Every once in a while, a character appears on screen and stops being a character. They become someone you know. Someone you have loved. That was Amber from Sketch for me.

As a professional who has spent years working with neurodivergent individuals and families, I found her compelling. But as a mother, I found her unforgettable and familiar. Because throughout Sketch, I wasn’t simply watching Amber. I was remembering. Remembering the phone calls. Remembering the meetings. Remembering the moments when a child is struggling, and the adults around them only see the behavior. And remembering how exhausting it can be to navigate all of that while carrying life’s other burdens.

GRIEF

At its core, Sketch is not a movie about neurodivergence at all. It is a movie about grief. A family loses a wife and mother. A father is left trying to hold everything together while carrying a pain he has not fully faced himself. Two children are attempting to make sense of a world that suddenly feels unsafe and unpredictable. The monsters in the story are not really the point. The grief is. The monsters simply give grief a shape.

What happens when pain is ignored?

What happens when loss is buried?

What happens when fear grows larger because no one knows how to talk about it?

That is the real story of Sketch.

Familiarity

As I watched Amber, I found myself wondering if there was something more familiar about her. Not because there are clear indicators of ADHD or autism. But there was something recognizable in the way she experienced the world. Something many parents of neurodivergent children will immediately understand. Amber seemed to have an inner world that was bigger than her ability to explain it. Her emotions were deep. Her imagination was rich and different. Her vocabulary, as she described her drawings and named them, seemed much older than her biological age.

Case Clues

As I later learned from director Seth Worley’s commentary, Amber was inspired in part by his sister, who was diagnosed with ADHD. That made sense to me. Not because it explains everything about Amber. But because authentic characters often emerge from authentic experiences. Amber feels real because she was created from someone real.

Amber’s Voice

The aspect of Amber’s character that affected me most was her art. To many adults, drawing is an activity. To Amber, it is a language. For many neurodivergent kids and teens who may have alexithymia (the inability to describe their feelings with words in the moment), her sketch pad was her voice. As a clinician and educator, I have worked with many children who communicate through means that adults often underestimate. Some communicate through movement, music, stories, or downloading facts about their favorite things. Some through art.

These forms of expression are often viewed as hobbies, distractions, or preferences. But sometimes they are much more than that. Sometimes they are the child’s voice. That is why one of the most difficult moments in the film for me was when Amber’s father took away her art supplies. As a mother, my heart hurt for both of them. I also made that mistake early on in my daughter’s diagnosis. Clinically trained and expert advice said for discipline, go for the toy or interest that will provide motivation. I learned the hard way, then went against professional advice. NEVER a consequence of punishment with the removal of the interest or passion. Limit time or boundaries for balance and developing other skills, sure. If it is a dangerous interest or addiction, that is different. But that main passion or interest is often more than a hobby; it is decompression, expression, or maybe even tied to identity.

I don’t want to judge the dad. He did his best, and he was grieving too. I understood his exhaustion. I understood his fear. I understood the impossible burden of trying to parent while drowning in your own grief. Life does not pause because your heart is broken. Children still need you. Schools still call. Responsibilities still pile up. And sometimes parents make decisions from a place of overwhelm rather than understanding. Every parent has been there. When I was the mom of the child in trouble at school, I was not Dr. Stephanie the Certified Autism Specialist. I was learning while I went along, and life went on, and another child would receive a diagnosis, and life was hard, etc., etc.

Yet I also saw what Amber lost in that moment. Her father wasn’t simply taking away paper and pencils. He was taking away the place where she could process her pain. The place where she could communicate what she could not yet say. The place where grief could safely exist. I love how the school counselor or therapist gave her the sketch book and said it was good for her to put her big feelings and anger in the book because her drawings were scary, but “no one gets hurt” when you draw it and “put the feelings in here.” She was not shamed for her pictures but encouraged to express them healthily. For Amber, art was not the problem. Art was the pathway.

Lessons Learned

One of the lessons I have learned both professionally and personally is that adults often focus on behavior while children are trying to communicate. But you will hear this in autism conferences: Behavior IS communication. What the function of this behavior is is an important question. But too often the parent or educator is asking:

“How do we stop this?”

When perhaps we should be asking:

“What is this child trying to tell us?”

The behavior may be messy. The emotions may be intense. The communication may be unconventional. But beneath it is often a child attempting to make sense of a world that feels overwhelming. Amber’s drawings were telling a story. A story about loss, fear, missing mom, and these monsters need to be released.

This is where Sketch becomes such a powerful film. It understands that healing does not come from pretending the monsters are not there. Healing comes from facing them. The family spends much of the movie trying to survive the monsters. Eventually, they must confront the grief that created them. As someone who has worked with trauma, I found that message deeply meaningful.

Unprocessed pain rarely disappears. It simply finds another way to speak.

Sometimes through anxiety.

Sometimes through anger.

Sometimes through withdrawal.

Sometimes through creativity.

Sometimes through monsters.

Case Status/Verdict:

So was Amber neurodivergent? The honest answer is that we do not know by the film clues alone. The film does not tell us. There is not enough information to make that determination. But what I do know is that she felt familiar. Familiar to me as a professional. Familiar to me as a mother. Familiar to many families who have watched a child struggle to communicate emotions that felt too large for words. That familiarity matters.

The moment we see a child on screen and think:

“I know that child.”

Or perhaps:

“I love that child.”

Diagnosis: Unknown

Neurodivergent Coding: Highly Possible

Cinema Clues Verdict: Hiding in Plain Sight

Perhaps it is about something every parent, educator, and clinician needs to remember. Children are always communicating. Some forms are very unique. The question is whether we are listening. And sometimes the drawings, the stories, the music, the collections, the interests, and the creations we are tempted to take away are not distractions at all. Sometimes they are the very place where a child’s heart finally finds its voice.

Join us July 3 as Dan and I talk with Lead Producer of Sketch, Steve Taylor. If you haven’t seen Sketch, you may recognize the dad’s voice, who is Fear in Inside Out 2. The movie is about Grief and Loss and very well done!

When most people think of autism and The Big Bang Theory, they think of Sheldon Cooper. If I had a nickel for every time someone compared me to Sheldon, I’d probably have enough to pay for a nice little three-day weekend for my hubby and me. And honestly, I get it.

I can be rigid. I can be inflexible. I can be “always right.” I can miss social cues, come across as insensitive, and yes, I absolutely have a spot. There is no denying that Sheldon and I share some traits, many of them the less flattering stereotypes people tend to associate with autism. But here’s the thing: I don’t think Sheldon is the only neurospicy character on the show.

In fact, I think the entire cast represents different ways of experiencing the world. Today, though, I want to focus on Amy. Because while everyone else was busy comparing me to Sheldon, I was quietly seeing myself in Amy Farrah Fowler.

Amy wasn’t the obvious choice. She wasn’t the quirky genius everyone pointed to when talking about autism. She wasn’t the character people used as shorthand for social awkwardness or rigid thinking. But the more I watched her, the more familiar she felt. Amy desperately wanted a connection.

She wanted friendships. She wanted belonging. She wanted to be included. The problem wasn’t a lack of desire. The problem was that she often seemed to be playing a game where everyone else knew the rules except her. That hit close to home.

Growing up, social interactions often felt like trying to solve a puzzle without having all the pieces. I watched other girls form friendships effortlessly while I studied them like a scientist observing a fascinating new species. There seemed to be an entire language of social expectations that everyone else understood instinctively.

When do you call someone your friend?

How often are you supposed to text them?

How do you know if they’re joking?

How much eye contact is too much eye contact?

What are you supposed to do when someone is upset?

Most people never think about these questions. They just know.

For many autistic people, especially autistic girls, these things aren’t automatic. They’re learned. Sometimes painstakingly. Sometimes through trial and error. Sometimes, through embarrassing mistakes that stay with you for years.

Watching Amy navigate friendships with Penny and Bernadette reminded me of that experience. She wanted those relationships so badly, but there were moments when she approached friendship almost academically. She analyzed it. She overthought it. She tried to understand the rules. I’ve done that.

What I appreciate most about Amy is that her story isn’t about becoming “normal.” It’s about finding people who accept her while she continues to grow. She learns social skills. She becomes more confident. She develops deeper relationships. But she never completely stops being Amy.

As an autistic woman, that resonates with me. For so much of my life, the message I received was that success meant becoming less autistic. Be less sensitive. Be less direct. Be less intense. Blend in better. Learn the rules. Don’t stand out.

Amy’s story offers something different. She learns and grows without losing herself. And maybe that’s why I connected with her more than Sheldon. Sheldon represents many of the traits that people see when they look at autism from the outside. Amy represents what autism often feels like from the inside.

The desire to connect.

The confusion when the connection doesn’t happen the way you expected.

The loneliness of feeling different.

The determination to keep trying anyway.

No television character is a perfect representation of autism. Every autistic person is different, and no single character can capture all of our experiences. But Amy reflected pieces of mine.

So while everyone else was pointing at Sheldon and saying, “That’s you,” I was sitting there thinking something completely different.

No.

The mirror was Amy.

Criminal Minds is one of my favorite shows.

Read more

To me, the X-Men are about fighting for your place in a world that tells you that you do not belong. They are about learning that your uniqueness is your superpower, and that the very things that make you different are what make you special. They are also about the reality that people often fear what they do not understand.

I do not have time to go through every character, so I want to focus on the two who resonate most with me: Rogue and Mystique. In many ways, they represent opposite sides of the same coin. Rogue wants nothing more than a normal life, while Mystique wants mutants to have an established and respected place in the world.

Rogue desperately wants a cure. More than anything, she wants to be able to touch people and physically connect with them without fear. When a cure becomes available, she does not hesitate to take it. The autism community is deeply divided on the cure-versus-no-cure debate, so I will not try to settle that conversation here. What I can say is that my feelings about it have changed over time. In middle school and high school, I would have given almost anything to be like everyone else. If a cure had been available, I probably would have taken it, although I would have let a few waves of volunteers test it first so we could see the side effects. As I got older, however, and began to accept myself for who I am, my perspective changed. Today, I am not sure I would make the same choice.

Mystique’s story resonates with me for a different reason. She has the ability to change her appearance and blend in with those around her. To me, that reflects the experience of masking, especially for autistic women. I have often been called a chameleon because of my ability to adapt to whatever social environment I am in. There is a different version of Sydney for school, work, my inner circle, friends, acquaintances, and family.

The part people do not talk about is what happens after years of changing yourself to fit every situation. Eventually, you start to lose track of who you really are. Who is Sydney beneath all those versions of herself?

A few years ago, I realized I did not actually know the answer. I had spent so much time adapting to everyone else that I had never stopped to define myself. I literally sat down and made a list of traits from each version of “Sydney” and compared them to find the qualities they all shared. It took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out, but in the end, I discovered something important: beneath all the masks, there was still a real me. I just had to take the time to find her.

The reason the X-Men have always resonated with me is not because of the powers, the costumes, or the battles. It is because their stories reflect a very human experience: trying to find where you belong in a world that often misunderstands you. Whether it is Rogue wishing she could be “normal” or Mystique hiding parts of herself to fit in, I see pieces of my own journey in both of them. Over time, I have learned that my goal is not to be cured, fixed, or perfectly accepted by everyone around me. My goal is to understand and accept myself. The X-Men taught me that being different is not something to overcome. It is something to embrace. What makes us different is often what makes us extraordinary

.

For decades, Mystique has been framed as dangerous, manipulative, unstable, seductive, morally gray. The shapeshifter. The infiltrator. The woman who can become anyone.

But watching her through a neurodivergent lens changes the entire emotional architecture of the character.

Because Mystique is not simply hiding.

She is surviving through adaptation.

And for many late-diagnosed autistic and ADHD adults, especially women and high-maskers, that feels less like fantasy and more like autobiography.

Mystique studies people in order to move safely through the world. She learns speech patterns, facial expressions, social rhythms, posture, timing, emotional expectation. She becomes readable to others by becoming unreadable to herself.

That is masking.

Not in the cartoonish internet sense of “pretending to be normal.” In the deeper psychological sense of building a socially survivable self layer by layer until performance becomes reflexive.

What makes Mystique tragic is not that she can become other people.

It’s that she rarely gets to exist safely as herself.

The world of the X-Men is obsessed with mutation as spectacle, but underneath the powers is a very human emotional ecosystem: shame, exile, visibility, conformity, fear.

Mystique’s natural form is considered threatening before she even speaks.

So she adapts.

And adaptation becomes identity.

Many trauma-adapted neurodivergent people know this terrain intimately. Especially those who grew up undiagnosed. They become hyper-observant because observation is protective. They become socially intelligent because misunderstanding carries consequences. They become emotionally anticipatory because they learned early that safety often depended on correctly reading the room.

People often romanticize this adaptation afterward.

“You’re so intuitive.”
“You read people so well.”
“You’re a chameleon.”
“You’d be a great actress.”
“You always know what people need.”

But what they are often witnessing is not effortless charisma.

It is survival-trained perception.

And that is where Magneto becomes so psychologically interesting.

Magneto does not recruit through joy.

He recruits through injury.

He offers wounded gifted people a narrative powerful enough to contain their pain. He tells mutants the world will never truly accept them. He reframes exclusion as superiority. He turns humiliation into ideology.

And the terrifying thing is that he is not entirely wrong.

That is what makes him compelling.

Trauma-adapted people are often exquisitely sensitive to hypocrisy, power structures, social cruelty, manipulation, groupthink, and systemic violence. They notice what others miss. They see fractures in consensus reality long before the collective catches up.

But wounds distort signal.

Especially when someone has spent decades feeling alien, misread, unseen, punished, or fragmented.

A highly perceptive person who has never experienced true belonging can become vulnerable to charismatic certainty. Not because they are weak. Because certainty feels stabilizing after a lifetime of relational instability.

Magneto offers meaning to pain.

That is intoxicating.

And Mystique repeatedly falls into the gravitational pull of people who seem to understand the wound beneath the mask.

Not because she is foolish.
Because she is hungry for coherence.

That distinction matters.

Too often, discussions about neurodivergence flatten people into either innocent victims or magical geniuses. The reality is far more human and complicated than that.

Many neurodivergent people possess extraordinary pattern recognition while simultaneously carrying profound relational injuries.

Those two things can coexist.

Someone can be brilliant at reading systems and still vulnerable in intimate emotional dynamics.
Someone can detect manipulation everywhere and still long desperately to be chosen.
Someone can understand human behavior deeply and still mistake intensity for safety.

Mystique embodies that contradiction beautifully.

There is also something profoundly neurodivergent about her relationship to identity itself.

Most people move through the world assuming identity is fixed and internally stable. Many masked neurodivergent people do not experience identity that way at all. They experience identity relationally, contextually, adaptively.

Different environments activate different selves.
Different people pull forward different performances.
Different survival conditions create different social skins.

After enough years, the question quietly emerges:

Who am I underneath all of this adaptation?

Mystique lives inside that question constantly.

And unlike many superheroes, she is not rewarded for authenticity.

She is punished for it.

That emotional reality resonates far beyond comic books.

What makes the X-Men universe endure culturally is not the powers. It’s that mutation functions as metaphor. Race. Disability. queerness. trauma. exile. giftedness. otherness. The fear of being seen. The exhaustion of hiding.

The franchise survives because people recognize themselves inside it.

And Mystique may be one of the clearest mirrors of all for trauma-adapted neurodivergent adults who spent decades becoming who the world required before they ever had the chance to discover who they actually were.

Underneath the blue skin and shapeshifting is a woman asking a painfully human question:

If I stop adapting, will anyone still love me?

That is not a supervillain question.

That is a survival question.

*Tune in to the Holmes’ Cinema Clues discussion coming in Season 1.

One of the most misunderstood communication behaviors in autism is something commonly called scripting. Families often hear the term and worry it means their child is “just repeating things” or not using language meaningfully. Clinicians may note it in evaluations. Teachers may observe it in the classroom. Yet scripting is often far more complex, purposeful, and developmentally significant than many realize.

The word scripting comes from the idea of a script—lines spoken in a play, television show, movie, book, or repeated routine. In autism, scripting generally refers to the use of previously heard language that is repeated or reused in communication. A child may quote a favorite movie, repeat lines from a television show, recite lyrics from songs, or rely on familiar dialogue in predictable situations. This is closely related to what clinicians call echolalia, which means repeating words or phrases spoken by others. Echolalia may be immediate (repeating something just heard) or delayed (repeating something heard earlier, sometimes days, weeks, or months later).

When I was a young mother, words like Asperger’s, autism, echolalia, or scripting were not yet part of my everyday vocabulary. I did not have the clinical language then that I have now, even though at the time I was a licensed professional counselor. I had a bright, interesting child named Sydney who often used phrases from movies or songs in the middle of a conversation. At times, I was puzzled. I wondered why she answered in lines I did not fully understand or why certain lyrics seemed to appear at unexpected moments. What I know now is that she was communicating in the language that felt available, meaningful, and efficient to her nervous system at that time.

Like many parents, I was interpreting behavior before I had a framework for understanding it. But even then, I found her ability to pull a line from a movie in the appropriate way quirky but intellectual. I thought the “scripting” was a sign of high intelligence and vocabulary. The issue arose when others outside of the family unit, who had not watched the movie or heard the song being referenced. To them, it felt odd and out of place.

For many years, the clinical view of autism, scripting, and echolalia was viewed primarily through a deficit lens—as language that should be reduced or extinguished. Older models often assumed that “real” communication had to look spontaneous, novel, and neurotypical. We now know that perspective was incomplete.

Current autism-informed and neurodiversity-affirming approaches recognize that scripting can serve many important functions. It may be a bridge to expressive language. It may help someone process information, regulate emotions, rehearse social interactions, request needs, express joy, or participate in connection. A child quoting a line from a movie may not be “off topic” at all; they may be communicating excitement, frustration, humor, anxiety, or a shared memory.

Looking back, I can now see many of Sydney’s scripts differently. A phrase from a movie may have been her way of expressing delight. A song lyric may have captured a feeling she did not yet know how to explain directly. Familiar lines may have given predictability in moments that felt socially confusing or emotionally big. What once seemed random often had purpose. Songs she would get stuck on and sing spontaneously may have been communicating far more about her feelings of self and belonging.

This is why many speech-language pathologists (SLPs) today look not only at the words spoken, but at the function of the script. What is the person trying to say? What need is being met? How can we honor the communication while expanding flexibility and comprehension? Rather than eliminating scripts, skilled SLPs often use them as entry points for growth—building conversational turns, emotional vocabulary, inferencing, and spontaneous language from language that already feels safe and accessible.

Clinicians who understand autism also recognize that scripting can coexist with intelligence, insight, humor, and deep comprehension. Repetition does not equal lack of understanding.

As parents and professionals, our task is not simply to stop what looks different. It is to become curious about what it means. If I could go back and speak to my younger self, I would tell my younger self to listen more closely to what her daughter was trying to share and look for clues for a broader meaning and perhaps chances of connection in her world.

When we listen beneath the repeated words, we often discover connection, regulation, memory, creativity, and a mind working hard to communicate in the way it currently can.

Sometimes a script is not the end of communication. It is the beginning.

In another piece, I will write about an interview on another show I used to do with Ron Suskind on Life, Animated.

In a previous piece late spring, I wrote about scripting and how, in our own home, I came to better understand that repeated lines from movies, songs, and familiar dialogue were not meaningless words. They were communicating. Like many parents years ago, I did not yet have the vocabulary for autism, echolalia, or scripting when my daughter Sydney would answer with phrases drawn from the media. What I know now is that scripts often carry emotion, memory, safety, and intent. Once we understand that, we can begin to hear the person beneath the repetition. Few public stories illustrate that truth more powerfully than the journey of Ron Suskind and his son Owen Suskind.

I had the privilege of interviewing Ron Suskind on an older podcast I used to host, Converge Autism Radio, and one of the things that immediately stood out was how much we shared in common as families: the surprising role that The Walt Disney Company stories played in helping connection happen at home. During our conversation, Ron spoke of learning to enter Owen’s world rather than constantly trying to pull Owen into everyone else’s. He reflected that when families learn the language of a child’s passion, “you find there is much more there than you realized.” That truth resonated deeply with me. Many of us have discovered that movies, characters, songs, and repeated dialogue can become emotional shorthand, shared humor, and bridges to relationships. I sincerely hope Ron will one day join us on Holmes’ Cinema Clues, because Life, Animated is exactly the kind of meaningful cultural story we love to explore. If schedules do not align, I fully expect this film to be part of Season 2 or 3 in a Cinema Translator episode, because it offers one of the most compelling examples of how media can become not escapism, but connection.

In the book and later documentary Life, Animated, Ron shares how Owen, who had lost speech after regressive autism, immersed himself in The Walt Disney Company animated films. What others may have dismissed as fixation became, in time, a doorway.

Owen memorized scenes, songs, and dialogue from films such as The Little Mermaid, Aladdin, The Lion King, Peter Pan, and many others. Those stories gave him something powerful: emotional maps. In classic Disney narratives, characters face fear, friendship, loss, courage, belonging, injustice, and triumph. For a child trying to understand a confusing social world, these stories offered structure and recognizable patterns.

Ron described realizing that Owen’s repeated Disney dialogue was not random noise but meaningful language waiting to be understood. What sounded like disconnected phrases often came from specific scenes and carried emotional relevance. Suddenly, scripting was no longer something to extinguish; it was something to decode.

One of the most moving moments in Life, Animated involves the character Iago, the wisecracking parrot from Aladdin. Ron entered Owen’s room and began speaking in Iago’s voice. Rather than demanding typical conversation, he entered Owen’s world through a trusted character and familiar script. Owen responded. Through that playful doorway came real emotion and authentic communication. In that exchange, Owen was able to express painful truths about loneliness, friendship, and not understanding other people.

That moment matters deeply.

Too often, we measure communication only by spontaneity, originality, or neurotypical conversational style. Yet communication is broader than that. It is the successful transfer of inner experience to another person. By that measure, Owen was communicating long before others fully recognized it.

Ron later described their approach as “affinity therapy,” meeting a child inside a deep interest rather than dragging them away from it. I found this definition or description of “affinity therapy” that I will share: The affinity approach begins with the belief that a person’s deep interests are not obstacles to development but potential pathways into growth, relationship, and learning. Rather than trying to extinguish or redirect an intense interest because it appears narrow or repetitive, the approach asks how that interest can be used to build communication, trust, motivation, and emotional connection. For an autistic child, an affinity for The Walt Disney Company films, trains, maps, animals, numbers, or music may provide predictability, joy, competence, and a shared language. When parents, therapists, or educators enter that world respectfully, they often find increased engagement and opportunities for reciprocal interaction. In the story of Owen Suskind, Disney was not the barrier to communication—it became the bridge. The larger lesson is this: what we dismiss as fixation may actually be the front door to connection.

I appreciate that frame. Whether the affinity (or clinical language may define this as repetitive, restrictive interests) is Disney, trains, maps, animals, technology, numbers, music, rocks, or historical facts, the special or passionate interest is often not a prison but a pathway.

As a certified autism specialist and former clinician, I have often encouraged families to become curious before corrective. Ask: What is this script doing? Is it regulating anxiety? Requesting a connection? Expressing joy? Rehearsing language? Sharing identity? Opening a door?

Because sometimes the movie quote is not avoidable. Sometimes it is courage.

Sometimes the repeated line is not empty speech. Sometimes it is the safest available bridge from isolation to a relationship.

And sometimes, as the Suskind family discovered, when we step into another person’s language with patience and love, they begin to step into shared life with us.

Stay tuned, and Life Animated will be in Season 2 or 3, hopefully with Ron Suskind as a guest, but discussed as a cinema translation case at some point!

Not merely the rebel. Not merely the eccentric. Not merely the brilliant contrarian. Those personalities are common enough. What interests me more is the one who alters the outcome yet seems oddly unconcerned with applause. The person who can carry unusual insight without requiring the room to acknowledge it. The one who solves the problem and then steps aside while someone else gives the press conference. There is something almost serene in that posture; a freedom from the exhausting need to be seen.

It is, perhaps, a Holmesian instinct. Sherlock Holmes untangles the mystery while Inspector Lestrade receives the institutional legitimacy. Holmes appears less interested in headlines than in the satisfaction of seeing clearly. The reward is not fame; it is resolution. Truth set back into place. The solved case is enough.

History offers its own versions. Nikola Tesla remains, for many, the patron saint of the under-credited mind: immense imagination, transformational contribution, little appetite or ability for the machinery of self-promotion. Thomas Edison, by contrast, understood systems, branding, capital, and narrative. Both mattered. But they mattered differently. One bent reality; the other mastered recognition.

Alan Turing belongs in this company. His work helped shorten a war, laid the foundations for modern computing, and shaped questions we are still asking about intelligence itself. Yet for years, much of his contribution remained hidden, and the society he served treated him with cruelty rather than honor. Sometimes the outlier not only goes underpraised, but he is punished by the age that benefits from him.

Marie Curie offers another form of the same pattern. She pursued discovery with a seriousness that transcended the vanity of acclaim. Her work changed science and medicine, yet what remains most compelling is not celebrity but disciplined devotion to truth. There is an irony almost too sharp to script: the very phenomena she studied helped bring about the illness that ended her life. She was, in a literal sense, wounded by the frontier she advanced. Some people become known because they sought attention; others because excellence became too luminous to ignore, and some pay a cost for knowledge that later generations inherit more safely.

This distinction has become increasingly meaningful to me. Some people optimize for being seen. Others optimize for what is true, what works, what can be built, what can be known. The first category often receives faster rewards because modern culture is structured around visibility. The second may labor quietly for years, sometimes misunderstood, sometimes bypassed, occasionally rediscovered long after the crowd has moved on.

I suspect many neurodivergent people feel this tension acutely. If one’s mind is oriented toward patterns, inconsistencies, hidden structures, and unfinished puzzles, there can be less instinctive interest in the social economy of credit. Recognition is pleasant enough, but it is secondary. The deeper satisfaction comes from solving, clarifying, repairing, and naming the thing accurately. There is satisfaction in coherence that applause cannot quite replicate.

That may explain part of why certain artists and creators resonate so deeply with me. They are not merely talented. They seem animated by something other than status. Their work carries the scent of necessity rather than branding. They made the thing because it needed making; they said the uncomfortable truth because it needed saying. If praise followed, fine. If not, the work still stood.

This lens shaped our recent conversation with Steve Taylor, scheduled to air on Holmes Cinema Clues in June. Much has been written about his wit, satire, and willingness to challenge Christian subculture, and rightly so. Yet another trait may be equally revealing: he often seemed more interested in making the point than in occupying the throne. He was not merely writing catchy songs for a niche market; he was using music as a delivery system for scrutiny. While others were content to reassure the audience, he often chose to unsettle it. While others fortified the walls of the subculture, he occasionally examined the cracks in the foundation.

That is not always a profitable instinct. In many industries, especially religious ones, affirmation is safer commerce than critique. There is money in telling a community that it is wonderful, wise, and besieged by outsiders. There is less money in asking whether vanity has entered the sanctuary, whether power has dressed itself in piety, whether conformity has been mistaken for discipleship. Yet Taylor repeatedly moved toward those fault lines.

Songs such as I Want to Be a Clone did more than entertain; they exposed the pressure within Christian culture to produce replicas rather than mature souls. The satire worked because it was near enough to reality to sting. Cash Cow aimed at the uneasy marriage of ministry language and commercial appetite. We Don’t Need No Color Code named racial hypocrisy at a time when many preferred ambiguity. This Disco Used to Be a Cute Cathedral compressed into one memorable phrase an entire critique of trend-chasing religion. Lifeboat carried the sense that moral drift can occur while everyone onboard still congratulates themselves for staying afloat.

What is striking in retrospect is not merely the courage of the themes but the craftsmanship of the vehicle. He did not arrive with dour lectures. He brought hooks, memorable imagery, humor, eccentricity, sharp videos, and titles that demanded curiosity. There was pleasure in the art even when the content was confrontational. That combination matters. Many people can be provocative; fewer can be provocative and genuinely creative. Fewer still can do so with enough wit that the medicine is taken before the listener realizes he has swallowed it.

For some of us, especially those less persuaded by social signaling and more compelled by internal coherence, that kind of work lands with unusual force. One hears the lyric, laughs at the absurdity, and then realizes the absurdity is familiar. One sees the video, initially amused by the theatricality, and then recognizes the target. The entertainment opens the gate; the truth walks through afterward.

There is also a quieter aspect of Taylor’s career worth noting. Influence does not always wear the crown. Some artists dominate headlines for a season and vanish from memory; others shape the imagination of peers, inspire later creators, cross into adjacent mediums, and leave fingerprints that are more durable than chart positions. Taylor’s movement into film, his production work, his continued creative output, and the respect he commands among thoughtful listeners suggest a legacy more architectural than ornamental. He helped build rooms in which others later stood.

That, too, belongs to the category of the outlier who does not need credit. He seems less animated by celebrity than by the making of things worth making. There is a distinction between wanting to be famous and wanting to be effective. One seeks attention; the other seeks consequence. The latter often lasts longer.

There is a freedom in that posture. Not needing constant acknowledgment is to become difficult to manipulate. To care more about substance than spotlight is to become strangely durable. Institutions often reward the visible star, but communities are sustained by people whose names are absent from the marquee.

Many families work because of such people. Many companies survive because of them. Many churches are steadied by them. Many friendships are healed by them. They are not always charismatic. They may not even be especially noticed. But they carry weight quietly.

Perhaps that is why the archetype continues to draw me. In a world trained to chase platforms, there is something noble about the person who would rather be useful than famous. The one who would rather solve the case than pose for the photograph.

We remember the headline names because history is often written by microphones. Yet much of what is best in human life arrives through quieter hands.

The outlier who does not need credit may be one of them.

Steve Taylor is a guest of Holmes’ Cinema Clues in Season 1. In his first appearance, Dan discusses why he was drawn to Steve (ND Magnet), and in a second show on the movie Sketch, in which Steve Taylor was the lead producer, as examine whether a character of the movie was perhaps neurodivergent or Hidden in Plain Sight. Like, Follow, Subscribe to the YT channel to see the interviews https://www.youtube.com/@HolmesCinemaCluesAutisminMedia. Want to support this Substack or the show? Become a paid subscriber at $7-15 a month!

For those who aren’t familiar with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Donnie is one of four mutant turtle brothers who live in the sewers of New York City. They spend their time fighting crime, eating pizza, and getting up to all sorts of wacky adventures. There are many iterations of the show, as well as many comics, crossovers, and movies, and no two are exactly alike. The turtles themselves are often represented differently across iterations, as well as the circumstances surrounding their creation, the origin of their rat-mutant father, and the cast of villains they face on the regular.

However, the turtles’ base roles and personalities tend to stay fairly consistent across versions. Leonardo is generally the serious leader, wields katanas, and wears a blue bandana. Raphael is generally a hothead fighter, wields sais, and wears a red bandana. Michelangelo is generally an unserious jokester, wields nunchuks, and wears an orange bandana. Finally, Donatello is generally the practical engineer, wields a bo, and wears a purple bandana.

The 2018 Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles show, known by fans as simply “Rise”, takes a somewhat different approach to many of the characters and tropes usually found in the TMNT franchise. This caused quite a stir amongst fans when it was first released (including myself), and continues to be divisive in the fandom for its many variations from the norm. Personally, I appreciate the change of pace that the show offers, and it is clear to me how much love the creators have for the characters and the franchise at large. Rise has become one of my favorite versions, and I love comparing the similarities and differences between the Ninja Turtles media.

As for Donatello himself, the Rise show portrays him in a similar light as other shows: he is a tech genius who loves his brothers and uses a bo to fight crime in New York. However, the Rise show took this characterization and turned it up to eleven. 2018 Donatello is explosively himself, creating tech for every facet of the turtles’ lives, and wielding a bo made not of wood, but of technology that allows it to transform into drills, hammers, rocket launchers, and much more. Donnie is almost manic in his love for technology, and that is one of our first clues to his neurodivergence. If ever there was a special interest, Donatello’s love for tech is the first example in the dictionary.

I would go so far as to say that all Donatellos across versions are, by nature, autism-coded. They are all obsessed with technology, they almost all have trouble expressing their feelings, many of them have sensory issues, and can have a hard time adjusting their tone of voice for the situation they are in. 2018 Donatello, however, is the first to be officially confirmed as autistic, and the show does everything to represent that diagnosis in a way that reads as very loving and respectful. Donatello is never shown to be othered for his neurodivergence, and while his brothers may joke about or comment on his autistic traits, it is never shown to be out of disgust or disapproval. Donatello is not a character with autism shoehorned in. He is autistic. No fuss, just good representation.

The Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles show portrays Donnie’s autism symptoms in many ways throughout the show. Let’s discuss a few so you can get an idea of what I am talking about. Firstly, Donatello experiences both sensory seeking and sensory avoidant behaviors. In the episode “The Purple Jacket”, Donatello decides he wants to be part of an advanced tech club at April’s (the turtle’s human friend) high school. He wants this largely because of a purple, satin jacket that the group members wear. In the episode, Donnie covets “the shimmering sheen, the exquisite violet hue, (and) the silkiness of the fabric,” ending with him saying, “It has everything I love and even things I didn’t even know I loved yet!”. And honestly, I totally get it. As for sensory avoidant behaviors, there are many examples, but one of my favorites is that Donatello’s preferred juice flavor is “flavorless”. And again, I get that too.

Another great couple of examples of Donatello’s autistic traits are his stims, lack of vocal control, and his eyebrows. Yes, his eyebrows. More on that in a second. Donatello can be found stimming in just about every episode of the show. From flapping his hands, to rolling back and forth on the ground, to his love of “songs to which he may jammy-jam”, Donatello has many stims to choose from. Additionally, Donatello displays a lack of vocal control that is very easy to relate to. For example, in an episode where the characters have to go to a mystic library, Donnie gets caught up singing a song he made up and winds up shouting the last few words, resulting in his removal from the library.

Finally, we come to Donatello’s eyebrows. Now, being mutant turtles, the boys do not have eyebrows. Even if they did, the color-coded masks they wear would cover them up. In the Rise show, Donatello can be seen sporting eyebrows over his purple mask. This is notable for the aforementioned reasons, and as we find out in the show, they are not a natural feature on our turtle. Instead, he draws them on with a Sharpie every morning. As I recall, it is not explicitly stated in the show, but this is generally interpreted by fans as being an attempt to make it easier for the people around him to read his expressions. This would be very in line with his character, as Donatello is frequently depicted as delivering statements in a flat or sarcastic tone when he doesn’t mean them as such, and as struggling to portray his emotions in a way that makes sense to other people.

Another thing that Donnie does to help others understand his meaning is verbalizing his intent through tone tags and physical descriptors after speaking. For example, Donatello is often caught saying things like “he said sarcastically” or “scoffs loudly” in place of actually doing or saying things the way he describes. It’s a good character quirk, but it’s also a sweet accommodation Donatello uses to help himself communicate.

Lastly, I want to talk about some of the more blatant autistic struggles that Donatello experiences throughout the show. For example, his hyperfixations and his difficulty in seeing the perspectives of others. The Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles show does not shy away from these autistic struggles, and they are often the subject of entire episodes. One such example is Donatello’s hyperfixation on a video game literally called “The Purple Game”. In an episode by the same title, Donnie finds and downloads a game where players compete to earn an ultimate prize. Donatello quickly becomes obsessed and forgoes both eating and sleeping to climb the ranks of the game in pursuit of the prize. His brothers try to snap him out of it to no avail, and it turns out that the game was a ploy by a group of the boys’ enemies to turn Donnie against his brothers. Donatello does eventually see his mistake and goes to help his brothers, and everything turns out okay. But while the consequences of Donnie’s hyperfixation are extreme, the reality of forgetting to take care of yourself while enthralled by a new obsession is an unfortunate truth of the autistic experience.

Donatello is also frequently portrayed as being rigid in his thinking (which can be both a good and bad thing, as many autistic traits are) and reluctant to see the perspectives of others. One such example is his creation of items to help his brothers in the episode “Donnie’s Gifts”. In this episode, Donnie creates what he sees as technological aides for his brothers in their pursuit of justice and crime-fighting. Each gift is intended to help the other turtles with what Donatello sees as deficiencies that will endanger them in the heat of battle. Michelangelo, he creates an inflatable suit to protect himself from hurting himself during his usual acrobatics. For Raphael, he creates a helmet that talks and gives strategic planning advice to combat Raph’s usual impulsiveness. And lastly, for Leonardo, he creates a collar that shocks him anytime he makes a joke in an effort to keep Leo focused on whatever scrap they find themselves in. (Yes, he gave his brother a shock collar. Not his best moment for sure.) All of these gifts were created with Donatello’s brothers’ safety in mind, but, as you can imagine, the other boys were less than thrilled with their presents. The brothers saw the gifts as an effort to change or erase their flaws and not as an act of love and protection. The brothers eventually reconcile at the end of the episode, and the show moves on, but the situation clearly demonstrates Donatello’s rigidity of thinking. He saw a problem and created a way to fix it, not seeing how his gifts could actually do more harm than good.

At the end of the day, Donatello is a multifaceted character who displays both autistic strengths and struggles. He is intelligent, funny, and analytical, while also experiencing many of the same difficulties that we as autistic people face every day. This is not to say that Donatello’s representation is perfect or that he completely encapsulates the autistic experience, but I believe that he is an incredible step in the right direction. A direction where autistic people can be represented in a way that is non-judgemental and real, without turning us into some kind of inspirational caricature of what people think we should be. We have hopes and struggles just like anyone else, and my hope is that my little rant makes sense, and maybe inspires you to watch the show! Thank you

What do you think? Want to comment? Want to present a case? Join Patreon, and you can present a case or perhaps even be on a show!

Dr. Stephanie’s thoughts- Elayna makes a strong case for Donatello, and if he does not fit the DSM-5-TR completely, he certainly seems to fit the criteria for Broader Autism Phenotype.

Elayna will be a guest in June on Holmes’ Cinema Clues!

!

I didn’t watch it and think about oppression, or even difference.

I watched it and felt something I didn’t have language for at the time.

A room.

A hidden place.

A school you could only get into if someone recognized what you were.

And more specifically, I remember Professor Xavier putting on that helmet and sitting inside Cerebro, scanning the world for others like him.

At the time, it looked like science fiction.

Now it feels like a documentary.

It took me about a year after my diagnosis to understand what had actually happened to me.

The first part was brutal.

Unmasking sounds poetic until you are inside it.

Inside it, it feels like collapse.

I thought I had been masking deficits.

I thought everyone else knew what they were doing and I had somehow slipped through the cracks. I thought I had built a life on top of something fundamentally broken. That I was a walking imposter who had no business speaking, writing, hosting, building anything.

That was the story.

And I lived inside it long enough for it to feel true.

Then something shifted.

Not gradually. Not gently.

Cleanly.

I wasn’t masking incompetence.

I was masking capacity.

Above and beyond capacity.

The kind of pattern recognition that does not fit neatly into systems that reward linear thinking, visible productivity, or socially approved pacing.

The kind that sees too much, too quickly.

The kind that makes other people uncomfortable before it makes sense.

The kind that learns to quiet itself just to stay in the room.

That was the moment.

Not the diagnosis.

Not the unmasking.

The reframe.

That was when it clicked.

That was when I realized I wasn’t alone.

It felt like finding Xavier’s school.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

A hidden network.

A place you could not access until something in you recognized something in someone else.

I didn’t find it in institutions.

I didn’t find it in clinical language.

I found it on TikTok and Substack.

Which is exactly where you would expect the misfits to gather.

I had stayed off social media for a long time.

I was tired of the noise, the posturing, the performance of it all.

When I came back, I did it differently.

No audience transfer.

No leveraging what I had already built.

I wrote under pen names.

I put signal out without identity attached to it.

No credentials. No titles. No company. No explanation.

Just truth.

And something started happening.

They found me.

At first, I thought people were just trying to be seen.

Doing strange things. Posting things that looked chaotic or overly exposed.

It was easy to interpret it as attention-seeking.

It was not.

It was recognition-seeking.

There is a difference.

What I started to see, very quickly, was that people were trying to witness themselves out loud.

Because they had never been witnessed correctly.

And when you have never been witnessed correctly, you start to create signals in whatever way you can.

Even if it looks messy.

Even if it looks strange.

Even if it looks like too much.

Then something even more interesting happened.

They weren’t just expressing.

They were finding each other.

This is the part X-Men got right in a way I don’t think we fully understood at the time.

Cerebro was never just about locating mutants.

It was about the moment the signal turns on.

The moment you realize there are others.

The moment the map lights up.

That is what this feels like now.

I can feel it when I read comments.

Not just the content. The pattern behind the content.

A theologian with a PhD from Berkeley writing something quietly profound under a post.

A mechanic in a garage who thinks he is nothing, articulating something with more clarity than most published authors.

People across every possible background, every level of education, every profession, all saying some version of the same thing:

I thought I was the only one.

They are not.

They have just never been gathered.

And now they are.

Not in one place.

Not in one system.

But in a field.

A network.

A frequency.

Call it whatever you want.

It is real.

Dr. Janina Scarlet has spoken about how X-Men helped her survive bullying after immigrating to the United States following Chernobyl.

Kids would ask if she was radioactive. If she would make them glow.

The cruelty was specific. The isolation was real.

And X-Men gave her a framework where difference was not deficiency.

Where being targeted meant you were something rare.

Something powerful.

Her work now, through Superhero Therapy, continues that thread. Helping people reframe their experiences through the lens of strength rather than damage.

It matters.

Because for a long time, that was the only place many of us could see ourselves.

In fiction.

What is different now is that we are no longer limited to metaphor.

We are finding each other in real time.

And once you see it, you cannot unsee it.

I don’t go out looking for people.

I don’t need to.

They come through the writing.

Through the comments.

Through the messages.

Through the quiet, precise way someone says something that lets you know immediately:

There you are.

And when you see enough of them, something inside you settles.

Not because you have been validated.

Because you have been located.

That is a different kind of relief.

It means you no longer have to perform coherence in a system that was never designed for your kind of thinking.

It means you no longer have to translate everything you see into something more palatable.

It means you can let the signal exist as it is.

There are more of us than anyone realized.

Not loud.

Not centralized.

Not organized in a way that makes it easy to categorize.

But here.

Everywhere.

And if you have had that moment recently.

That quiet, almost disorienting realization that other people think like you.

That you are not alone in the way your mind moves, in the way you feel, in the way you see patterns.

You are not imagining it.

The helmet is on.

The signal is live.

And for the first time, we are not just surviving in isolation.

We are recognizing each other.

And once that happens, you do not go back

.

The Four “Case” Types

1. The Coded Character: These are characters written with clear ND traits and are labeled on the show as neurodivergent. The community often has a love-hate relationship here; they feel seen by the traits, but sometimes “robbed” of the actual representation.

2. Hiding in Plain Sight: These are the characters who might be overlooked because their traits are masked or presented as “genius,” “quirkiness,” or “eccentricity” rather than neurodivergence.

3. The ND Magnet: Movies or characters that the community is naturally drawn to, even if the character isn’t ND. This is often about a vibe—a feeling of being an outsider or navigating a world with different “operating instructions.”

4. The Cinema Translator: Using a film as a tool to say, “See this scene? This is what sensory overload feels like to me.” It’s cinema as a bridge for communication.

Agents and Guests:

Learn more about the show and the agents with recurring roles here-

Meet the Cinema Squad:https://www.holmescinemaclues.com/about

Follow on Substack for Case File Notes and Evidence written by a different Cinema Agent each week!

Other guests will be producers, clinicians, or perhaps even readers or viewers who want a case file read or to argue for or against a case. To find out more, join paid viewership on Patreon at the Squad Support Level.

Like many ideas in our family, Holmes’ Cinema Clues didn’t begin as a formal plan. It grew out of ordinary conversations that Dan and I have had for years about movies, characters, and the way certain stories linger with us long after the credits roll. Every once in a while, a scene or a character will capture something so familiar that it feels like the writers somehow stumbled onto a truth we’ve been trying to explain for years.

Those conversations are what eventually grew into Holmes’ Cinema Clues. The show is our way of exploring how film and television portray neurodivergence, whether intentionally or accidentally, and how stories can help us understand one another better. Sometimes we will laugh at the quirks of a character. In the words of Larry the Cucumber (VeggieTales, another Holmes’ Favorite), “I laughed, I cried, it moved me, Bob!”

Sometimes we will critique the writing. Sometimes we will celebrate a portrayal that feels surprisingly authentic. And sometimes we will use a film moment as a doorway to talk about real-life neurodivergent experiences. The show really has four kinds of “cases” we plan to investigate.

Case Type 1: Neurodivergent-Coded Characters

Some characters are written intentionally as neurodivergent. They may be described as autistic, ADHD, or otherwise neurodivergent within the story itself, or the creators may confirm that the character was meant to represent a particular neurotype.

These portrayals can be incredibly meaningful, but they can also be uneven. Sometimes the character is written with insight and depth, showing both strengths and challenges in ways that resonate with real people. Other times, the portrayal leans into stereotypes or exaggerations that make neurodivergent individuals feel flattened into a trope.

In these episodes, we will talk honestly about both sides. What did the writers get right? Where did they miss the mark? And what might have helped the character feel more authentic?

Case Type 2: The “Unwritten Diagnosis”

Then there are characters who were never officially written as neurodivergent but who raise a lot of eyebrows among viewers who recognize familiar patterns.

These are the characters where audiences begin gathering clues.

Maybe it’s their communication style. Maybe it’s their intense interests, social misunderstandings, sensory sensitivities, or logical approach to relationships. Over time, viewers start to notice a constellation of traits that feel strikingly familiar.

Characters like Sheldon Cooper, Amy Farah Fowler, Leonard and more from The Big Bang Theory are often part of these conversations. The writers may say the character is not autistic, yet many autistic viewers see themselves reflected in him. Other shows have similar figures or characters who were never given a label but who seem to live somewhere along the neurodivergent spectrum.

In these episodes, we will play detective. What are the clues? What behaviors or patterns stand out? And why do so many viewers interpret the character through a neurodivergent lens?

Case Type 3: The Characters Neurodivergent Viewers Love

Sometimes the most interesting clues come not from the script itself but from the audience.

Certain characters attract neurodivergent fans in surprising ways. The character might not be written as autistic or ADHD at all, but something about them resonates deeply with neurodivergent viewers. It might be their outsider status, their unusual way of thinking, their moral clarity, or simply their eccentric brilliance.

Dan wrote one of our early reflections on Tim the Enchanter from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Tim appears on screen for only a few minutes, yet he makes a lasting impression. He is eccentric, slightly mysterious, and completely comfortable being different from everyone else in the story. Dan has always been drawn to characters like that, what he called the outliers, the sages, the unexpected guides who appear briefly but leave a memorable mark.

These episodes explore that phenomenon. Why do certain characters capture the imagination of neurodivergent viewers? What qualities make them feel relatable or meaningful?

Case Type 4: Film as a Teaching Tool

Finally, some episodes will use film scenes as a way to explain real neurodivergent experiences.

Movies often provide vivid metaphors that help people understand complex internal experiences. A scene may illustrate masking, sensory overload, emotional processing, or the longing to belong in ways that are easier to grasp than a clinical explanation.

One of our contributors, Cinema Agent Walker, recently wrote a piece using imagery from The Water of Life to describe the experience of unmasking—what it feels like when someone begins to live more authentically after years of trying to fit expectations that were never designed for them. Stories like that show how film can move beyond entertainment and become something closer to what we might call “edutainment.”

These episodes will blend storytelling with reflection, helping viewers better understand the neurodivergent world through the lens of cinema.

At its heart, Holmes’ Cinema Clues is about curiosity. It is about paying attention to the stories we love and asking what they might reveal about how we see the world and how we see each other. Sometimes the clues will lead to laughter. Sometimes to insight. Occasionally to a spirited debate about whether the writers really understood the character they created.

The show officially launches next week on May 1, 2026, at 8:00 PM Eastern on YouTube, and we would love for you to be part of it. If the idea of exploring film through the lens of neurodiversity intrigues you, we hope you will watch, share the show with friends, and help us get this project off the ground.

Stories have always helped people understand one another. Our hope is that Holmes’ Cinema Clues will give us a new way to follow those clues together. Go ahead and subscribe on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/@HolmesCinemaCluesAutisminMedia

Mr. Jewell is portrayed as a person who was clearly neurodivergent, and by today’s standards, he would likely be considered an individual with Level 1 autism. Clint Eastwood, known for highlighting individuals who demonstrate courage and perseverance in the face of adversity, presents a portrayal that aligns closely with documented events. However, beyond the factual accuracy, the film offers a powerful lens into how neurodivergent individuals can be misunderstood, mischaracterized, and ultimately harmed by systems that fail to recognize their differences.

Prior to the bombing incident, the film introduces Jewell as a man working in a corporate mailroom. In these early scenes, the audience sees someone who is exceptionally kind, eager to please, and socially naïve. His desire to be helpful and to follow rules is evident, yet he struggles with interpreting social nuances and abstract interpersonal dynamics. These characteristics are not framed as deficits in a clinical sense within the film, but they are clearly observable behaviors that align with what we now understand about autism spectrum presentations.

This pattern becomes even more apparent during his time as a campus police officer at Piedmont College. Jewell demonstrates a rigid adherence to rules and procedures, which, while well-intentioned, creates friction with others. His inability to flexibly interpret situations or read social context leads to misunderstandings and ultimately contributes to his dismissal. Importantly, he had done nothing wrong in an ethical or legal sense; rather, he was penalized for behavioral traits that were likely rooted in neurodivergence. This experience later became part of the basis for a defamation settlement, underscoring how institutional systems can misinterpret neurological differences as problematic behavior.

Jewell’s experience, and its portrayal in the film, carries significant implications for the neurodiverse community. It is my strong belief that his high-functioning autism went unrecognized largely because of the era in which he lived. At that time, public understanding of autism was extremely limited and often shaped by narrow, stereotypical representations—most notably the “Rain Man” archetype. The diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome was still relatively new and had not yet entered mainstream awareness in any meaningful way. As a result, individuals like Jewell—who did not fit the most visible or extreme presentations—were often overlooked, misunderstood, or misdiagnosed entirely.

Several indicators of neurodivergence were evident in Jewell’s behavior. Despite being an adult, he continued to live with his mother and appeared to rely on her for guidance in navigating social situations. When he became a person of interest in the bombing investigation, he displayed a striking level of trust in law enforcement officials, failing to recognize the adversarial nature of the situation. During questioning, he became overwhelmed, a response that is consistent with the heightened stress sensitivity often seen in autistic individuals. He also seemed largely unaware of the threats and risks surrounding him, including the possibility that he was being targeted as a suspect.

Additionally, Jewell demonstrated a level of gullibility in his interactions with federal agents, complying readily and without the skepticism that a neurotypical individual might exhibit under similar circumstances. Others around him frequently misinterpreted his behaviors, attributing them to suspicious or pathological motives rather than recognizing them as expressions of neurological difference. These misinterpretations played a critical role in shaping the narrative against him.

In my more than 30 years of work in the autism and neurodiversity field, I have observed a consistent and concerning pattern: individuals on the spectrum are at increased risk of falsely confessing to or being implicated in actions they did not commit. This vulnerability often stems from a combination of factors, including a desire to please authority figures, difficulty understanding the long-term consequences of statements, and challenges in processing high-pressure social interactions such as interrogations.

In recent years, there has been a growing and necessary focus on criminal behaviors committed by autistic individuals—an area that was historically overlooked. However, this shift introduces a critical ethical challenge. While it is important to acknowledge that neurodivergent individuals are not exempt from accountability, it is equally important to ensure that they are not disproportionately or incorrectly accused due to misunderstandings of their behavior. This represents a double-edged sword for law enforcement and the broader legal system.

The case of Richard Jewell serves as a powerful example of what can happen when this balance is not maintained. Professionals across multiple levels—from a college president to federal investigators—misinterpreted his behaviors through a lens of suspicion rather than understanding. Traits associated with autism, such as rigidity, social naivety, and intense rule-following, were reframed as indicators of guilt. In doing so, the system failed him—not because of a lack of intelligence or intent, but because of a lack of awareness.

Ultimately, Richard Jewell is more than a story about injustice; it is a case study in how neurodivergence can be misunderstood in high-stakes environments. It challenges us to reconsider how we interpret behavior, especially when that behavior does not conform to neurotypical expectations. For clinicians, law enforcement professionals, and society as a whole, the lesson is clear: greater awareness, training, and empathy are essential to prevent similar miscarriages of justice in the future

.

Can media (podcasts, movies, books, T.V. shows) help build social

relational skills? This is a great question. The simple answer: yes and no.

Let’s explore that question.

People interact with media for a variety of reasons. Oftentimes, people just

want to be entertained. Sometimes people watch shows or listen to

podcasts with the intent to learn something. Children will watch shows or

play games for entertainment, and as an aside, may learn a few things

along the way, although it may not be what parents want them to learn.

This type of interaction with media is generally implicit. Whatever is

absorbed is without much conscious thought. This is where interactions

with media will rarely help to build social relational skills.

Now let’s add intentionality. We have our child watch a specific show we

know teaches children about friendship. Or we watch a show with our

spouse that shows people cooking meals we like. If our child is

neurotypical, he may come tell us a few things he learned from the show. If

the wife of the couple is neurotypical, she may recognize a meal her

husband would like, and she would put it on the menu to cook for him. If

there is neurodivergence, however, there often needs to be more than just

intentionality in the choice of the show. There needs to be a person acting

as a conduit to help transfer the relational information from the movie or

podcast to the individual. Those on the spectrum often have great difficulty

with generalization, which is the transfer of material from one situation to

another. And if the information does get transferred, it is often used in the

exact same way it was seen on TV, without taking a slightly different

situation or context into account.

Let me give an example. I am neurotypical, and my husband is on the

spectrum. We were watching a show where a farmer dates various women

looking for a life partner. While watching the show, I realized there were

many times the dates they went on would be fun dates for us. So, after we

watched the show, I initiated a conversation that went like this:

Carol: “Hey Greg, did you get a lot of great ideas for dates we could have?”

Greg: “No. Was I supposed to?”

Carol: “Well, they went on lots of fun dates and I thought you might get

some ideas.”

Greg: “I didn’t know I was supposed to look for that.”

Carol: “Well, now that you know, did you see any you liked?”

Greg: “I can’t remember any.”

If I had wanted to use this show as a tool for building our social

relationship, I needed to not only be intentional in choosing this show, but

also provide a way for the desired information to get into our everyday life.

I could do this by planning ahead. I could tell Greg that this show we are

watching has lots of great dates, and I would like him to watch it with the

intention of remembering one date he could share with me that we could

plan together. I would basically be a conduit, to help transfer the idea on

the show to our real life, thus using the show as a tool.

This strategy also works for children. This would require that you know

what your child is watching and talk with them ahead of time, or sit with

them and tell them that as you watch that show you are going to point out

various emotions (as an example) that people have and then talk about

them afterward. (You can also practice this skill of identifying emotions as

you read books together.) Not every show needs to be a learning lesson,

but if you want learning to take place, you need to help with the transfer

of skills desired and application to real-life social situations.

Scripts are written lines, pages, or books that are used by actors and

actresses to memorize and recite when they will be in a play or a movie.

Scripting, as it relates to neurodiversity, is similar in that dialogue is

memorized from movies (or from what people have said) and it is then used

as a mode of communication. This is most often not taught directly, but

learned by watching a show. A line or phrase may stand out to this person.

As an example, a four-year-old may have a favorite tv show where a little

girl gets waffles for breakfast and says “I like waffles”. A child on the

spectrum with limited communication may watch this and relate this phrase

to eating and adopt it as a phrase that means “I’m hungry”. So, when the

child says “I like waffles” to his mom during the day, it doesn’t mean he

wants waffles, it means he is hungry. A mom who hasn’t seen the show

may try to make waffles or not understand why the child is saying “no!” to

waffles when he asked for them. The child is using scripting to

communicate needs or wants. One problem, however, is that sometimes it

takes a bit of guessing on the part of the receiver. This is why it’s

extremely helpful if the receiver (parent/teacher/sibling) is also

knowledgeable about where the phrase came from and the context it was

used. This will assist in understanding what the child is trying to

communicate.

Scripting is used by adults as well. Often for a similar reason. As an

example, our family has watched the movie The Princess Bride many

times. There is a phrase in the movie used by one character frequently

and he says “As you wish” when the princess asks him to do something.

So, at our house, when someone asks one of us to do something, and we

are happy to do it for them, we might say “As you wish”. Our family knows

the reference and what it means. This is considered socially appropriate.

But if a person uses that phrase solely to mean “I’m happy to do that” each

and every time, they are scripting and even though it is used as

communication, it may be confusing to those that don’t know that reference

and be considered abnormal to some.

In summary, I started with the question, can media help build social

relational skills and I said yes and no. The situations where media is not a

tool for building social relations is sitting in front of a tv or movie screen and

hoping for the best. The yes part is to be intentional about choosing media

that has a valuable lesson to teach and there is a conduit, a person to

explain, transfer, and help generalize the information to a social setting.

Scripting can be a valuable tool for communication given the receiver

understands the context in a movie or show from which it was taken. There

is much to be learned from media if it is approached with a plan in mind.

Carol will be joining Cinema Clues to discuss this a bit more in Season 2.

While Community originally aired years ago, it is actually a much newer discovery for me. I did not start watching it until my now-husband introduced it to me while we were dating. Like a lot of couples, we spent some of those early evenings sharing favorite shows. The kind where you are not just watching the show, you are watching the other person to see how they react to characters you already love.

Very quickly, one character stood out to me: Abed Nadir.

I immediately clicked with him.
Or maybe it is more accurate to say I recognized him.

My husband has even joked a few times that I can be a little bit like Abed sometimes.

Abed is often described as the stereotypical neurodiverse character in the show. He processes the world through film references, genre structures, and storytelling patterns. Social cues can confuse him, but narratives make perfect sense.

For some viewers, Abed is the “quirky” one.

For me, he felt familiar.

One of the things Community does especially well is showing how friendships can grow around differences rather than trying to erase them. The clearest example of that is Abed’s friendship with Troy Barnes.

On the surface, Troy and Abed should not necessarily work as friends.

Troy begins the show as a former high school football star trying to figure out his identity after his athletic path changes. Abed is analytical, literal, and often operating on a completely different conversational wavelength.

But somehow, they fit.

Not because they are the same.
Because they understand each other.

Their friendship includes things that might look strange from the outside:

Blanket forts.
Pillow forts.
Morning talk shows that they host together.
Elaborate imaginary adventures.

And the important part is that none of it is treated like something that needs to be corrected.

Instead, it becomes the language of their friendship.

That dynamic illustrates something many neurodivergent people eventually learn: connection is not always about becoming less “weird.” Sometimes it is about finding people who understand your weirdness and respond with curiosity instead of confusion.

Or even better, people who match it.

Troy does not try to force Abed to behave differently. He does not mock the way Abed interprets the world through movie structures or genre references.

Instead, he steps into those worlds with him.

He plays along.
He builds the blanket forts.
He joins the adventures.

Through that shared space, they create a friendship that feels joyful and safe.

That kind of friendship matters more than people sometimes realize.

Many neurodivergent people spend a lot of time learning how to adapt to environments that are not built for the way their brains work. We study social patterns. We observe how conversations flow. Sometimes it can feel a little like translating a language everyone else already speaks.

Finding people who do not require that constant translation can be powerful.

People who understand the references.
People who appreciate the intensity of your interests.
People who are not confused by your humor or overwhelmed by your enthusiasm.

People who simply say,

“Yeah. Let’s build the blanket fort.”

Troy and Abed’s friendship reminds us that belonging does not always come from fitting in everywhere.

Sometimes it comes from finding the people who see your strange little corner of the world and decide to sit down there with you.

Preferably with snacks.

And maybe a morning talk show.

Tune into Season 2: Dr. Holmes and Sydney will discuss whether or not Abid meets the criteria for neurodiversity.

There is something about stories that lets us say things we do not yet have the language to explain. I think this is true for many neurotypes.

Long before Holmes’ Cinema Clues was an idea—long before Dan and I ever imagined talking about film and television with others—movies were already quietly doing their work in our home. They were giving us windows into one another.

Over a decade or more ago, I attended a seminar by Jennifer Cook (O’Toole). She was speaking about autism, particularly autism in girls, and discussing ideas from her book Asperkids. One moment from that seminar stayed with me in a way I didn’t fully appreciate until much later. Jennifer suggested a simple exercise: if you want to understand your autistic child better, write down the characters they love. The heroes. The villains. The characters they identify with. Pay attention to the stories they return to again and again. She explained that those choices often reveal something about how that child experiences the world.

So I went home and started making a list.

The pattern appeared faster than I expected. Jasmine from Aladdin was at the top. A princess who wanted to be seen for who she really was. Someone who felt trapped in a life she didn’t choose. Someone who wanted agency over her own story and who happened to have a very cool cat. Then there was Belle from Beauty and the Beast, a girl who loved books and curiosity more than popularity. She was thoughtful and smart, but also seen as odd and quirky by the people around her. She didn’t quite fit with the expectations of the town she lived in. Literally, there is a whole song from the townspeople describing how much she did not fit in and “a beauty but a funny girl, that Belle.”

The list kept growing. Hercules and Percy Jackson both appeared in Sydney’s rotation. Characters who live between worlds, half god, half human, strong in ways others aren’t, yet still struggling with where they belong. They carry a sense that they are different, and they spend much of their story trying to figure out where they fit. Nemo was another favorite. The little fish who desperately wanted to prove he was capable and brave, even though everyone around him doubted him. I had overlooked it before because I thought the main fascination was SYDNEY, as said over and over in the movie, since P. Sherman lived where? 42 Wallaby Way in Sydney, AUS. I can remember my childhood address and where P. Sherman lives thanks to the many times we watched Finding Nemo.

At first, these were just favorite movies like many children have. Many children like to watch the same movies over and over, but if you have an autistic child, you know there is a difference in how they love a particular movie or character in a much deeper way. What I would later learn as an autism specialist is that these movies on repeat bring comfort, stability, predictablility and sometimes regulation. In our home, it was far more than just Disney films on repeat in the living room. When I stepped back and looked at the list altogether, the theme was unmistakable. The characters Sydney loved most were the ones who didn’t quite fit the world around them, yet deeply wanted to belong without losing themselves. It was a quiet message that ran through story after story: I don’t fit… but I want to belong… and I still want to be me.

Movies were not just entertainment for her. They were language.

Sydney often communicated using lines from movies, something professionals often call scripting. Some clinicians describe scripting as nonfunctional language and encourage parents to redirect it. I have never fully agreed with that perspective. When Sydney was three and four years old, she would weave lines from movies into conversations in ways that fit the situation perfectly. The words themselves belonged to the film, but the meaning belonged to her. She was selecting dialogue that captured what she was trying to say when she didn’t yet have the language to form it on her own. I thought it was precious, precocious, and quite brilliant!

To me, that was incredibly creative.

It worked in our home because I had seen the same movies she had seen recently. I knew the scenes. I knew the emotional context behind the lines. When she quoted something, I could usually recognize the moment from the film and understand what she meant. Of course, this works differently if the people around the child haven’t seen those movies. Without knowing the story behind the line, the communication can easily be missed. But if you know the reference, suddenly the meaning becomes clear. Stories were helping Sydney express her inner world.

And when I think about it, stories have always played that role in our family. When Dan and I were dating, I knew Dan was a man of relatively few words in everyday conversation. But when he wrote, something entirely different emerged. His thoughts became deep and layered and beautiful in ways that often surprised me. Sometimes he wrote poems. Other times, he shared songs (sometimes still does) that reminded him of me. He would send me the song and then carefully explain which parts of the lyrics didn’t apply so I wouldn’t misunderstand what he meant. But this is attachment! As Dr. Jesse Gill said in one of our podcasts, “Attachment means you exist in my mind when you are not physically with me.”

But the reason he shared the music was always clear. The lyrics captured something he felt but didn’t yet know how to say directly. The song carried the emotion for him.

Looking back now, I see a quiet connection between those moments and what I saw in Sydney. Different people. Similar neurotypes. Different seasons of life. Yet the same human instinct is at work. We borrow stories when our own words are still forming. Sydney was more connected to the movies, and Dan (a musician at heart) was more connected with the story of song/music.

Movies, music, and stories often become a kind of emotional translation tool. They allow us to see inside someone’s experience when direct language falls short. For Sydney, the characters she loved revealed a deep desire to belong while still being fully herself. For Dan, music gave voice to emotions that were difficult to express in ordinary conversation. And for me, learning to pay attention to those stories became a way to understand both of them better.

This is one of the reasons cinema fascinates me so much. Stories allow us to step into someone else’s perspective for a while. They expand our empathy. Sometimes they even help us understand the people sitting right beside us.

So if you are raising or loving someone on the spectrum, here is a simple invitation. Pay attention to what they love to watch. Notice the characters they return to again and again. Listen to the lines they quote. Watch the moments that light them up. Lean into those interests rather than dismissing them.

You may begin to see a theme emerge. A longing. A question. A glimpse into how they experience the world. And if you listen carefully, the stories they love might reveal far more about their heart than you expected.

AND be on the lookout for Holmes’ Cinema Clues launching May 1, 2026, at 8 pm ET.

Some of the strongest leadership lessons in my life didn’t come from a textbook or a classroom. They came from watching people closely( real people and fictional ones) and noticing how leadership grows over time. One of the most unexpected leadership influences for me has been Dr. Temperance Brennan from Bones.

Yes — Bones.

At first glance, Brennan doesn’t look like a traditional leader. She is brilliant, logical, precise, and deeply committed to facts and outcomes. Early in the series, she leads almost entirely through expertise. She values accuracy, efficiency, and results. Relationships feel secondary to the work. For many viewers, this makes her seem distant or even blunt.

But for me, Brennan felt familiar.

As someone who identifies on the autism spectrum, I recognized a version of myself in her — a highly intelligent woman navigating a world that often prioritizes social intuition over clarity and truth. Brennan represents a kind of leadership that begins with competence rather than charisma. She earns authority through knowledge, consistency, and reliability. And that is where her leadership arc becomes powerful.

Across the seasons of Bones, we watch Brennan change — not by abandoning who she is, but by expanding her leadership capacity.

Early Brennan leads transactionally:

• Solve the case

• Analyze the evidence

• Reach the correct conclusion

People are part of the process, but they are not yet central to her leadership style.

Over time, her team changes her.

Through Booth, Angela, Hodgins, and the Jeffersonian team, Brennan learns something many analytical leaders must eventually discover: leadership is not only about being right — it is about being connected.

She begins to:

• Listen differently,

• Mentor intentionally,

• Trust emotional insight alongside scientific reasoning,

• Recognize that relationships strengthen outcomes rather than interfere with them.

Her growth mirrors a transition many leaders, especially neurodivergent leaders, experience moving from task mastery toward relational influence. Brennan never stops being logical. She never stops valuing truth. Instead, she learns how empathy, collaboration, and vulnerability make her leadership stronger. That evolution deeply shaped how I think about leadership in my own life.

Watching Brennan helped me understand something important about myself: I naturally lead through reliability and results. I want things organized, efficient, and moving forward. But like Brennan, I’ve learned that leadership isn’t simply pushing toward outcomes. It requires awareness of the people walking alongside you. Brennan’s journey helped me see that growth as a leader doesn’t mean changing your personality. It means expanding your range.

You can be analytical and compassionate.
Direct and relational.
Focused on results and deeply committed to people.

One reason Bones continues to resonate with so many viewers is that Brennan represents a form of leadership rarely portrayed when the show began airing — a woman whose differences were not weaknesses but strengths. Many neurodivergent viewers quietly recognized themselves in her long before conversations about autism representation became mainstream. Her character demonstrated that leadership does not have to look socially effortless to be effective. Brennan’s arc shows that growth is possible without losing identity. That message matters — especially for young leaders who feel different from traditional leadership models.

One of the things I am most excited about is continuing this discussion when Holmes’ Cinema Clues launches.

The show will explore exactly these kinds of questions:

• How does media portray neurodivergent leadership?

• Which characters do audiences recognize as autistic or ADHD-coded?

• What can fictional stories teach us about real human growth?

Temperance Brennan is only one example, but she is an important one. Her journey reminds us that leadership is not static. It evolves through relationships, experience, and self-understanding.

And sometimes, the characters who help us understand ourselves best are the ones solving fictional crimes while quietly modeling real transformation.

I’m looking forward to digging into those clues together.

Subscribe to the Show, and You Know Right Away when Agent Roberts & Cinema Squad Leader, Dr. Holmes discuss the “case” of Dr. Temperance Brennan. https://www.youtube.com/@HolmesCinemaCluesAutisminMedia

Content Coming May/June 2026

!