Enlightenment for autistic people

 Enlightenment for autistic people

 

First of all: if you’re dealing with anxiety, depression, trauma... don’t pick up a self-help book—or a book on Buddhism—and, for Cthulhu’s sake, go to therapy. That’s your main mission: don’t put yourself at risk. If, once you’re in therapy, you still want to focus on this, fine—we can go on.

 

Introduction

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise

 

William Blake.

 

I’m writing this book with the following idea in mind: while autistic people don’t need a separate path to liberation—and it’s not as if there’s one way to reach enlightenment for autistic people and another for non-autistic people—some of us may still need explanations for certain phrases in Buddhism. For example: “everything is the way and nothing is the way,” “sitting in zazen is sitting in enlightenment,” “the eye cannot see itself, the mind cannot think itself”… or from Taoism, like “the highest virtue is not virtue, and that is why it has virtue.” These phrases are stated literally and from the perspective of someone who has awakened, and we will address them in this book. On the other hand, there are phrases that are openly metaphorical and that can also help with liberation.

 

Whether literal or metaphorical, these phrases point to the same thing—so why get stuck on them? Because some autistic and neurodivergent people, as well as some neurotypical people, can run into problems understanding and reflecting on these phrases, since they happily skip the everyday logic we all use. That’s normal: because it’s impossible to describe the experience of enlightenment in language, we can have trouble distinguishing what is meant as a metaphor and what is not. Trying to express an experience that can’t be put into words through words is already quite complicated; that impossibility gives this topic a bit of a sting, which is evidenced by the endless texts that have been written, talks that have been given, and silences that have been kept.

 

But why does this matter? Because if we cling to this teaching—for lack of a better term—we can turn it into something sacred: a self-help book, a safe space we go to when we’re sad, a lucky charm, or a way of feeling superior to others. That keeps us in the illusion that we aren’t already enlightened. It’s that thing—forgive the metaphor—of mistaking the finger that points to the moon for the moon itself, standing there transfixed, staring at the finger.

 

My only goal is that a person who has difficulty understanding metaphors be left as puzzled by this subject as someone without that difficulty — but, if possible, not more puzzled from the start.

 

I also wanted to warn you that, although the book is called “Enlightenment for Autistic People,” the words I’ll most often use to refer to that experience—since they carry fewer moral connotations—will be awakening, liberation, or the Japanese word satori (which means “understanding”).

 

But let’s go step by step.

 

Autism:

 

“I am different, not less”.

 

Temple Grandin.

 

“I don’t care who I am. I just am”.

 

Aurora Aksnes.

 

Autism is a condition that affects neurodevelopment and is characterised by an atypical way of relating and communicating, by repetitive behavioral patterns —often purely mental—, by restricted interests, and by a certain inward turning of the mind upon itself.

But that definition sounds perhaps a bit too negative.

Autistic people live with a condition that also gives us remarkable strengths: we have an exceptional ability to systematise information and often develop great talent in the things that truly interest us. Simply by existing, autistic people expand what it means to be human, we challenge the norm and bring diversity to the forefront. And we will never be a defective version of a nonexistent neurotypical ideal: we are perfectly autistic.

Every autistic person, though, is a world of their own. Some have verbal ability; others do not. Some have restricted interests in psychology, politics, superhero movies, or sports and may appear quite “typical” on the surface. Some are very sociable—and good at it—while others are more solitary. Some express their repetitive patterns mainly through internal mental loops rather than outward behaviour. Some are highly intelligent; others less so. Some have a great deal of empathy, others less, though, generally speaking, autistic people tend to be hyperempathetic, even if some don’t know how to manage or express that empathy and may appear cold to others. And of course, there are those with sensory hypo- or hypersensitivities, or both.

It is, without a doubt, a condition full of contrasts, highs and lows, realities and myths.

 

And myths, there are plenty: that we lack empathy; that all of us experience sensory or emotional overloads that turn into meltdowns or shutdowns; that we all love trains (I don’t know a single autistic person who does, though surely there must be one out there somewhere); that autism is a disease, or that it can be cured, or that it’s caused by vaccines; that it appears more in men than in women; and a whole string of nonsense along similar lines.

 

Autistic people are neurodivergent, just like people with ADHD, bipolar disorder, and so on. In contrast to the neurodivergent group, we have the neurotypical group: people whose brains are, broadly speaking, standard, and who can move through this dysfunctional society with certain difficulties, yes, but with a kind of natural ease, almost as if they had designed it themselves.

Of course, that’s an oversimplification. Society is something we have built, but also something that, in many ways, has come to dominate us.

 

And besides, we can’t be too healthy within a sick society — whether we’re neurodivergent or neurotypical.

 

In any case, we have to remember that every human being on this planet is part of diversity: neurodivergent and neurotypical people alike make up neurodiversity. We are all diverse.

 

Some autistic people never discover they’re autistic. Others are afraid to find out. Some are even openly ableist toward their own kind. There are those who’ve always known but have tried to hide it; others who’ve simply accepted it as one more peculiarity of who they are. For some, it’s a deeply disabling condition full of challenges; for others, it’s something they genuinely enjoy.

There are people who, upon learning they’re autistic, feel a great sense of relief. Others find in that discovery a framework for understanding themselves and understanding others. And then there are those who take it so hard they need therapy, because suddenly they find themselves belonging to a stigmatised group they never wanted to be part of.

Every autistic person is different. What unites us is that we receive, process, and send information differently from neurotypical people, those whose brain function is considered “standard” within society.

This difference is beautifully illustrated by Damian Milton’s Double Empathy Theory, which argues that autistic people don’t “communicate badly”—as the neurotypical view often assumes—they simply communicate differently, and their communication works perfectly well with other autistic people. Just as an autistic person might seem “off” among neurotypicals because they don’t fully grasp the neurotypical “language,” a neurotypical person can also struggle to communicate within a group of autistic people and stand out for not understanding the “autistic language.”

 

Autistic people call this process of blending masking. Masking includes everything we do to camouflage ourselves among neurotypicals, including “speaking their language,” that is, communicating as they do—even if with a slight autistic accent. But masking doesn’t only involve verbal communication; it can also mean mimicking neurotypical behaviour or conforming to social conventions without too much protest.

Masking usually drains an autistic person’s energy. That’s why it’s best approached with self-awareness and care, since after long periods of masking we may need conscious rest and self-care to recover.

It’s also true that some autistic people—especially those who also have ADHD—can’t function well without masking. And when they become too exhausted to maintain it, they may feel both drained and guilty for not doing what they think they “should.” The guilt of not being functional in a world that mercilessly punishes a lack of productivity is absolutely crushing. Yet I have no doubt about this: the autistic person is not the one in the wrong, and they should never feel that guilt.

 

Let’s go back to the idea of double empathy with a simple example.

When you tell a neurotypical person about a problem, they’ll usually listen and offer empathy. Those with less emotional maturity or empathy might offer solutions instead of listening—which isn’t ideal—but empathy is a skill, like any other, and it can be trained.

Not all autistic people communicate in the same way, but many—especially if they haven’t wanted or been able to practice masking, or are simply too tired to do so—will try to empathise by sharing a similar story of their own. The intention behind this is pure: to show the other person, “I understand what you’re going through; I’ve been there too.”

However, when this happens between an autistic and a neurotypical person, it’s often misread. The neurotypical may feel that their experience has been overshadowed, that the autistic person has made it “about themselves,” and therefore see them as selfish or inattentive—even though the intention was the opposite. The result is that the neurotypical person may end up feeling unheard or unseen, while the autistic person feels misunderstood for trying to connect.

Another common situation: a less emotionally expressive autistic person may try to help by offering a logical solution. This can come across as cold or emotionally immature, but it’s often done with the best of intentions. Some autistic people struggle to understand both their own emotions and those of others, and they offer logical fixes simply because that’s what they themselves would want in that situation, not realising that sometimes, what the other person really needs is just to be heard, not to be “fixed.”

Of course, many autistic people are deeply empathetic and, by default, listen with full presence. I’ve had the good fortune to meet people like that—both neurodivergent and neurotypical—and I’ve learned a great deal from them.

There’s a dimension of pure love that we miss when we can’t see into the hearts of others. And when we truly see the hearts of others, we inevitably come to see our own.

Since none of us are mind readers, there’s a simple solution: just ask.

“What do you need right now: solutions, or someone to listen?”

Building bridges between neurotypes can be a wonderful thing. It allows everyone to adapt to the person in front of them. Understanding our audience is essential if we want our message to be received as we intend—and, of course, it’s only fair that we too are listened and accepted for who we are.

Fortunately, autism is increasingly being understood from the perspective of autistic people themselves—and of psychologists who are autistic—allowing us to dispel myths, build bridges, and describe autism not through a lens of deficiency, but through one of strength.

 

One way to approach autism positively is to focus not just on challenges, but on the abilities autistic people do have. And there are many.

Autistic people often excel in social skills that are subtle but incredibly valuable — for example, deep, meaningful conversation. We can, of course, participate in small talk—chatting about the weather or trivial matters, which serves as a kind of social lubricant—though some of us don’t enjoy it. Where we shine is in conversations that explore what truly defines the other person. Through this, we can become excellent listeners—if we cultivate our listening skills.

We’re also good at recognising patterns in social dynamics. Autistic people tend to be extremely loyal to friends: if I say I am your friend, you can count on me for absolutely anything—unless the friendship has got to an abrupt end or naturally faded over time—and even then, I’ll likely help if asked.

Our literal way of communicating can also be a strength: sometimes clarity is more valuable than style. Personally, I prefer honesty to flourish alongside empathy, because honesty without empathy can easily become cruelty.

In general, autistic people are authentic and genuine—we are who we are, without many extra layers. We also often possess a strong sense of justice. This doesn’t mean that what we think is right is automatically right—it’s important to stay open-minded and correct ourselves if necessary—but it does mean we defend what we perceive as just with determination.

Because social interaction requires energy, autistic people often value quality over quantity in friendships: rather than many casual acquaintances, we usually have a few true friends. Not every autistic person exhibits all these abilities, of course—but these are the kinds of social strengths worth highlighting.

 

You might be wondering: “Marta, why are you telling me all this? What does it have to do with awakening?”

I repeat it because some autistic people—not all—have difficulty interpreting metaphors. And texts about masters, awakening, or nirvana are full of them.

But in reality, this difficulty with texts and phrases isn’t limited to autistic people. Many get stuck on the mysterious appearance of what is said about liberation or satori.

There are two main types of seekers:

Those who see texts as filled with wonders and mysteries, reading many as if sacred.

Those who think words no longer mean anything, forgetting that words point to the experience of awakening with determination.

 

As autistic people, it’s said that in the past we were shamans and oracles. Certainly, we perceive the world in a special way—and perhaps this perspective can help us on this path.

 

A somewhat random but often-asked question: when someone awakens in satori, their ego—or a large part of it—dissolves. So why don’t awakened people automatically become non-binary or bisexual? Why don’t they instantly transcend gender?

Especially in Buddhist monasteries, where patriarchal structures are still strong, the question arises: what connection is there between one’s sexual orientation or gender identity and the absence of ego identification in awakening?

The answer: every awakened person is different. Awakening doesn’t make us stop being ourselves; it makes us release the character we think we are.

As Rita Gross puts it:

“If one does not make an ego out of gender, one would still know whether one is a man or a woman, gay, straight, bisexual, transgender—whatever else we may think of. But those identities need to fit very loosely and be worn very lightly. All sense of privilege or deprivation that has developed around one’s gender identity, all rigidity regarding proper roles and behaviours for the various genders, must be cut through.”

Even with that, we continue to live in a patriarchal society for years to come.

 

On a related note, David Goren wrote an article in The Art of Autism called Why I Think Buddha Shakyamuni Was on the Autism Spectrum. In it, he argues why Buddha may have been autistic.

 

Speculative as it may seem at first, such perspectives are amusing and useful. They let us see the Buddha and his path to liberation from a different angle—and it’s easy to understand why Goren draws the conclusions he does after reading the article.

So, what do we mean by a path to liberation? Liberation from what, exactly?

From suffering.

 

Not from pain, not from the hardships and vicissitudes of life—these will continue to happen—but from much of the suffering they bring, from the weight of those mental layers that exist only in our minds.

For autistic people, liberation also involves freeing ourselves from runaway thoughts, from overthinking—a mental flood that, for many of us, runs almost constantly. This doesn’t mean we can’t return to thought when we need to, it would be strange if we never did; thinking is how we process intellectual information. But we can reserve it for when it’s necessary. And, to be honest, sometimes we do return to it even when we don’t need to—after all, we’re autistic, and human, too.

Yet we can find calm and peace before the next good thing happens, before we reach the next milestone or achievement, because peace already exists within us.

There it is. Nothing less, nothing more.

 

Ways of liberation

 

“Problems that remain persistently insoluble should always be suspected as questions asked in the wrong way.”

 

Alan Watts.

 

 

What is liberation?

It’s the state where there is no suffering—though with nuances—and no sense of self.

The paths to liberation lead us to this state—but let me be very clear about this throughout the book, because it’s neither exactly a state nor something you reach like a rational conclusion.

Paths to liberation are neither religion nor philosophy: they have no gods (though they can coexist with religions), and they are not organised systems of ideas meant to explain the world through reason. Instead, they focus on practice—liberating oneself from the chains of the ego and experiencing the world as it truly is, without the suffering of thoughts hijacking reality—what is known as liberation or nirvana. We’ll explore that more deeply later, as I know it may raise an eyebrow or two.

The most notable examples of paths to liberation are found in India’s Advaita Vedanta, China’s Taoism, and the Buddhism that originated in India and spread across Asia, known in the West primarily through the Zen school that took root in Japan.

In this book, I won’t go into detailed exposition on these traditions—I’m no specialist—but I aim to give a broad idea of early Buddhism, Taoism, and Zen so we have some context. For those unfamiliar and wishing to dive deeper, The Way of Zen by Alan Watts is clear and lyrical, focusing mainly on Zen but also touching on Hinduism and Taoism. For a more academic approach, Nonduality by David Loy is an excellent philosophical treatment of the paths to liberation.

 

Paths to liberation are not exclusive to Asia. Individual thinkers elsewhere have communicated similar ideas through different frameworks, such as William Blake or Meister Eckhart. This notion also appears on other continents, naturally.

 

Meister Eckhart, for instance, wrote:

 

"The eye through which I see God is the same eye through which God sees me; my eye and God's eye are one eye, one seeing, one knowing, one love."

 

This echoes Hakuin’s teaching:

 

"If you forget yourself, you become the universe."

 

Both convey the unusual idea that we are, in some sense, God or the universe—something we could instinctively deny we are. They also refer to “God” or the “universe,” in other words, two ways of expressing the totality of existence.

 

How could such a thing be possible? Why do people take this seriously? Is there truth behind such a paradox?

Have you ever wondered, if you have a pet, how your animal decides to act? What is it like to live life that way? The answers to these questions are closer than you think. We’ll explore that in this chapter.

 

For now, let’s focus: the most famous path to liberation is Buddhism, named after an Indian prince who lived between 563 and 483 BCE, Siddhartha Gautama, better known as the Buddha—“Awakened One” in Sanskrit.

 

Buddhism teaches the Four Noble Truths:

 

The truth of dukkha (suffering): suffering is inherent in the world.

The truth of the cause of dukkha: desire—specifically, the desire to cling to the impermanent—produces suffering.

The truth of the cessation of dukkha: eliminating this desire eliminates suffering.

The truth of the path leading to the cessation of dukkha: the Eightfold Path: right understanding, right thought, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration.

 

Following these truths leads us out of samsara—the wandering in suffering—and into nirvana, often translated as enlightenment or awakening. Samsara and nirvana are ultimately the same, but we’ll return to that.

We can remember that suffering is inherent to human life, that we are not broken, we are rightly autistic.

 

The Eightfold Path may seem like a moral code, but the word “right” in Pali (sammā) also means “whole, without cracks,” which is crucial for understanding the practice. For now, let’s note it refers not to the morally right action but to the complete action. We’ll return to this when discussing Taoism.

Early Buddhism is methodical and organised, and at first glance may appear to advocate a monastic life. But we need to keep in mind that attachment to what is impermanent causes suffering, and the only way to end it is through detachment. Importantly, this detachment is not renunciation, disinterest, apathy, passivity, indifference, giving up possessions, or emotional repression. It does not mean disconnecting—it means connection, acceptance of what is. Detachment, properly understood, is detachment from the outcome. Alan Watts even says, if something hurts, we should cry. Many avoid or suppress emotions, calling it rationality, not fear. Detachment does not mean ignoring or controlling emotions—it means fully experiencing them and then letting them go.

The Four Noble Truths do not claim life is all suffering: life is not a vale of tears. But they assert that suffering arises from our inability to grasp existence with intellect, from trying to make the impermanent permanent. We cannot fix the self or the present moment more than abstractly—but we try anyway, clinging to illusions of who we are.

 

Taoism, however, illuminates what “complete” or “right” action truly is. It focuses on following the Tao—the Way—without naming it, which is key:

 

"The tao that can be told

is not the eternal Tao

The name that can be named

is not the eternal Name."

 

Why is it that that which describes liberation cannot itself be described? What happens with names? Are categories flawed?

Something fascinating happens with human language: it is an extraordinary capacity that allows us to analyse concepts, to speak about reality, to communicate with others, and to talk to ourselves. We can think—and thinking has given us conditions of life today that would have been unimaginable to the kings of the past. We have gone to the moon, and Terry Pratchett has existed. We have achieved remarkable feats. Also, some utterly absurd and horrible things. But still, we have achieved remarkable feats.

Our brains use concepts to reason intellectually, generally organised into the grammatical categories of language. I’m not going to get too philological here, but even at first glance we can see cracks in them; we can see that sometimes they fail.

Take the platypus, for example. The platypus is fascinating: it’s not entirely a mammal, nor exactly an egg-layer in the usual sense, yet we have to fit the poor creature into some category—so, mammal it is.

We try to make reality fit into our words, we try to make it conform to our language, yet reality always comes before any concept we can think.

Our categories, no matter how defined or refined they are—if the platypus allows—, do not, in any way, reflect reality  Categories, concepts, words, are fixed. They have a static, conventional meaning—that is, one given by social consensus. Yet nothing in reality is immutable; everything changes. And it is in our attempt to grasp what flows that we begin to feel frustrated, because, deep down, we intuitively sense that we have no control.

And for autistic people—oh, how little we like uncertainty!

 

And while it’s not unusual to think that our language cannot fully convey our reality to others—it can only represent it, communicating it imperfectly—we don’t often consider how language fails us in the same way when we think about reality for ourselves.

We’re clear that language cannot transmit exactly what we think to another person; we understand that the other person is not us, and that what we say will reach them filtered through who they are, their experience, their biases, and how they see the world—just as it leaves our lips filtered through our own experience, our own biases, and how we perceive the world. Sometimes there is a barrier between the other person and ourselves, so that our attempts to communicate something can even turn into a misunderstanding.

And if we are aware of this, why aren’t we equally aware that when we think—conversing with ourselves—the words can never be reality either, since they are already contaminated by our own biases? Words represent reality, but they are not reality itself, because words are fixed and reality is not.

Bunan said that people see others as they themselves are.

 

“If you are ambitious, that is how you will see others. If you are greedy, you will believe that others are full of desires.”

 

When we talk to ourselves, we are no different; we believe we are conveying what reality is, yet we fall into the same trap without realising it. And this is because language structures our thoughts.

The conversation in the mind also reinforces the illusion that the self is real, when it is just another thought, a conversation happening for no one, which consciousness observes unfolding.

 

Returning to language, we can say that in many languages, we generally have a subject-verb-object structure, so we tend to forget that only actions and relationships exist, because reality is a process that constantly blooms and flows.

Spanish has impersonal verbs without a grammatical subject, such as “llueve” (it rains), where a direct object would sound redundant, because we don’t say “llueve la lluvia.” It is simply the verb; nothing more is needed, and there is no subject doing the raining. Something similar happens with the phrase “hace frío” (it is cold, but literally “makes cold”), where “frío” is neither what we usually consider a direct object nor a standard adverb, but is almost part of the verb itself, since there is nothing that makes the cold, nor is the cold made.

In English, we have the verb “it rains,” whose subject is likewise not a concrete thing, but seems purely a grammatical necessity. Perhaps we can better grasp this idea when we say that a river flows: the flowing is the river itself, and if it did not flow, it would not be a river.

We confuse concepts with the things themselves: the word is something spoken, thought, or written, but it is not the thing it refers to.

 

Paths of liberation, including Taoism, have asked questions that provoke wonder, and point to the real experience of the world as opposed to the illusion of concepts and categories. As Alan Watts asks: what happens to my lap when I stand up? What happens to my fist when I open my hand? What happens to a person when their body dies?

These questions do not seek any intellectual answer and it is recommended to avoid trying to answer them in that way. For example, the aim is not to account for the muscular or skeletal processes in a hand as it opens and relaxes. The question points to the fact that names cannot capture that reality is verb and peculiar relationship, a continuous blossoming. The fist and the hand are not two fixed concepts, but the same verb, an event occurring that the name can never capture. To name them is to lose sight of the event. Life is pure activity, but our thinking moves through fixed concepts and tries to grasp life in motion. That is like trying to stop a river with your hands: an impossible task.

We can only let the river flow wild.

Just as we try to fix the events of reality in words, we try to fix the event that we are in our identity, in the word “I” or ego. Life cannot cling to itself, as if it could stop and petrify into an idea of reality. And we cannot remain fixed in a concept, yet we try endlessly, which—with a peculiar sense of humor—leads to enormous frustration, because we are active consciousness, not a passive concept to manipulate with our intellectual and instrumental mind. We are pure event, not the self-image we have of ourselves.

We are mind or consciousness, not the intellectual mind.

We are not purely intellectual mind: the reasoning processes we use to record, classify, and analyse reality. That is a tool, an instrument; it is part of the mind, not our identity. We are not an idea of the self, no matter what idea that may be.

We are the consciousness that simply sees the events pass.

Consciousness is the open space in which thoughts arise; it is—metaphor incoming—the canvas on which they appear. It is like the sky that lets clouds and sunny days pass without holding onto them. It can witness the fiercest storm, and it will remain sky before, during, and after.

 

It is not that our brain is malfunctioning: concepts are an extraordinarily powerful tool at our disposal, and by no means should we renounce them; we just need to know what they are and use them when appropriate. Any idea of the self is an idea, and therefore it is not strictly the self. The self is a fictitious idea, born from the error of identifying with the tool that analyses reality. The self is a thought—an object—and therefore cannot be the real self—a subject.

But if we say to ourselves, “I don’t identify with the idea of the self,” we’re slipping into escapism—as if our thoughts or feelings were somehow wrong. We start thinking, “I shouldn’t think this,” or “I shouldn’t feel this,” yet that practice is just another form of control, another attempt to cling to what is impermanent, and it hides a deep fear.

The truth is that when we finally let go of the self, the mind naturally becomes still, because we are no longer trying to control it—we simply observe it.

We think without controlling our thoughts, and when we try to control them, that which seeks control is itself another thought.

We feel without controlling our feelings, and when we try to resist them, that which seeks to resist is itself another feeling.

And you might say, “No, if I try to resist my feelings or my thoughts, that is a decision.”

 

And here we encounter another central concept of Taoism: wu-wei, non-action—the spontaneous action that is not merely impulsive, action without deliberate decision. It is by no means passivity or inaction—so far as I know, no Taoist ever just stood still and let themselves die. Rather, it is action arising from detachment from outcomes, with a mind that receives but does not cling.

A beginner tai-chi student will quickly notice that if they slip and resist the fall, they will crash to the ground, whereas if they move with the motion of the fall itself, they can regain their balance. This doesn’t mean that balance can be recovered in every case, but it illustrates this mindset of not resisting, of harmonising and allowing the mind to follow its path without focusing on anything in particular. By analogy, it is like using the mind in the same way we use our eyes when they are not focused on anything in particular—looking effortlessly—or like our ears catching the sounds around us without straining to hear.

We must also pay attention to what is not, as Ma-Tsu said:

 

Cultivation is of no use for the attainment of Tao. The only thing that one can do is to be free from form defilement. When one’s mind is stained with thought of life and death, of deliberate action, that is defilement. The grasping of truth is the function of everyday-mindedness. Everyday-mindedness is free from intentional action, free from concepts of right and wrong, taking and giving, the finite and the infinite… All our daily activities—walking, standing, sitting, laying down—all response to situations, our dealing with circumstances as they arise: all this is Tao.

 

And what does Ma-Tsu mean by this?

There is no specific path you can follow to follow the Tao. In fact, it is precisely when you try to follow it that you go astray. You cannot realise that the self does not exist through thought—that is impossible—because the “self” you are trying to discover is itself a thought.

Ma-Tsu also says that we must free ourselves from “deliberate action, from action stained with thoughts of life and death.” This does not mean doing nothing or letting yourself starve; it does not mean letting others decide for you. Rather, it refers to action detached from the outcome—doing the action for its own sake, not to achieve a particular result.

And you might say: “Are you kidding me? The main reason I act is precisely to get a result!”

Certainly, yet we have no real idea why a decision occurs. If we pay attention to the decision-making process, there is always an emotional spark that initiates it—even after careful analysis of every factor and variable within our reach. We simply do not know the ultimate cognitive reason why, at a given moment, we make a particular decision. And this allows us to decide at all, without being paralysed by endless analysis.

 

Returning to action detached from outcome, as Taoism emphasises, it is like the moon reflecting on water: the Zen master Dogen said that the moon does not intend to be reflected, and the water does not intend to show its reflection. This just happens—and our action in the world is no different. It is like a tree sprouting, growing, and becoming big. The tree simply does what it does: be a tree.

If you live with animals, you will notice they sometimes want things, like food, and may get momentarily frustrated if they don’t get it—but that’s it. Animals simply are themselves. Their actions are neither random nor meaningless, yet they are spontaneous.

This, by the way, runs entirely counter to traditional Buddhist doctrine, which claims that animals cannot awaken. In some other Buddhist traditions, animals can indeed be enlightened. I am autistic, and I suspect this is why I defend that all animals are Buddha. They can’t take that away from me.

Buddhas—by which I mean enlightened or awakened people—do not stop acting, but the things they do do not drag them along, and their actions are not forced. Truth, ultimately, cannot be forced.

When we hear something, we do not intend to hear it; even when we eat, we do not consciously decide how to move our mouths—we just eat. Perhaps it is clearest with breathing: we can “decide” to breathe, focus on it, and control our lungs; yet if we lose concentration, we continue to breathe naturally. In this way, we breathe and are breathed. Our heart beats without thought. When you say goodbye without thinking, you respond “have a good day” and mean it fully. We never consciously decide the exact moment we fall asleep.

All of this is wu-wei, non-action. The Tao is present in our spontaneous, effortless, unattached actions. If you try to “follow” the Tao, you separate yourself from it, because trying implies intention.

When you forget about right or wrong, the appropriate response to each situation emerges naturally. You may still make mistakes, but you do so with more grace.

 

To follow the path of the Tao, we only need to be present. We cannot try to “follow the Tao”—because that would be an action with intention, a separate action, as if the Tao were something we could grasp—nor can we try not to follow it, just as if we try to stop thinking about something, we are in fact clinging to that thought and feeding it. If I tell you, “Don’t think of a pink elephant,” you will think of a pink elephant, and perhaps immediately afterward try to convince yourself that you didn’t think of the pink elephant—but that doesn’t matter.

Just as the hand lets go of what it grasps only by relaxing, the mind lets go of thoughts only by relaxing. The Tao is natural and spontaneous, so we might mistakenly think there is nothing to do—and in that case, reading Nietzsche or about football would be just as valid as reading about paths of liberation.

Yet we sense that if all the Buddhas—people who have awakened—say roughly the same things, even though each one is a different person, they must know something that I don’t. And here lies another mistake: they know nothing. They know nothing special. Taoism says the ordinary mind is the Tao; it is precisely when we have no intention of clinging to the path of the Tao that the path of the Tao is before us.

Moreover, when we say the Buddhas know nothing, we do not mean that there is no difference between a Buddha and a person who thinks they are not a Buddha, but rather that liberation is not knowledge and therefore cannot be “known.” It is an experience, and trying to attain it—ironically—distances us from it.

But if in our mind there is no thought about clinging to or resisting the Tao, it appears clearly.

There is no decision when the present is all that exists—only action.

And something very interesting happens: if the present is all that exists, then the notion that thoughts chain together in a series breaks down. That feeling we have that we cannot let go of one thought until we cling to the next is an illusion; it prevents us from seeing that thoughts arise one by one, emerging on their own. Each thought is its own cause, and this explains the spontaneous action of which Taoism speaks. There are no “decisions” in the usual sense, only a constant adaptation in harmony with everything.

It is like watching a movie from within yourself, where only each moment exists as it is experienced. This is not dissociation; it is not the attitude of someone avoiding thoughts or feelings. Everything happens here and now, absolutely connected.

The past and future do not exist, though memory and imagination do. Only the present exists: this thought, if you are thinking; this instant, if you are present.

 

And here comes into play that virtue mentioned at the beginning of the book: “The highest virtue is not a virtue, and that is why it has virtue.”

This virtue is not a moral virtue, but—as Alan Watts explains—it refers to efficacy, to the condition of a person whose mind functions on its own, naturally and spontaneously.

We can understand the phrase similarly to what psychologist Jeffrey Meltzer says about emotional intelligence: if someone truly possesses emotional intelligence, they do not boast about it, because if they did, emotional intelligence would lose its purpose. Emotional intelligence cannot make us feel superior, and if it does, it loses its core of empathy and vanishes, instantly transforming into moral superiority.

The virtue of Taoism is not self-conscious, nor does it need to be, and precisely for that reason, it is virtue.

 

And what about Zen? What makes it special?

Let’s quickly review the historical context in broad strokes: primitive Buddhism arrived from India to China between the 1st and 2nd centuries. In China, it mingled with Taoism and developed further, eventually reaching Japan in the 6th century.

The Buddhist monk Bodhidharma brought the Ch’an school from India to China in the 6th century, and it spread with great force. Two Japanese monks later brought Zen to Japan: Eisen, in the 12th century, brought the Rinzai school to the Land of the Rising Sun. This school uses the koan—a kind of paradoxical question—to provoke awakening in the student. Dogen, in the 13th century, brought the Soto school to Japan, which seeks to provoke awakening through zazen—seated meditation.

Zen Buddhism takes its name from the Sanskrit word dhyana, meaning meditation, which became ch’an in Chinese, and then zen in Japanese. While it is true, as Alan Watts tells us, that other Buddhist traditions place as much or even more emphasis on meditation than Zen, Zen adopts from Taoism an acceptance of passions and ordinary life, in contrast to the discipline of control and near-annihilation of emotions and senses typical of some Indian traditions. Its distinctive feature is its pursuit of sudden awakening, understanding—like Taoism—that there is no defined path or concrete steps for it, and that, therefore, it can occur at any moment.

This is beautifully illustrated by the following story from Records of the Transmission of the Lamp, an extensive collection of biographies of Zen patriarchs in China, which goes as follows:

 

The Ch'uan Teng Lu records a fascinating encounter between Tao-hsin and the sage Fa-yung, who lived in a lonely temple on Mount Niu-t'ou, and was so holy that the birds used to bring him offering of flowers. As the two men were talking, a wild animal roared close by, and Tao-hsin jumped. Fa-yung commented, "I see it is still with you!"—referring, of course, to the instinctive "passion" (klesa) of fright. Shortly afterwards, while he was for a moment unobserved, Tao-hsin wrote the Chinese character for "Buddha" on the rock where Fa-yung was accustomed to sit. When Fa-yung returned to sit down again, he saw the sacred Name and hesitated to sit. "I see," said Tao-hsin, "it is still with you!" At this remark Fa-yung was fully awakened... and the birds never brought any more flowers.

 

Zen doesn’t want your holiness; it wants you to make a delicious meal for your guests—and for yourself.

But don’t worry, I can hear you thinking: Wait a moment! You just said Zen is about sitting, and also that there is no path, but then sitting seems like a path. You’re confusing me!

And you’re absolutely right—it does seem that way.

Moreover, it presents some challenges for us.

Please take what I’m about to say about meditation with a grain of salt, because my experience is, to say the least, limited.

 

Sitting in meditation can be especially uncomfortable for an autistic person whose mind never stops racing; our brains tend to register higher neural activity than neurotypical people’s, with more neural “noise.” If we try meditation, it’s possible that thoughts just keep coming without our noticing the consciousness underlying them. And it’s not necessary to empty the mind of thoughts to meditate—emotions and thoughts constantly wander through it. We can also focus on our breathing or on sensory events, but even then it may be an experience that’s too bothersome.

 

Moreover, if you have trauma, sitting in meditation may make traumatic memories surface more easily. If that happens, simply don’t meditate—it’s not necessary. Another possibility is that meditation could succeed, but this might result in greater sensitivity to sensory input, leaving us more on edge than calm.

For autistic people, hyperfocus may be the natural way to meditate. Hyperfocus is that state of concentration that allows us to perform a task for hours, completely absorbed. We’ll talk more about this in the final chapter. Of course, there are autistic people for whom meditation works well, and if it helps you at all, go for it.

 

That said, sitting in meditation can clash with Western values of productivity and goal-oriented activity. Even hobbies are expected to have value, and if you can monetise them, that’s “success”—according to the tragic farce that is capitalism. Additionally, attention spans have been diminished by the constant stimuli of modern life, and sitting quietly for several minutes can seem incomprehensible. Under capitalism, we tend to feel guilty if we sit doing nothing, even just to rest, doing nothing but sitting. And treating it as an “exercise” to achieve enlightenment or nirvana defeats the point—it ceases to be just sitting in meditation and will pull you away from awakening.

Remember: if we try to follow the Tao, we lose it.

Sitting in meditation is simply sitting, paying attention to the reality around us. We pay attention to our consciousness, seeing thoughts come and go, noticing that no thought is who we are.

 

“But what a thankless prospect, sitting and thinking of nothing!” you might say. Autistic people don’t just spend the day thinking—it’s in thought, imagination, and fantasy that we find refuge. In thought, we survive a world often hostile and not made for us. The human world doesn’t seem designed for calm or for the flourishing of most people who inhabit it.

But remember: thought is a tool, not who you are. And imagining entire worlds is a joy—we’re autistic and cannot be otherwise.

If sitting is nothing more than sitting and paying attention to our consciousness, doing nothing else, then it can be practiced through any other activity.

 

However, it’s likely that Zen emphasises zazen because meditation has the immense advantage of being proposed primarily as goal-free. Once again, if you sit to become enlightened, you’re missing the point.

Shibayama Zenkei said that if one sits in meditation for ten minutes, one is, for ten minutes, Buddha.

We must be cautious here: Shibayama Zenkei isn’t saying awakening happens only when you do zazen, or that you lose it when you don’t. What he means is that doing zazen and awakening are the same, to help us understand that indeed, doing zazen and awakening are one and the same.

Although causality is crucial in Buddhism—though this book cannot fully address it—Dogen asserts that burning firewood doesn’t transform into ashes. Only the present exists, and in this present, the flames, the heat, and the burning wood are one. Alan Watts notes that in the Zenrin Kushuu anthology of poems, one verse reads, “trees show the bodily form of the wind.” But don’t be mistaken: this beauty is not as metaphorical as it seems. We think heat makes us sweat and cold makes us shiver, that one causes the other, when in fact heat is sweating and cold is shivering. Likewise, the wind and the trees bending before it are one.

Similarly, if we perform an action without any ulterior intention—in this case, sitting in meditation—we are Buddha.

Hence the saying: “sitting in zazen is sitting in enlightenment.”

 

You might be thinking by now that none of this makes any sense. Keep in mind that what liberation paths aim to do is immerse you in absolute doubt—they specifically want your entire worldview to wobble and empty itself. Absolutely everything—any belief, any concept, any idea—must fall. Your reasoning cannot bring you to awakening—no matter how sophisticated your thoughts are or how intelligent you may be—your logic will never grasp it without dissolving in the attempt, your imagination can never form a true idea of it. And that’s the point: to abandon these attempts to grasp something that has always been with you.

 

Most Zen texts are conversations—called mondō—often humorous exchanges between masters and disciples in which students awaken suddenly, without intermediate steps. They can also be dialogues where, even if the student does not awaken, the way is shown directly. A traditional Zen anecdote goes like this:

 

A disciple asked his master:

“What is the shortest way to enlightenment?”

The master replied:

“Attention.”

The disciple asked again:

“Besides this, what else is needed?”

“Attention, attention.”

“I know it’s the most important, yes, but what comes last, what follows?”

“Attention, attention, attention.”

 

One cannot reach awakening through thinking; what one does in that realm is irrelevant—indeed, thought is an obstacle. One only needs to pay attention, realising that attention, consciousness, exists before thought, before any idea about the world or ourselves arises. Regarding the experience of awakening, Tilopa stated what it is not:

 

No thought, no reflection, no analysis, no cultivation, no intention.

 

And don’t think he’s lying. You cannot reach it by thinking, so don’t even try—tempting as it may be.

Or try, exhaust all possibilities, and see for yourself that thought cannot lead you to who you already are.

Thought can set traps, however. For instance, some students insist on showing that they feel neither pain nor suffering, as if that somehow brings them closer to enlightenment. Instead of confronting uncomfortable or negative feelings, they come with mantras of toxic positivity and the belief that everything happens for a reason. Rather than growing as people, they pretend to be on some kind of moral high ground. They use rituals and incense to avoid engaging with the real world, evading their own feelings and interpersonal conflict. This type of person seeks to avoid pain at all costs instead of moving through it.

Here’s another trap of thought: repeating “I am not the idea of myself.” This is an abstraction, just another thought. The difficulty of Zen lies in its simplicity. It’s both funny and frustrating because we’re not accustomed to such simplicity. We cannot think satori into existence, but this is not a deficiency. It is unnecessary to think anything at all. And beware: if you think you are thinking of nothing, the joke is on you. So take it easy—one only needs to pay attention to the consciousness that exists before thoughts and has no name.

The mind—consciousness—cannot simultaneously be the mind and the idea we have of it. There’s no way to lose it because it’s always there, so don’t worry too much.

 

This does not imply a fatalism in which no awakening is possible or that it doesn’t matter whether we do anything—just as Taoist spontaneity does not mean that my actions are erratic or mere whims. If we decide, it is precisely because decisions happen, even if we ultimately don’t know why they occur, because everything that exists—including my decisions—happens spontaneously.

The point is to let concepts lose the weight we give them.

 

Have you seen that famous painting of a pipe that reads Ceci n’est pas une pipe (“This is not a pipe” in French)? We can interpret it as telling the truth because the pictorial representation of a pipe is not a pipe. We are literal, and here that helps us—but let me present a slightly different scenario to unsettle that literalness. Imagine someone standing before you, holding up a pipe, and asking what that object is. At first, it seems like a strange question, and some of you might see through it. Others might fall into the trap—I certainly would—and say, “It’s a pipe.” But “pipe” is a sound, and the object being held up is not a sound. If you want to make a sound with a pipe, hit a book with it.

 

If concepts lose weight, perhaps they generate the sense of uncertainty that liberation paths aim for—a gradual realisation that we are losing control.

 

Humans have a peculiar relationship of avoidance with uncertainty—and autistic people even more so.

We autistic people sometimes rehearse conversations in our minds to manage uncertainty. Since you can’t “try” to be spontaneous like the Tao, don’t worry too much: prepare the conversation spontaneously, and then have the actual conversation spontaneously. You’ll notice that this preparation calms you without doing anything else, because the real conversation is something else. That’s fine. And if you can say to yourself: “I have no control over this, I feel uncertainty, but I’ll see what happens,” that’s fine too.

There’s no need to leave your mind all the time, but remember that the thoughts in your head are just thoughts—and smile. Perhaps you will rehearse less and less, perhaps not—and it doesn’t matter.

There is a story of a Zen monk who was crying over the death of a close relative, and another student reproached him, saying a monk shouldn’t show such personal attachment. The crying monk replied, “Don’t be stupid, I cry because I want to!”. Zen monks didn’t have to stop being normal human beings.

As autistic people, it’s important to remember that our emotions will still be there—we will not stop being human—and that there will be misfortunes in life that hurt us. But we can free ourselves from the illusion of ego and the suffering caused by thoughts. And what does autism point to when the idea of self is absent? To the experience of the universe as an autistic person, just as we are.

 

Since we tend to be very literal—or so they say—let’s examine this sentence: The eye cannot see itself; the mind cannot think itself.

“The eye cannot see itself”—alright, we feel safe with that statement. If we want to see our eyes, we need to contemplate some kind of reflection, whether in a mirror, glass, or still water. The eye sees things, but it does not see itself. It’s a perfectly reasonable statement; you can’t logic your way out of it because it is pure logic.

But what happens when we say, the mind cannot think itself?

We rush to think about the mind, create something we call “mind,” and there you go.

But how could that be the mind?

To the extent that you create an idea or a thought of the mind, that idea is a separate object from the subject that is the mind—consciousness. That is, that thought of the mind is not the mind that thinks it—even if it is a manifestation of the mind, because the mind thinks things, yes.

The mind—consciousness—sees thoughts passing by just as the eye sees visual events happening.

As mentioned before, the mind cannot be simultaneously the mind and the idea we have of it.

The same applies to the self: it cannot be subject and object at the same time.

That is why any idea of the self is doomed from the start and causes suffering—among other things—by comparing who we are here and now with insane, unsustainable ideas about who we are or who we should be. This conflates the rest of our ideas of things with the things themselves, leading to an impossible and exhausting exercise: trying to fix life in a concept when it can only change and transform.

You may ask, “How can I stop identifying myself with my ego?” The answer is: you can’t. There is no method to rid yourself of the ego through your ego: the ego is simply the wrong place from which to attempt it. You cannot free yourself from the illusion of ego from your ego—it won’t work.

However, you are not the ego; the ego is an idea, an object in the mind. You are consciousness.

And remember: Zen masters say regarding liberation that you cannot acquire it, but neither can you lose it.

 

There’s another key to all of this—when we are told that samsara is nirvana.

If we remember correctly, samsara is the wandering through suffering—the experience of life from the perspective of one who is not enlightened—and nirvana is what has been called awakening, or the cessation of suffering—the experience of life from the perspective of the Buddha, the awakened one.

The very search for awakening binds us to the illusion of ego.

Buddhism teaches that without high there can be no low, without good there can be no evil, without large there can be no small, without being there can be no non-being, because every concept requires its opposite in order to exist and make sense. Otherwise, it would be utterly unthinkable.

That is to say, it is impossible for only the good to exist.

With what would you compare “good” in order to know that it is good, if nothing “bad” existed?

This is not a moral justification of evil or wrongdoing—it simply means recognising that “good” cannot exist without “bad.”

In the same way, samsara cannot exist without nirvana, and every Buddha attests to this, since nirvana is not the end of samsara; it merely represents a change of perspective—from our idea of self (the ego) to the consciousness that exists prior to the self, eternally present.

From the perspective of nirvana, it is said that all living beings are enlightened. How can this be?

There is no duality between samsara and nirvana, no higher level of consciousness, no transcendence, nothing special. And yet—it is something.

We, like all living beings, are already enlightened. Some say that the ego convinces us we are not; others say that we are like actors who have forgotten that they were playing a role; and still others say that we are trapped in a prison whose key, lock, and bars are all ourselves.

There is no other moment but this moment.

There is no way to be separate from consciousness, even if you don’t know it. Perhaps you know it, perhaps you don’t—but you have always been eternal consciousness, the awareness that exists only in the now.

In truth, you cannot be anything else.

But if you try to think about that—you lose it.

 

The way I got

 

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

 

Bene Gesserit Litany against Fear.

 

“Pride is not the opposite of shame, but its source. True humility is the antidote to shame.”

 

Uncle Iroh.

 

Trigger warning: this chapter starts quite strongly, with references to suicide and sexual abuse. If you feel it’s necessary, you can skip the first four paragraphs.

 

The truth is, we are not broken. The truth is, the only thing that might be broken is the mask of the ego, what we believe ourselves to be.

At the same time, it’s also true that some people suffer a great deal, and suffering deeply is dangerous and terrible, and I want to honor that.

I come from a history of sexual abuse in childhood by my father, which had repercussions in other abusive relationships throughout my life, and culminated in a suicide attempt when I was twenty-seven.

I became a victim and accepted that as my role —at that moment I couldn’t do otherwise—. I don’t mean to say that being a victim is inherently wrong; there are victims in this world and their suffering is real. And ideally, they can heal through therapy. Unfortunately, some people comfortably think that raped women deserved it, or that the poor are poor because they want to be. I want to remind you that, if you are a victim, no, you do not deserve it, it is not your fault, and the universe is not conspiring against you to teach you some life lesson: some people die at the hands of their abusers or take their own lives. Being a victim is never the victim’s fault.

Years ago, when I was in those abusive situations, I used Buddhism as a talisman to protect myself from my anxiety and depression, when I still didn’t know that those words could apply to me. Instead of connecting with reality, I used it to avoid and escape from it, which is understandable.

Everything began to change when I started looking inward.

This idea often meets resistance, but sometimes people who suffer cause suffering in others.

I had been an arrogant person, and like all arrogant people, I had low self-esteem and a complex of inferiority accompanied by a paradoxical delusion of grandeur, or a sense of being better than others. I couldn’t admit mistakes; I was combative in conversations and would invade them without any consideration for my interlocutor, always trying to prove I was right in an insatiable struggle for others’ validation through intellectual domination.

My empathy was basic: yes, I could feel sadness if I saw someone crying in front of me, or a wide range of emotions related to empathy on a superficial level; but if I didn’t agree with the reasons the other person gave for feeling bad, I wouldn’t validate their feelings: I would argue with them. That was the level of my emotional intelligence. I wanted to be right, as if feelings were something to think about rather than something to feel. It’s not that we can’t or shouldn’t reflect on them, but if we’re not used to feelings, we can lose sight of what they truly are. Moreover, that basic empathy was mostly directed at not feeling bad myself in an unpleasant situation—to ease my own discomfort—and less about the genuine well-being of the other person, the one who was suffering.

I remember having many opinions and passing many judgments with complete conviction. Partly, it was because of my alexithymia: I wasn’t in touch with my feelings, I ran from them, I rationalised or suppressed them. I remember that I had to think about them in order to discern them, I was so closed off from them. I truly believed that intelligence, maturity, and rationality were exactly that. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

My arrogance left no room for the empathy or emotional intelligence that naturally should have emerged from me, because if you think you are better than some people—which also means you think you are worse than others—then you cannot properly practice empathy or emotional intelligence.

Not knowing I was autistic, I unfortunately had no framework to understand how my brain worked or what solutions might exist for some of the problems a person like me faces in a world that operates on neurotypical codes. Furthermore, at the beginning of my thirties, absolutely everyone around me insisted that I was not autistic in the slightest, and even autism tests didn’t place me within the spectrum. But that would change quickly.

At some point, my craving for answers became stronger than my desire to be “normal,” and gradually I started thinking that normativity might not be for me. Thanks to discovering and accepting my autism, I began to have a reference framework to understand myself and to mature more easily.

Somehow, I intuited that I needed to understand the hearts of others—and my own—because who I had been up to that moment was not who I wanted to be.

And I began to use my intelligence, for the first time, to return to simplicity.

So, from around the age of thirty-three, I dedicated myself to developing my empathy, to opening my mind to a whole bunch of ideas I had previously judged or held prejudices against, and I matured little by little. It was also when I received my autism diagnosis. I’ve read that this happens to quite a few autistic people: until we know and accept that we are autistic, we don’t start developing fully. I remember feeling behind my neurotypical friends in terms of maturity, but I never took it badly. Nevertheless, it would still be quite a while until my trauma fully healed, and until I realised that I was neither ahead of nor behind anyone.

Until April or May of 2025—shortly after my fortieth birthday—my post-traumatic stress was still there. However, life pushed me to make a decision of deep self-love, and from then on, the traumatic memories became bibliographical memories: that is, the trauma fully healed when I integrated it into my life and body. It happened through a decision that perhaps arose from self-love and/or perhaps created self-love in me. In any case, the decision and the self-love were the same thing. It wasn’t just that decision, far from it—it was more than ten years of personal work and development. Either way, my post-traumatic stress ended that spring. I remember telling my girlfriend: “I’ve leveled up, but like, to level 20.”

A couple of months later, I understood that what we truly are—consciousness—cannot be broken by the weight of negative thoughts, nor can it be shattered by trauma that was once so present in my memories and my days. This doesn’t mean we are immune to pain, sadness, or disappointment; it only means that we accept them and let them pass, even if we are highly sensitive people and even if the feeling floods everything for a moment. The ego can suffer oceans of infinite sadness under the weight of trauma for years, and it can also want to stop suffering by any means.

I remember the moment: it was a sunny July afternoon in Ireland. I was very sad and very angry, but suddenly everything calmed down. It was like breaking up with myself; my turbulent mind quieted and began to reflect everything. There was only consciousness, and it has always been there! I understood that an ego cannot awaken, only everything awakens at once. There was only silence, and I remember having the feeling that that sunny day shone brighter. Although, in truth, every day shines exactly the same.

I realised that everything remained the same, and yet something subtle and essential had changed.

Anything I could see was somehow like looking in a mirror, like when you say to yourself: “It’s me.” At the same time, I understand the separation of things from an intellectual, physical, or whatever other point of view: I haven’t lost my mind.

Marta wasn’t there—that is, the ego wasn’t there. I was there—I remain a person until I’m informed of any change in my state—but it was as if the story of Marta had almost entirely lost its force. From that moment, consciousness, which in reality has always been there, is what remains, as always. Destiny and freedom are intertwined concepts. Judgments and opinions seem like jokes. And yet there are things worth fighting for, and many more worth laughing about.

I go outside, and everything is free. I walk, and no one walks my path.

It’s very strange, and at the same time, absolutely normal.

It’s an experience which, when you try to put it into words, as you can see, doesn’t make much sense. And yet, these aren’t metaphors—it’s just the limitation of language.

 

Sometimes I wonder—can a traumatised person truly be free while the trauma is still unresolved? Perhaps yes, but then, at the moment of awakening, they will face the trauma head-on, or a good part of it, and that must be a monumental challenge—though not an impossible one.

I insist that satori does not mean we stop being human; if someone punches us in the face, it hurts.

A path of liberation cannot, by itself, lead us to satori, but it can create the favorable conditions for it to manifest.

My path is only my own; perhaps it won’t serve anyone else. But instead of through sitting, I arrived here through pure empathy and boundaries.

Of course, I had no idea what I was doing. I had no intention of reaching anything, and I had even forgotten about Buddhism altogether. I just wanted to heal. I just wanted to develop a secure attachment style, far from my past of anxious attachment. I simply wanted to treat people well and be treated well in return.

And perhaps only after healing my trauma did my mind have the readiness—or the courage—needed; I have no idea. But that was my path.

 

There is, of course, no strict cause-and-effect relationship—anyone can awaken at any moment if they relinquish their ego: if they understand that what we truly are is the consciousness behind thoughts. We are that which cannot be thought, but merely observes thoughts passing by like any other natural spectacle, like watching trees sway in the afternoon breeze.

It’s very important to grasp this, which is why I emphasise it so much: you cannot arrive at satori as if it were a conclusion reached through a carefully reasoned chain of thoughts. There are no intermediate steps to rid yourself of the ego—you only need to take a step back.

Don’t trust anyone trying to sell you overpriced courses for awakening; they may indeed be enlightened, or they may not be, but they are scamming you. And if someone starts talking about “different planes of consciousness” or drops the word “quantum” indiscriminately, run.

That said, sometimes gradually dissolving the ego, little by little, is exactly what we need in order to calmly understand that the ego is a lie—a particularly persistent one, but a lie nonetheless.

And in case it might help you, here are some of the things I learned along the way.

 

Since I’m not a psychologist, please rely on a specialist if you want to deepen your understanding of empathy and boundaries. I only know about these things from my own experience, and even though I’ve systematised that experience, my knowledge isn’t academic. And I want to stress again: we don’t move from point A to point B through any particular method. Consider that someone very athletic might awaken through sport, for example—each person has their own path.

Someone else could arrive through music: music doesn’t need lyrics, and if it has lyrics, you don’t even need to understand them; and if you do, that often makes the music even better. It conveys emotions automatically, to everyone. Some people might not care for drawing, comics, painting, literature, architecture, or sculpture… but who doesn’t like music? And music has something that, while other arts may also possess, opens the door to awakening: listening to music isn’t about wanting it to end, as if there were a goal beyond the song; rather, the song itself and every second we experience it is the goal.

Sorry, I’m going off on a tangent—where were we? Ah, yes: empathy and emotional intelligence!

 

Emotional intelligence doesn’t mean being nice, formally correct, or avoiding conflict; rather, it’s about being present and aware of our own emotions so we can manage them, and of others’ emotions so we can understand them—though, in general, we need those emotions communicated to us in ways we can comprehend. Emotional intelligence is about what we do when someone shows vulnerability and speaks about their feelings with us, how we hold uncomfortable conversations, and, precisely, how we face conflict without avoiding it.

Empathy is not about thinking, “What would I do if I were that other person?”—that is actually its opposite: judgment, which I’ll explain later.

Empathy—along with boundaries—by putting us on an equal footing with everyone else, can dissolve the ego and create fertile ground for satori.

What you mustn’t lose sight of is that the ego is that story we tell ourselves: the judgments and comparisons we make in relation to that story.

Empathy makes us equal: it ensures no one can be beneath us.

Boundaries make us equal: they ensure no one can be above us.

 

Where I’ve been able to practice empathy most easily and consciously has been in the context of friendship. I know friendship can be a complicated terrain for many autistic people—the social skills it requires are complex, and sometimes, even if we have them, we don’t find people with the capacity for empathy needed to cultivate a good friendship. That’s not even mentioning that building friendships in adulthood can be genuinely difficult for many reasons—a challenge on the level of Takeshi’s Castle or Dark Souls. If you’re reading this and you don’t have friends, or don’t have many, be patient, and look directly into people’s hearts with your mind open to receiving whatever fate brings. But if these words feel empty to you, seek professional help if you think you need it: a specialist can give you tools to face the situation from different angles. And remember, you don’t have to read the next paragraph if this topic causes you pain.

 

Friends are treasures—they are the bright sun in the sky, they are love. That is, friends are precious people we are lucky to have. Friends are pure relationship—we don’t have friends to gain anything other than their friendship—and with them, we exchange abstract pieces of ourselves: they have a piece of us that they care for and respect, and we hold a piece of them that we care for in every conversation, every hug, every moment we spend with them, and every time we tell them we love them. I don’t think there’s any individual achievement that can compare to the shared experiences of happiness, support, or simply being present in difficult moments with our loved ones.

Friendship grows when we ask for help and friends are there. Friends are simply there—even if sometimes they cannot be—and friendship also strengthens when problems are faced together, including issues that affect the relationship itself. And when we say friends, we can also say family or partners; the distance between them isn’t so vast—these relationships are all grounded in love.

 

However, not everyone can face conflict with determination and composure.

An emotionally immature person cannot solve complex emotional problems, nor do they even want to, because they believe relationships should be easy—just as they seemed to work when we were children. If you tell an immature person, “You‘ve hurt me,” they will immediately get defensive: they might offer excuses, give an incomplete apology as a way to dodge the conversation about the conflict—meaning one or more of the four essential elements of a genuine apology will be missing (we’ll cover these later)—or, for example, try to blame you by saying that you are the problem because you are “too much” for them: too sensitive, too dramatic, too exaggerated, etc. In doing so, the person who hurt you ends up evaluating your pain, robbing you of the ability to assess your own suffering. None of this happens out of malice or as part of any grand plan of world domination; it is simply immaturity and is perfectly normal.

Another example: an immature person may promise that they will change—sincerely wanting to—but fail to do so, not necessarily because they don’t want to, but because they don’t even know how to change. They may also blame themselves, saying things like “I always mess up” or “I never do anything right,” creating the paradoxical situation in which you end up consoling the person who hurt you—which itself is a way to avoid responsibility. Or they might say, “I’m not responsible for your feelings,” when they have caused you harm, to evade accountability—though usually only the most manipulative or extremely immature people go this far. It’s essential to be mindful of these patterns because persisting in any of them is the path to abuse.

Emotionally immature people cannot face conflict through honest and courageous conversation with us because they cannot have an honest and courageous conversation with themselves.

As Dr. John Gottman notes, relationships die in conversations that never happen. The same applies to the relationship with oneself.

By contrast, a mature person, when you say, “You hurt me,” will approach the situation with humility, empathy, and curiosity, and might respond with, “Help me understand; your feelings matter to me—can you explain how I hurt you?” or perhaps, “I’m concerned about how my actions impact you even though I didn’t intend to hurt you; can we talk about this?”

 

An immature person believes that a bad action makes them a bad person; they think that acknowledging a wrongdoing is an attack on who they are, on the image they have of themselves, and so they must protect themselves and convince themselves that they’ve done nothing wrong. Their ego is anchored to the idea of being right, of being correct, of being a good person. As a result, they feel shame instead of guilt. Shame relates to who we are, whereas guilt refers only to our actions. By focusing on actions, we can change them more easily, and in doing so, we transform ourselves. If we focus on ourselves as defective or broken beings, change appears as a colossal, perhaps impossible task. A mature person can feel a passing guilt, just enough to spark the possibility of change.

 

There is a deeply false, persistent, and oversimplifying belief that people are either good or bad. This belief inevitably damages our empathy. Everyone is “good” because everyone thinks they are doing the right thing or that they are on the right side. In fact, the major problem with harmful acts and abuses is that they almost always come with a moral justification: the worse the act, the more epic the moral justification—except, perhaps, in very specific cases, like certain psychopaths or people with limited empathy. This doesn’t mean that in life there aren’t complete jerks who revel in their own misery; it just means that these people aren’t necessarily “bad” people.

Being good doesn’t mean always doing the right thing. Often, we hurt others unintentionally; we can even behave abusively without meaning to. People who abuse aren’t monsters—they are individuals who don’t know how to break their behavioural patterns. But understanding this doesn’t mean we should stay in an abusive situation; we must leave immediately. And even if it’s not abuse—“abuse” is a strong word—if someone treats you badly, you need to tell them, but if they believe their actions should have no consequences or require no repair, leave. I know it hurts, but leave.

Of course, there are people who need time to process their emotions and respond appropriately to a situation; they may take longer to react, but if they know themselves well enough, they will let you know in advance, and you can give them that time.

Mature people make mistakes—and they will continue to make them—the difference is that they face them by looking inward and being self-aware. An immature person looks outward, searching for someone to blame. The truth is, we cannot have strong empathy until we understand that people have good hearts, though having a good heart alone is not enough.

 

Have you seen Inglourious Basterds, the Tarantino film in which Christoph Waltz brilliantly plays a Nazi colonel named Hans Landa? He’s a character who laughs and enjoys life, takes his work very seriously, and is at the same time clever and funny. He’s also terrifying: his job is to hunt Jews—he’s a Nazi—and he does horrible things. The film features many characters committing terrible acts on both sides, but none are like Hans Landa. In an interview, Christoph Waltz was asked how he could portray someone so evil. He was confused by the question and, after it was repeated, replied, surprised, that Hans Landa was not evil. Waltz understood perfectly that everyone thinks they are doing the right thing, that everyone sees themselves on the right side, and that no one thinks of themselves as bad. If we truly grasp this—not just intellectually, but internalise it completely—the way we interact with others changes.

If you haven’t seen that film, I highly recommend it. Likewise, I cannot emphasise enough the importance of taking a firm, unequivocal stance against any genocide in the world. We cannot oppose the genocide of Jews in World War II and remain silent about Palestinian or Congolese genocides.

If you listen to David Saavedra, you’ll hear him emphasise several interesting ideas about radicalisation, one of which is that a radicalised person becomes so because they want to improve the world, and they are convinced they are doing what is right, good, and just. As long as there is an “us/good” versus “them/bad,” empathy cannot go very far.

 

Returning to the topic of the art of apologising, a mature person knows the four elements of an apology—if not systematically, then at least intuitively—which are as follows:

1. “I’m sorry for…” (insert here the thing you are apologising for).

2. “I made you feel…” (mention here the feelings of the person you hurt).

3. “I will do this and that to make it right” (where “this and that” means a concrete plan of action according to the situation).

4. Follow through on the plan, because that is its purpose. After all, the best apology is a change in behaviour.

These elements require skills that an immature person lacks—or possesses in very limited amounts: the capacity for self-criticism, empathy, and making amends. A good apology means putting aside the chains of the ego, requires a follow-up conversation, and needs the ability to face conflict and be present. A genuine apology starts a conversation rather than ending it and serves as a gateway to emotional maturity.

 

A note for my autistic reader: have you ever been told that you’re making excuses when you apologise and offer explanations? For neurotypical people—and also for some autistic people, like myself—explanations function as excuses in the context of an apology. This doesn’t happen because explanations are inherently bad—they’re not—but because of the context and topic of the conversation. What is the topic of the conversation? Is it your mistake from your point of view? Not exactly. When we are apologising, the focus of the interaction should be on the wrongful action, its impact on the other person, and the plan to make reparations. The focus is not on us or on why we acted as we did—unless we are explicitly asked for an explanation, or unless you are talking to another autistic person who understands this point the same way you do. Otherwise, it’s much better not to give an explanation because it will come across as an excuse.

 

Making mistakes is completely normal within certain limits, as is occasionally hurting our loved ones—especially in a romantic relationship. What becomes more problematic is not taking responsibility for these mistakes, being unable to own them, and not repairing the harm. Still, getting angry at someone who hurts you and is unwilling or unable to make amends, though understandable, could be a dead end. If you have empathy, you can understand that the person simply cannot act differently. And if you know how to set boundaries, you know that this is something you should not accept.

 

There are people so immature that they think maturity lies in maintaining proper manners, seriousness, avoiding conflict, or suppressing feelings: “If children express their feelings uncontrollably and are called immature, it must be because of that,” thinks the immature person. The error is obvious: expressing feelings is not the same as doing so without control, so suppressing our negative emotions is merely taking the opposite path.

I don’t know if you’ve seen Avatar: The Last Airbender, but Uncle Iroh was often considered an immature fool by much of his nation’s army due to his calm demeanor, his focus on “less important” matters, his lack of seriousness, and his willingness to play when the opportunity arose. Yet he was the wisest character because maturity has to do with self-knowledge, empathy, and emotional intelligence. A truly mature person does not want to be right—they want to understand, and they know how to look inward.

A person without emotional intelligence sees conflict and wants to be right, to win the argument: the conflict becomes a struggle against the other. A person with emotional intelligence sees conflict as an opportunity to connect with the other person and build a common front to overcome the problem.

 

And if we are immature, that’s okay—nothing burns down, things go slowly but surely, there’s no need to worry. There are people who never mature—especially those who think they are mature—and in that case, it’s worth asking: “What kind of person do I want to be?” To grow, we only need to recognise our mistakes. We can practice self-criticism, empathy, and making amends, qualities that are part of emotional intelligence. These are skills, not magical traits that some people have and others don’t. As skills, they can be trained in life and/or therapy—there’s nothing to worry about.

Perhaps the word “intelligence” confuses us: we often think of intelligence as fixed and immutable. This isn’t entirely true, even for logical intelligence. Emotional intelligence is a skill, and as such, it can be trained.

Additionally, autistic people often start to mature in their thirties, not their twenties—though maturing is a lifelong process—so we need a little more time for these things, with compassion for ourselves; there is no rush. It’s important to accept and love ourselves.

Forgiving ourselves tends to be harder than forgiving others because we remember every mistake we make. Still, there’s no need to torture ourselves with the past or hide from it. We must have compassion for ourselves in the same way we feel compassion for others. Mistakes are the gateway to the lesson we were meant to learn.

And if your heart has truly changed, you are no longer the one who made the mistake. Wisdom does not consist in never making mistakes—we will always make them—but in not remaining stuck in the unhealthy patterns that caused them.

It’s also important to remember, once again, that empathy must be learned alongside the ability to set boundaries. Having a lot of empathy without the skill to set boundaries can be devastating.

 

The ability to set boundaries is key, because when there is empathy without boundaries, we may want to empathise even when the other person is hurting us but has no intention of fixing anything, leaving us defenseless against someone who, unfortunately—whether intentionally or not—is treating us poorly. We must be able to say “no,” even when we feel empathy.

But, listen, won’t setting boundaries push people away from us? Undoubtedly: it will push away people who, from the start, shouldn’t be there. You deserve to have healthy relationships of any kind, with people who put as much care into being present and listening to your feelings as you put into paying attention to their words and making them feel loved. And you deserve this here and now—don’t stay in a relationship where you aren’t treated well just because of its potential. People who want to understand us will understand us, and those who don’t will form their ideas about us based on who they are and what they need, as it has always been and always will be.

 

In addition, it’s worth mentioning the phenomenon of emotional contagion: we can catch the emotions of others, which means that sometimes the weight of someone else’s feelings will make it impossible for us to sustain their negative emotions. If this happens, we need to assertively and empathetically communicate it, step away from that conversation, and take care of ourselves. We cannot care for others if we do not care for ourselves; otherwise, we will end up exhausted. Think of boundaries as the empathy you give to others, only directed toward yourself.

 

Autistic people often carry trauma, and this can lead us to suffer and, unintentionally, cause suffering to others. That’s why developing self-love is so important: a person with healthy self-esteem does not wish to harm others—even unintentionally—nor wish to be harmed by them. They also do not want to feel superior to anyone, nor inferior. We must be attentive because, like anyone, we can fall into abusive behaviours such as silent treatment or gaslighting, even subtly—like telling someone “you’re exaggerating,” which is a very typical form of gaslighting but still constitutes emotionally abusive behavior.

Self-love must be stronger than the desire to be loved, so that we avoid allowing others to treat us poorly and avoid treating others poorly ourselves. And if we make mistakes, we can take note, apologise, and learn. Empathy toward others should act as an antidote to our own judgments and opinions.

 

As I mentioned earlier in this chapter, empathy is the opposite of judgment. Judgment asks: “What would I do if I were the other person?” or “What would I feel if I were the other person?” and thinks that this is empathy. Furthermore, judgment is so limited that it has to agree with the other person’s reasons; if it doesn’t, it feels no empathy—a very basic kind of empathy, at that. Judgment cannot go further; it can never touch the heart of another person and connect—it needs to feel that it is right, that it somehow controls the situation because it knows what is correct. That is why a moralistic person faced with an interpersonal conflict will have closed, rigid responses.

Empathy asks: “What does it mean to be this other person? Where do their reactions, feelings, and behavior come from?” Empathy seeks connection, not control. That is why an empathetic person confronted with an interpersonal conflict will ask questions and try to understand, even if they do not fully grasp or agree with the other person’s reasons.

I’ll illustrate this point with an anecdote about my girlfriend, someone who is like the sunlight sparkling on the waves on a summer day made flesh—explaining the metaphor: she is like a precious natural spectacle that can only be fully experienced.

My girlfriend and I were going to dinner at a restaurant with a friend of hers, and we had to arrive on time because we had a reservation that would quickly be cancelled otherwise. That day, I arrived at Madrid airport as planned, but it was rush hour and there was a terrible traffic jam. When we got to her house and checked the availability of taxis, it was simply impossible for us to get there on time.

My girlfriend is disabled—like me—and at that moment had an anxiety attack due to our inability to keep the reservation, which prevented us from leaving the house. I insist: it is easy to confuse judgment with empathy. We often believe empathy is considering what we would do in another person’s position. This is undoubtedly the opposite of real empathy, which is about considering people and their feelings as they naturally are, in their context. A person’s mental life is what it is, and their feelings—whether we agree with them or understand their reasons—must be validated. That is, we do not have to agree with the situation to validate someone else’s feelings.

Judgment says: “I would have called the restaurant to try to change the reservation; there’s no reason for this anxiety attack,” “we could have gone to another restaurant or had dinner at home with the friend,” or in some cases, “my night is ruined!” Judgment traps us in our own perspective, demands that we be right, and tells us that if the other person is “wrong” to feel what they feel, we cannot feel empathy. It prevents us from understanding the other person’s heart; it prevents us from understanding what is happening. Empathy seeks connection and says: “I understand you, I see you, I am present, count on me, I am here for you, what do you need?”

Empathy—together with boundaries—allows us to access deeper, healthier, and richer interpersonal relationships.

So the question arises: do we operate from judgment or from empathy?

 

Since we have all been or are still immature at some point, it’s important not to feed any sense of superiority—which would only indicate that we still have work to do—and to remember that it makes sense that immature people feel they cannot admit their mistakes: we live in a society that punishes them fully. When we are children and do something wrong, we are punished both at home and at school. As adults, if we make too many mistakes at work, we can be fired. If we make certain mistakes in society, we can get fined or even end up in jail.

Society as a whole does not see mistakes as opportunities for growth—even if some discourses suggest otherwise—but rather as something to get rid of discreetly, as if we were mafiosi disposing of a body. Nevertheless, mistakes are the only key to personal growth; there is no other.

We will never find a mature person who hasn’t been immature before. After all, yesterday’s folly is today’s wisdom. That’s why people who cannot admit their mistakes also cannot grow, and by tying their ego to being right, they attack themselves with their own pride—because they steal from themselves the chance to learn. By evading responsibility and fleeing the pain of admitting they have done something wrong, they lose the opportunity to grow. And yet we know how life works: if you don’t want to learn, life will confront you with your mistakes as many times as needed—under different forms—until you start connecting the dots. After all, the pride and arrogance that prevent us from admitting a mistake are the essence of Greek tragedy, condemning us to repeat it again and again. Without taking responsibility, we cannot connect with others or with ourselves. Immature people, in seeking to protect themselves, end up self-harming.

 

We have been taught to be strong and independent, but this teaching has more to do with appearing strong than actually being so: we cannot have full confidence in ourselves all the time; we cannot be strong all the time—that makes no sense. There are moments when doubt is essential, moments when crying liberates us, and almost always we need someone’s help or intervention to get through the day—we are incredibly far from being independent. It is in our vulnerability that we find our strength; it is precisely by accepting what we are that we can connect with what others are. Not admitting our mistakes traps us in the illusion of control and prevents us from growing and learning. Wanting to be right, depending on the context, can be a very strange illusion. When we let go of this illusion, we open ourselves to possibilities we hadn’t even considered, surrendering control over events, people, or outcomes—a control we never really had anyway, which has nothing to do with love but with fear.

And immaturity is full of fear, which is important to remember if we want to understand others’ hearts without judgment. Fear, of course, is good and necessary when a real threat can put us in danger, but it can become an obstacle when it prevents us from growing.

 

And just as it makes sense that immature people cannot admit their mistakes, it also makes sense that immature people don’t have much capacity for self-criticism either. If you think about it, from the moment we are small, we develop defense mechanisms that help us navigate difficult—sometimes very difficult—situations. Since, as small children, we know nothing about psychology, these defense mechanisms are usually not particularly healthy—but they work.

We grow up, and this becomes what we call our personality. We become attached to these mechanisms, build an identity around them, and although initially they may have been an effective wall to keep what hurt us out, over time they stop being effective: they turn into walls that trap us inside and isolate us from others, and we forget that the mask we present to the world is just a tool we can take off. By carrying these defense mechanisms, we are, in a way, living in the past instead of in the present—something similar happens with trauma. It is entirely normal and understandable, but since the present is the only thing that truly exists, carrying these past mechanisms creates unnecessary tension.

 

It’s important not to confuse this with the social isolation some autistic people experience because of their nature. Here we are exclusively referring to psychological defense mechanisms against adversity and the concept we have of our identity.

 

The fact is, if someone asked us who we are—not asking for our name, but expecting an honest and complete answer—we would go to our past to collect the response. From the moment we are born, expectations are placed upon us, and we are assigned roles to play: the obedient child, the good student, the stoner, the rebel, the person who gets good grades without studying and then isn’t even sure how they did on the exam, the professional, the entrepreneur, the leader, the parent, the philatelist, the traveler, the one who wants to achieve a personal goal, the civil servant, the waiter, the marketing manager. Some people even attach value and a certain level of respect to these labels, particularly professional ones—thus there are very shallow people in life who think the CEO of a company deserves more respect than a janitor. Of course, labels mix and vary depending on context, since a mother can also be a sister, a good friend, or a diligent worker.

There are countless labels that even people who claim to reject labels still adopt or are assigned. In this way, who we are becomes a story woven through memories, a carefully edited narrative we tell ourselves. As Alan Watts says in The Way of Zen: according to this fiction, I am not what I do or who I am in this moment, but a fixed idea anchored in the past.

The tragedy occurs when, in this way, we identify with something that no longer exists before identifying with what we actually are right now, in this instant. And in the end, we end up carrying and protecting the biggest and heaviest label of all: the self-image, the ego, the mask that we forget we can remove and that we confuse with ourselves. Sorry for the metaphor, but it has been approved by the committee of readers who struggle with metaphors.

So, don’t think that defending and protecting your self-image implies defending and protecting who you really are.

 

This whole chapter on psychology that I’ve been able to learn over the years—and which I’ve seen explored on YouTube channels like Therapy to the Point (an extremely precise and concise channel on psychology that also often uses concepts like ego and being present), Jimmy on Relationships (a genius on humor and interpersonal relationships), Dr. Kim Sage (very interesting because she is autistic and has overcome avoidant attachment), or Bea Sánchez (or mamavaliente.es, a great Spanish-language populariser, also autistic)—may perhaps be helpful to you.

 

We can always remember that part of our story can be rewritten—if not instantly, through attention and awareness of the fact that the self doesn’t truly exist, then at least through therapy. Knowing that the idea we have of the self is malleable can help us understand that it’s only a concept, and as such, it is not who we really are.

I want to emphasise something essential here: changing or improving ourselves as people is not a requirement for reaching satori under any circumstances. And while, in my opinion, self-improvement can create favorable conditions for awakening, it can also become a tremendous obstacle if the ego begins to identify with personal improvement as just another set of goals to pursue and successes to achieve.

 

Change is not easy; it requires looking inward and pointing out those parts of ourselves that we don’t like, the aspects we generally want to hide. It involves discovering the patterns beneath our behaviors and asking why they are there. And realising that many times the voice in our head that criticises us isn’t even us—it’s the ideas that other people have implanted in us about how things should be, about how we should be.

Change is not only difficult, it is also painful, because it means acknowledging that we have done bad things we don’t want to repeat, sometimes even abusive behaviors. But compassion for ourselves is essential during this process—compassion also for those parts of ourselves that we dislike. To change our behaviour, we must change our personality; to change our personality, we must change our world—that is, how we perceive the world, which shapes the patterns of behaviour we follow.

Change is also painful because we must metaphorically let go of parts of ourselves that, even if we have concluded we don’t like them or they are unhealthy, are still part of our story, part of what explains us.

Strangely enough, I believe that change is a good path to completely letting go of the ego—because we gradually realise it is not a fixed concept. In reality, we don’t need it, and if it isn’t there, nothing breaks, and life does not descend into uncontrollable chaos. Emotional immaturity ties us to the ego, while emotional maturity can create a fertile space for satori to emerge by introducing us to the realm of full empathy—including empathy toward ourselves through boundaries.

 

However, change for an autistic person may mean following a slightly different path. As Yolanda Mind Master points out, many autistic people cannot use the same techniques that neurotypical psychology recommends for developing self-love, and using them can actually worsen self-esteem. If we are told to accept compliments, we first need evidence of them; if we are told to think positively, we first need sensory regulation; if we are told that speaking to ourselves positively works, we will seek concrete data, not generalities.

In my case, I haven’t had this specific problem and have been able to use techniques designed for neurotypical people. But if you notice that these strategies don’t work or make you feel worse, consult a psychologist specialised in autism.

 

To avoid unnecessary suffering, we must not escape from feelings of sadness, pain, or anger, nor from negative thoughts. In an extreme form, this is the defense mechanism of people with avoidant attachment, and it doesn’t work very well: what we resist always persists and comes back because we never fully process it. Nor should we cling to pain as if sacrifice could redeem us or give our lives meaning, and as if love were something to earn rather than something to receive, as often happens with anxious attachment. Attachment styles are curious: they reflect our upbringing and synthesise the internal narrative we have been given—the story we later tell ourselves about ourselves. “I’d rather abandon myself before being abandoned,” says anxious attachment. “I’d rather abandon others before being abandoned,” says avoidant attachment. “I want a healthy, horizontal relationship,” says secure attachment.

Feelings exist to be felt. Yes, we can analyse them and think about them—sometimes this is very wise, and I recommend it—but feelings exist first and foremost to be experienced. Not feeling them fully and processing them is a misunderstanding. Negative thoughts usually come accompanied by some feeling of pain, and it is crucial to name that feeling. We must process the pain and be present with the bodily sensations it brings. We notice that we can cry out of sadness or anger, but also out of joy; that emotions like excitement and anxiety often produce similar physical sensations, such as an increased heart rate. We notice that what exists in our body exists and takes form, and that the accompanying thought may or may not have a real-world correlate beyond the experience of our body.

For example: if one day a Bengal tiger chases us on a highway, or we face eviction, our body is doing well to send us fear signals. But if the future causes us anxiety over something that may or may not happen, we have the power to pause and realise that, outside of our thoughts, there is nothing but sensory experience—nothing in reality that should truly frighten us. Once the feeling is processed and observed, we can release it. To release it, we can either let it pass naturally—the time it takes—or direct our attention to our body, our breathing, our presence, or our surroundings. This is not about fleeing from feelings; on the contrary, it’s about being present, accepting them fully and deeply, letting them pass through us, and then releasing them. And after that, acting.

For example, if we feel anger, this is a love letter to ourselves: our body is telling us that we should not accept the situation before us. This does not necessarily mean directing our anger at someone else, but it does mean taking action to change the situation.

If you pay attention to rage or anger, you’ll notice that if we direct it at another person, our empathy for them is blocked. That’s why it’s important not to act too quickly when we are angry, but to discover what exactly is making us angry and focus on that.

We can do the same with thoughts: we can name them and say to ourselves, “This is the story that I am not enough again,” or “This is the story in which I am a burden to others.” But it is important not to resist them, or they will gain strength. Instead, we accept them, invite them in, name them, and then we can let them go more easily.

 

A good part of our suffering—not all of it, though—consists of either being unable to sit with our pain, trying to avoid it and thus creating many more problems; or clinging to it so that it does not leave when it should. In both cases, the ego is present, seeking to identify either with avoidance and repression, as if that were healthy or rational; or with the pain itself that we hold onto, in which we immerse ourselves and drown, as if it could give us the courage we believe we lack, while also providing a powerful sense of a tortured identity.

There are healthier ways to process our emotions and mental narratives.

Observe the feelings, unravel the thoughts that accompany them.

Observe the thoughts, unravel the feelings that accompany them.

We are autistic; most of us will continue to experience sensory challenges, more or less intense, and will still have the power of thought at our disposal. But understand that trying to reject the bad in order to cling to the good is a ridiculous comedy.

Understand clearly that this does not mean staying with what harms you, but certainly, you should not carry it around when it is no longer present—unraveling trauma is another story entirely, and generally takes its own time.

 

IMPORTANT: as I say in the beginning of this book, if you’re dealing with anxiety, depression, trauma... don’t pick up a self-help book—or a book on Buddhism—and, for Cthulhu’s sake, go to therapy. That’s your main mission: don’t put yourself at risk. If, once you’re in therapy, you still want to focus on this, fine—we can go on.

 

On the other hand, remember that at any moment you can free yourself from suffering. Developing yourself as a person is not in itself a path to liberation; you don’t need absolutely anything to be free—you are perfect just as you are. The real trap is thinking that what we experience somehow ought to be different. But we are already enough; nothing more is needed, and it can happen here and now. Stop demanding so much of yourself. Inside you is a light that nothing can extinguish, no matter what happens. Cultivating empathy, boundaries, and personal growth is a mini-quest, a side quest, a secondary mission that can indeed be beneficial insofar as it dissolves the ego.

Satori has nothing to do with improving oneself; it is about remembering who we are.

That being said, if you have post-traumatic stress, depression, or anxiety, the main mission is to go to therapy.

 

And you might say, very well, that’s all lovely, reminding ourselves of this, yes—but what is this satori really all about?

 

Satori

 

"...How beautiful. It’s different than I’d envisioned.
Whatever happens next, I do not think it is to be feared."

 

The Prisoner. Outer Wilds.

 

"Only when you have no thing in your mind and no mind in things are you vacant and spiritual, empty and marvellous,"

 

Te-shan.

 

I open this final chapter with a quote from Te-shan, a Zen monk from ninth-century China, who said that awakening comes when we have “nothing in the mind”—that is, when we are no longer trapped in the illusion that thoughts and reality are the same—and when we have “no mind in things,” meaning we do not see things as objects upon which to project our personal goals, an idea that alludes to wu-wei in Taoism: action detached from results. It’s a quote I love for its simplicity, lyricism, and precision. Te-shan urges us to free ourselves from the ego, to let the mask fall.

At the beginning of this book, I proposed the statement “nothing is the path, everything is the path” as one of the riddles we had to resolve. The phrase, seemingly contradictory, means that “nothing is the path” in the sense that there is no fixed way—no set of steps or instructions that will surely lead us to satori. Paths of liberation aim to create the conditions that favor the appearance of satori, and teachers can point to satori, but they cannot do more than that.

The part that says “everything is the path” is a little harder to grasp, because since there are no fixed methods, anything could become a doorway.

This doorway is a gate without a gate, as described in the collection of koans called Wumenguan—or Mumonkan in Japanese—compiled by Wumen Huikai:

 

The great path has no gates,

Thousands of roads enter it.

When one passes through this gateless gate

He walks freely between heaven and earth.

 

Fortunately, the gateless gate can be crossed through any experience, so there’s no need to go far in search of it.

 

Regarding the fact that there is no fixed path to attain satori, Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki says the following:

 

The practice of dhyana—zazen—can undoubtedly be an important step toward awakening, but Zen does not regard it as the only path to that experience which constitutes the ultimate goal of all Buddhist life.

 

Perhaps that whole “gate without a gate” business left you a little bewildered, but remember what we said back in the second chapter, Paths of Liberation: samsara is nirvana. We don’t transcend reality—we become present within it; we become one with it.

Satori is an experience, and concepts are obstacles to communicating, understanding, or experiencing it. Anyone can learn the words used to describe it. One can even learn, to some extent, the sort of answers that sound “acceptable” to the question “What is satori?” The style of speech can be imitated, the mondō (Zen dialogues) can be memorised, the texts can be studied. It’s perfectly natural that, to a degree, there’s an intellectual understanding of the teaching—as though it were philosophy.

But satori is the direct experience before which concepts fall silent—it is consciousness itself, being.

There’s a traditional Zen story that goes like this:

 

One day, Tesshu, the famous samurai and Zen devotee, went to Dokuon and told him triumphantly he believed all that exists is empty, there is no you or me, etc. The master who had listened in silence suddenly snatched up his long tobacco pipe and struck Tesshu's head.

The infuriated samurai would have killed the master there and then, but Dukuon said calmly, "Emptiness is quick to show anger, isn't it?

Forcing a smile, Tesshu left the room.

 

But if that was a story about the satori that did not happen, here is one about the satori that did:

 

The man who would later become the Second Patriarch of Zen once begged Bodhidharma in despair:

“Please, pacify my mind.”

Bodhidharma replied,

“Bring it to me, and I will pacify it.”

After searching within himself, the disciple said,

“Having looked for it, I have been unable to find it.”

To which Bodhidharma answered,

“There, I have pacified your mind for you.”

At that moment, the disciple’s mind opened, and he attained enlightenment.

 

And if tongue twisters exist, then, as someone once said, satori is a mind twister.
The self argues with itself, asking: “If I am peace, why do I feel anxiety?” “If the Buddhas say I have already awakened, why do I still seek awakening?” “If I am enlightened, why don’t I feel enlightened?” The self is always clinging—to things, to itself—precisely because it is such a stubborn idea that wants to be permanent.

And, surprising as it may sound, the self is nothing more than that: an idea.

We are so used to thinking about things that we want to think about consciousness, as if it were something separate from what we are—when in truth, it is what we are.

We can think about our body, we can think about the self, we can think about the brain as a separate organ… but we cannot think the consciousness that sees those thoughts.

Consciousness watches things pass; it cannot cling to them.

Consciousness cannot see itself.

Or, as said elsewhere in this book: the mind cannot think itself.

And if you tell me you can think the mind, I will tell you that what you are thinking is merely an idea of the mind—separate, static, incomplete, rigid—and, of course, not the mind itself. The mind is the one observing that idea, and it can never be apart from itself.

That is why satori is something you relax into and dissolve in—the ego doesn’t always disappear completely, but it doesn’t need to. Satori happens just as sleep comes to you when you stop resisting it.

I’m not making an argument for anti-intellectualism here, nor for abandoning knowledge or logic altogether. I love learning—I’m almost always studying something. I love both logic and knowledge; it’s just that these realms cannot help you experience satori, since satori is not a rational conclusion.

Thinking about the brain—as psychology and neurobiology have done—has given us extraordinarily valuable tools, without which I couldn’t even write this book as I have. And of course, there can be thought without ego, because after satori we continue to think. Thinking can even be a pleasure—like when we play The Witness, or when we discover how to translate a complex idea into simple words.

In fact, I believe that at some point psychology and the paths to liberation will converge, giving rise to something truly exciting—something that will go beyond psychology merely studying them with interest.

 

Satori does not belong to the realm of morality either: when it tells us that everything is as it should be, it is not making a moral judgment.

Perhaps it does not urge us to improve the world—but that does not mean there are no horrors worth fighting against.

As we’ve said, Buddhist awakening does not mean that pain and misfortune cannot pierce you deeply. But they can no longer make you suffer in the same way, because when the feeling goes, it goes—and if it returns, it returns—but you are no longer there; only consciousness remains. The ego is gone—or at the very least, it has been revealed as an illusion.

If you hurt yourself, the pain may last a few seconds or minutes.

If you lose someone you love, the pain will not last just a second.

And think about it—if we have a sensory regulation issue, as long as the stressor remains, we will continue to experience dysregulation.

And surely, sometimes we’ll overthink a little—just because.

But if thoughts come rushing in uncontrollably, we can ask, as Alan Watts says: if you can’t help it, are you really doing it on purpose? Even that is spontaneous.

If we are Buddhas, then we will be autistic Buddhas.

People have the strangest ideas about enlightenment. They tell stories of monks who never stop being happy, of saints who are pure love perpetually—as if Yantou Quanhuo had not screamed in pain when he was murdered by bandits, or Lin-chi had not let out a fierce roar before his death.

Shi Heng Yi and Pamela Weiss have both gone through difficult moments in their lives—without running away from them.

As Mingyur Rinpoche says:

 

“Buddhanature can be summed up in a single word: courage—specifically the courage to be just as we are, right here, right now, with all our doubts and uncertainties.”

 

And Soko Morinaga Roshi also tells us the following:

 

“As I see it, these days sadness, grief and pain has by no means disappeared. Every day brings both happiness and pain; however, they are not problems.”

 

And these are not problems to be solved, but feelings to be experienced.

From the perspective of trauma, this is almost impossible: feelings are too powerful, they anchor us to the past. From within trauma, I myself would have asked, indignant: What do you mean, I have to feel even more?!

And the truth is—not exactly. In trauma, we experience pain as it was in the past, as if it were happening here and now, but layered with many other kinds of pain: pain for what happened, pain for not having been able to prevent it, pain if we feel that somehow it was our fault, pain because we cannot overcome it, pain because we still feel the same pain years later, pain because our body remembers and relives the past.

What’s curious is that in satori, although feelings are fully met and fully felt, they are only feelings—and they don’t strike with the same force as trauma, because they lack all those added layers once the trap of the self is deactivated.

As Buddhism says: pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.

We are autistic; we don’t want the escapism of the “stone buddhas”—monks who numbed their pain through discipline and emotional repression and called that evasion enlightenment.

Here we want to feel every feeling completely, intensely, deeply, with all our heart, and then let it go, without identifying with it or clinging to it.

There is a very revealing anecdote that goes as follows:

 

There was an old woman in China who had supported a monk for over twenty years. She had built a little hut for him and fed him while he was meditating. Finally, she wondered just what progress he had made in all this time. 

    To find out, she obtained the help of a girl rich in desire. "Go and embrace him," she told her, "and then ask him suddenly, 'What now?'" 

    The girl called upon the monk and without much ado caressed him, asking him what he was going to do about it. 

    "An old tree grows on a cold rock in winter," replied the monk somewhat poetically. "Nowhere is there any warmth." 

    The girl returned and related what he had said. 

    "To think I fed that fellow for twenty years!"  exclaimed the old women in anger. "He showed no consideration for your need, no disposition to explain your condition,. He need not have responded to passion, but at least he should have evidenced some compassion.

The old woman immediately went to the monk's hut and set it on fire."

 

We cannot feel empathy if we are not in direct contact with our emotions—and this poor monk showed neither empathy nor curiosity towards the young woman. In other words, he hadn’t understood a thing. How can you be connected with the entire universe if you don’t even feel connected to the person right beside you? Whoever follows the path will not be a stone Buddha.

 

Furthermore, some people try to use the paths of liberation as an excuse to escape responsibility—to tell themselves they’ve done nothing wrong, that the ego doesn’t exist, and therefore there’s no one doing anything, no doer. And so they go about the world hurting others without feeling guilt; and if you feel pain, well, that’s your fault—for not knowing a damn thing about the Way of the Tao.

These people have fallen into an ego trap that keeps them imprisoned within the illusion of self—a self wrapped in a halo of twisted, inhuman wisdom. They convince themselves that this detached cruelty somehow holds wisdom. If you ask me, I’d say they’re just another kind of stone Buddha: they’ve turned awakening into a concept and made of the Buddha someone who has transcended the world instead of being present in it. They are wretches playing the part of what they think an enlightened person should be—or perhaps they did reach satori, and the ego took hold of it, claiming a new identity, a new mask: that of “the enlightened one.”

 

I want to offer a warning, which—though not about the stone Buddhas—is still another ego trap. Many years ago, I wanted to attain satori as just another way to feel special, to feel above others; and those desires were born from the fear of not being enough. However, as the masters say, satori is exactly the opposite: it won’t make you feel special or above anyone else.

On this matter, Sawaki Kodo said:

 

 "No matter how many years you sit doing zazen, you will never become anything special."

 

If what you’re seeking is validation, some kind of superiority, or recognition, there’s nothing here for you. Seriously, you might as well laugh…

If what you’re seeking is to feel better and better until you reach a state of perpetual peace, I’m afraid that’s just another ego trap.

Satori will make your feelings rise and fall like waves in the ocean; it certainly brings relaxation, but it doesn’t make the pain disappear—though it does dissolve suffering.

Dissolving the self and its illusions can be a painful process—that’s why I think it’s good to approach it gradually, with empathy, and to cultivate a brain that is very plastic and open to new ideas. There’s only one thing you’re going to need: courage. And unfortunately, not everyone wants to see who they truly are, without filters. When you dare to let go, everything transforms—but satori is never what you imagine.

Satori offers only the truth, nothing more.

And you don’t need to completely dissolve the ego to awaken; that’s neither necessary nor typical: usually, some work remains after awakening, which is why Adyashanti’s book The End of Your World can be an invaluable help. It makes sense: after all, we’re talking about a lifetime during which the ego has been ruling the show. This book is essential because it discusses processes that often occur after enlightenment and can be very confusing. In the early stages—weeks, months, or even years—we can “lose” the awakening, return to the ego, and then awaken from the ego in successive cycles of “losing satori” and returning to satori. And yes, the ego is strong—but our brain is plastic.

Once satori occurs, you may think you’ve made a tremendous mistake—why does it come and go? It’s not a mistake: you can’t go back completely, you can’t return fully to the prison of the ego. Adya’s book provides a crucial clarification on everything that happens after satori, something I haven’t found in other texts beyond the Ten Ox-Herding Pictures of Guo’an Shiyuan (in Japanese: Kakuan).

If you awaken and the ego traps you again, relax—don’t give it power, because you’ve already seen it’s a farce. Stay calm; don’t run from negative thoughts or feelings, don’t cling to the refuge of enlightenment, don’t tell yourself, “Ah, it’s just identification, it doesn’t matter.” Relax. Observe them for what they are, accept them, and investigate them—pain sheds light on what still needs healing. By now, you already know: if you run from something, you feed it, and it will return in another form. If you resist, it persists.

 

And if you’re thinking, “But didn’t Buddhism promise to free us from suffering?”—there’s a story I think perfectly expresses the kind of suffering we’re talking about:

 

Tanzan and Ekido were walking along a muddy path. It had been raining steadily. Around a bend, they came face to face with a beautiful young woman wearing a silk kimono, who didn’t dare cross the path for fear of getting her feet muddy.

“Come here, girl,” said Tanzan, and lifting her in his arms, he carried her cleanly across the mud to the other side.

Ekido said nothing.

As night fell, the two friends found lodging at a monastery. Then Ekido could no longer hold back.

“Monks are supposed to keep away from women,” he reproached Tanzan, “especially if they are young and beautiful. Not doing so is dangerous. How could you carry that girl in your arms?”

“I left the girl on the path,” Tanzan replied. “Are you still carrying her?”

 

This story is wonderful because it isn’t about great sadness or depression, but something almost trivial by comparison: a broken rule.

Yet Ekido’s suffering is present where it shouldn’t be, because he has felt rejection and shame and is clinging to those feelings. After this, of course, comes the moralist’s judgment reinforcing the idea of the self, justifying itself. These negative feelings become a “problem to fix” for Ekido, rather than feelings to simply feel. By resisting the pain, Ekido resists letting it follow its course.

 

Returning to satori, as we’ve said, there are no specific instructions, no particular path; Buddhist enlightenment cannot be attained by a self, because there is nothing to attain and no self that could attain it—and yet, satori exists.

Awakening is not a conclusion you reach by having the right thoughts and linking them through proper reasoning. You must understand that there is no self that can be enlightened in the first place—that the self is a fiction.

And we are autistic, which gives us a clear advantage: we already know that many things people attribute to the self are fictional or imposed by social convention, like a role we have to play. We already know that labels don’t fully correspond to the reality of experience. These elements make up a mask, and we can remove this mask that we use to function in society.

What remains is simply understanding that the self entirely—the story we tell ourselves about who we are—is also a mask, and that’s all.

Once again, the absence of the self as the central axis of who we are doesn’t mean you will stop liking chocolate, that you’ll suddenly be sexually attracted to raccoons, or that you won’t feel calm in an embrace—you will still be human.

The self is the story you tell about yourself; it is that which you try to hold onto as an idea.

Unfortunately, satori is an experience that cannot be communicated. If you feel that there always seems to be something absolutely essential left unsaid or unexplained, you are right. What little we can say about satori that might help someone who thinks they are seeking it is, rather, what it is not.

And I apologise for repeating Tilopa’s quote, but he said regarding satori: no thought, no reflection, no analysis, no cultivation, no intention.

Alan Watts said that any book on Zen is like a mystery novel missing its last chapter.

Satori exists in silence: the self has quieted, and in the absence of the self, everything fills us.

 

Silence is not merely the absence of sound but the space in which sound arises.

We are perfect not because of what we achieve, but simply because we exist. When we are in silence—and not accustomed to it—thoughts desperately want to return to fill it. But if we relax into the silence, we see that our worries, our sorrows, the next achievement we’ve set for ourselves, the next goal we pursue, or the next plan we’ve made all begin to feel a little less urgent. And if we continue to relax, we discover something beneath it all that remains constant and unshakable. From there, we can see life as it truly is—not as we imagine it—we can see how it unfolds in every moment, how it springs forth. And we can watch thoughts return, feelings stir, and then settle again.

 

The wind blows, the rain falls, or the sun peeks through the clouds in an incredible display. That silence turns the ordinary into the extraordinary. When you are thinking, the entire reality transforms into your thoughts, of course—but you do not need to think all the time.

In this life, we are taught to fill that silence with endless chatter and words, with judgments, thoughts, and opinions—and how clever we feel when we have sharp opinions about everything—with distractions to infinity. Rarely do we find people with whom we can simply be silent and enjoy the landscape.

 

Rumi, the Persian theologian and mystic, said: Silence is the language of God; all else is a poor translation.

Words are incomplete because they are never the thing they represent, only the representation of the thing—and that is precisely what makes them valuable tools. But silence is silence: it is the direct communication of silence, paradoxical as it may seem.

 

Sometimes autistic people remain silent because it is hard to translate themselves so that others can understand them. Sometimes we simply do not know how to carry an idea or intuition into the world of words. This can be frustrating when we need to express something but don’t know how. Yet it also reveals the absence of words as a form of communication.

 

We think silence is empty, but silence “speaks” if we allow it: it is actually full of events. Of course, silence also reveals our solitude, our fears, all those wounds we try to escape, and all the masks we wear so the world does not know our pain. And pain shows us what we want to hide. But this is a gift: by seeing what we try to hide, we can heal it. Silence does not aim to intimidate you—it is only silence—but within it, you can be free. You are not your feelings, your fears, or your masks: you are the very life that silence shows you. There is nothing more to achieve.

 

Silence is also the fertile ground from which creativity arises. Inspiration reaches us when our mind is free; we cannot force a mental state in which inspiration appears, though we can create the most favorable conditions for it. Satori is exactly the same in this sense.

 

I remember that sometimes I used to think—half-joking, half-serious—“I’ll just let my brain handle this; it’s very clever.” My mind had a good ability to link things logically and unravel patterns, so I would tell myself a joke in which my brain was carrying out lightning-fast reasoning while I waited as a mere spectator. I didn’t realise I was already trusting in that peculiar kind of silence. I didn’t realise that satori was already there, hidden inside that little joke, waiting for me—waiting for me to notice that silence was what I truly am (despite how much I talk!).

 

We awaken from the illusion of the self—it is not a personal experience, because what happens is that awakening awakens from the self.
The problem, of course, is that when we hear this, the intellectual mind forms an idea of what satori must be like, and so we return to the cycle of seeking satori again.
Whatever you think it is—it isn’t.

And with satori, there’s something utterly mad about it: even if you experience it, you cannot imagine it. It is the space in which imagination itself takes place.

 

Perhaps you have come this far through analysis, through observing yourself, through trying to become a better person—but none of those things will help you now. Here, now, you must abandon analysis, your opinions about things, and your ideas of self-improvement.

 

Some people feel terror before satori: it feels as if they were standing at the edge of an abyss, as if they would disappear by jumping. If you want the truth—jump! You can only fall into who you really are! And that has got to be soft!

 

Let’s play a little game: stop thinking. Just stop, even for a second. At this point, I’ll ask you—who are you? No, don’t think, that’s cheating! Start again. Relax. Stop thinking. Let calm open its way between two thoughts. Stay in that silence.
And I ask you again—who are you?

In this moment, you are open awareness.

 

For autistic people, there’s another way to play this game: think about what happens in hyperfocus.

Hyperfocus is that state of concentration that allows us to work on a task for hours while being completely absorbed in it. In hyperfocus, we forget about ourselves—we are not there—only the task exists. If someone asked us who we are while in hyperfocus, “the task” or “the task in action” would be perfectly acceptable answers. That is the reality of consciousness.

Satori is the same, except instead of absolute concentration, it’s absolute relaxation—though perhaps they are really the same thing. And in any case, we can always return to hyperfocus on a task whenever necessary.

We are autistic: using hyperfocus or overthinking is who we are. And very possibly, hyperfocus is our natural form of meditation: do you enter hyperfocus while playing sports? Then play sports. Enter hyperfocus while drawing? Then draw. Remember, the ego has no space when hyperfocus occupies the entirety of reality. If you ask yourself who you are, you are the consciousness in which hyperfocus occurs.

This is not exclusive to autistic people. Psychologist Mihály Csíkszentmihályi is well-known for the concept of flow, which is essentially our hyperfocus. But for some reason—one that surely someone has studied—we are much more prone to entering this flow state than neurotypical people. And of course, if a neurotypical person frequently enters flow, I invite them to try the same experiment.

 

For all people —autistic or not— this peculiar game happens, for example, during the first two or three seconds you’re looking at a breathtaking landscape, when you hear a song for the first time and it makes you cry, when you see a painting that captivates you, or when you feel deep joy or pain because of something that happens to you or around you. There are brief moments in which you simply experience —you don’t think anything, you make no comment, there’s nothing else. But as soon as you realise there’s nothing else, you start thinking. And when you try to go back to that state, it feels like sand slipping through your fingers.

“Ah, I almost had it!” you tell yourself.

What’s happening is that you’re trying to catch consciousness—you’re trying to find the observer, as if you could step outside of your own space and see yourself.

You have to let go.

You can’t have that, because that game doesn’t belong to you.

No one can have that.

The I gets scared and thinks, “If I stop controlling things with my thoughts, who will keep everything together?” But reality doesn’t fall apart just because we stop trying to control it. The intellectual mind—the one trying to trap satori in reasoning—fears what it cannot understand, and relaxing into satori is inherently incomprehensible, because it doesn’t belong to the realm of things that can be understood—the intellectual realm—but to the realm of things that can be experienced: like love, or that landscape that takes your breath away.

So rest in your self-awareness.

You are the space in which experience happens, not what is experienced.

You are the seeing that cannot see itself.

You are consciousness, always.

And at some point, you abandon the futile attempts to grasp yourself and understand that you are not a thought, and satori is not a thought either—that it’s not separate from you and never was, and, of course, it’s not separate from anything or anyone.

You only have to look inward.

This is the journey home.

You are the person you were waiting for.

You are what you were waiting for.

A feeling of love and calm fills you—unlike anything else.

Then everything becomes clear.

When you think, you just think.

When you look, you just look.

When you walk, you just walk.

And stillness and tranquility come and go, and come again…

And you look around, and wherever your gaze rests, everything is free.

What hurts, hurts.

What soothes, soothes.

Your feelings wander through your heart, free from any illusion of control.

Your thoughts wander through your mind, free from any illusion of control.

And you look around, and wherever your gaze rests, you are free.

 

I may not know who you are, what you do, or anything about you—but you are a perfect person, and I love you.

 

You may think you are a person experiencing the world and the universe—and yet you are the universe experiencing what it is to be a person. The universe experiences itself as you.

 

I’d like to close this book with a line by Maezumi Roshi —and since it’s my book, I will:

 

“Trust yourself—not who you think you are, but who you truly are.”

 

    Enlightenment for autistic people  © 2025 by Marta Roussel Perla is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/