “Scooby-Doo.” I could tell she didn’t agree, but I was thankful she decided to respect your wishes.

That haircut appointment was like no other. You went over and beyond my expectations. You understood my son’s need for limited distractions and noise. You understood my worry and concern as his mom and the fight I had expected to take place. While he tensed up and fidgeted at various times, he never did melt down. You were patient when he wiggled around, and you understood how to work with him so he wouldn’t focus on the fact that you were extremely close to his head. Without prompting, you stated how you would not use the razor because you knew the noise and vibration would definitely irritate and set him off. (You instantly became my hero when you said that!) You didn’t push him to eat the animal cookies you tried to give to him.

Instead you gave him patience. You gave him space to ease into the situation. You tried to get your co-worker to understand the reasoning beyond your requests. You were encouraging to both my son and myself. You were a professional. You were a professional who wasn’t doing this job for herself, but for others. You were a difference for my son (and his ever worrying mother) and for that… I thank you. I won’t ever forget you or your exceptional level of service. As a matter of fact, I’ll be back. I’ll be back with my son when you finish the room reserved for children with special needs. And I’ll be sure to request you for his next haircut.

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