There’s a quote by Dr. Stephen Shore that’s become a frequent saying in the autistic community. “If you’ve met a person with autism, you’ve met one person with autism.”

 Much like snowflakes, flowers or falling leaves, no two autistic people are exactly alike. In the Netflix original reality dating show “Love on the Spectrum,” a group of unique contestants proves that theory to be true.

I am on the autism spectrum, but I grew up completely unaware of it. Last December, I was referred for an autism evaluation with a psychologist trained in assessing adult women. At the end of a multi-appointment process, I was officially diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder.

I had little to no interest in “Love on the Spectrum” before my diagnosis. Honestly, the general reaction to the show deterred me from watching. Many non-autistic viewers seemed to love the show, but they also tended to infantilize the contestants and reduce them to their diagnoses. I figured that was the show’s entire prerogative. I wasn’t into it.

I spoke to Gillian McCready, a second-year theatre arts major with an autistic family member. She shared the sentiment about the show’s non-autistic audience.  

“Some viewers see the autism before the people, and that really bugs me,” McCready said. “I think that’s mainly because everyone’s like, ‘Well, it’s the show for people with autism!’ And no other show can ever have autistic people, ever.”

After my diagnosis, I investigated some autism communities on social media, largely dominated by level one, low support needs autistic people. I found that many online advocates believe “Love on the Spectrum” reinforces stereotypes about autism.

So with two equally polarizing opinions lingering in my line of sight, I decided to tune in to the show’s newly released third season.

I was neither surprised nor disappointed by the content. The series was just as I expected it to be — a dating show crafted for maximum audience entertainment.

First, my qualms. Sometimes, producers toe the line between inquisitive and invasive — for example, pestering contestants Dani and Adan about details of their intimate lives. 

The “wholesome” music and editing also seem like odd choices for an adult dating show. 

The show isn’t universally representative of all people with autism. Most of the contestants on the show come from middle- to high-income families, and the majority of contestants are white.

The show doesn’t feature many individuals with level three autism, which would include nonverbal folks, folks with high support needs or those with a comorbid intellectual disability. It also doesn’t showcase many level one or high-masking autistic people.

One comment on a Reddit thread discussing the show says, “I’m so tired of NTs (non-autistic people) thinking autism means severe mental disability. I don’t think the show did a service to higher-functioning autistics. And the editing felt extremely shallow.”

I agree with the general premise of this qualm. There should be better education on how the autism spectrum can encompass a wide range of people with varying support needs, and everyone should be represented equally in the media.

Still, after watching the show, I grew tired of the constant online criticism from low-support needs autistic people, like in the comment above. 

It felt like separatism — a distaste for being associated with people whose autism is more disabling, an attempt by lower support needs people to distance themselves from the very community they claim to be immersed in. 

I am a low-support needs autistic person. I was able to fly under the radar for 20 years and moved to a new state on my own. I attend college full-time and have multiple jobs.

But even though the contestants on “Love on the Spectrum” have higher support needs than I do, I noticed bits and pieces of myself in every single one of them.

There’s Madison, who, like me, is diagnosed with both autism and ADHD. I related big-time when she mused on the struggles she had sitting still as a kid.

There’s Pari, an autistic college student who knows the ins and outs of every public transit system in Boston — it reminded me of my encyclopedic knowledge of every Amtrak line.

I noticed how each contestant lit up when talking about their special and specific interests. James enjoys medieval weaponry. Abbey can quote any Disney movie off the dome. Madison likes to make jewelry to keep her hands busy and has a vast collection of French memorabilia.

I also witnessed each contestant’s struggles and anxieties when it came to dating on the spectrum. It was painfully reminiscent of how I’ve felt for my entire life — like everyone else, besides me, was given some sort of mystical social rulebook. I felt for the contestants. I became engrossed in their stories. 

Abigail Gill, a junior at Simmons College in Boston, noted how the show has helped her realize she may be on the autism spectrum.

“I’m noticing, at college, I feel more free to express my opinions about … stuff,” Gill said. “Like, I don’t like that food. I like to eat this food. I eat the same things every day. And that’s okay. That’s just me — just like the people on the show.”

So…  do I think “Love on the Spectrum” is the gold standard for autism representation?

No.

I think it’s a reality TV show, designed to entertain the general, non-autistic population. I don’t think the show is perfect, by any means.

But I do believe the show gives a platform to a group of incredible, passionate and hard-working people who deserve to be uplifted and celebrated.

In an era where misinformation about autism is prevalent, “Love on the Spectrum” portrays a raw and authentic look into life with autism.  

It educates the masses on how varied and complex autism is as a disorder. Just like the autistic people all around us, no two cast members are exactly alike.

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