Unmasking the World: A Conversation with Kory Andreas
Amanda Donald & Kory Andreas
Recorded October 14th, 2025
Language and Identity
Amanda:
So, do you say that you are autistic, or that you have autism, or that you are neurodivergent?
Kory:
[laughs] Yeah, it’s a great question. I actually start all of my PowerPoints with that. It used to be “person with autism,” and very recently it changed, like seemingly overnight.
Now it’s “autistic.” They switched everything because a lot of people felt that “person with autism” was insulting, as if you had to remind people you’re a person first. Autism is seen more as an identity than a diagnosis.
You don’t have to say, “I’m a person with this disability.” We know you’re a person. You’re just autistic. So it’s like how someone might say, “I’m a gay person” or “I’m a Black person.” You wouldn’t say “I’m a person with gayness” or “a person with Blackness.”
It’s become identity-first language, which feels right to a lot of us.
Amanda:
Right, it’s a neurotype, not a pathology.
Kory:
Exactly. I tell people, “I’m autistic” or “they’re autistic,” and that’s totally fine. Ninety-nine percent of people are comfortable with that now, especially younger generations. But for those who want to keep things private, they’ll often say “neurodivergent.”
Amanda:
Because that can mean so many things, ADHD, autism, dyslexia…it’s broader.
Kory:
Exactly. And it’s worth noting that not that long ago, you couldn’t be diagnosed with both ADHD and autism. It had to be one or the other. That’s changed. Now we know there’s significant overlap. Most people who are autistic have ADHD too.
Drawn to the Uniquely Wired
Amanda:
You’ve described yourself as drawn to the “uniquely wired.” What led you to focus on neurodivergence, and how has your own journey informed that?
Kory:
I was working with neurodivergent kids before I really knew much about neurodivergence. When I worked in schools in the early 2000s, autism wasn’t well understood.
Most of the students I worked with were autistic boys. There were very few diagnosed girls. I was drawn to the kids getting in trouble, the ones who needed social help. They were often misunderstood.
Kids who were brutally honest, or who said something “off” and got in trouble, I found myself translating between them and the adults who didn’t understand.
It wasn’t a deliberate choice. I just gravitated toward them. Over time, my work evolved. I began leading social-skills groups for autistic kids, working in magnet schools filled with creative, neurodiverse students. It became a natural path.
Later, when my daughter was very young (we’ve talked about this publicly with her permission) we noticed she was having a really hard time. She was having lots of meltdowns, didn’t seem comfortable in her body, and was really struggling. We had a really hard time getting her the right kind of help.
Back then, no one understood what autism looked like in girls or gender-diverse kids. It took years to get clarity. When she was finally diagnosed, it opened my eyes to all the gaps in awareness and research.
I dove in headfirst. It brought context to so many things, in my family, my practice, my own life. Eventually I started assessing women and gender-diverse adults. Their experiences were totally different from what the textbooks described.
Most diagnostic criteria were designed around the stereotype of a white, young boy. Once I started sitting with adults who didn’t fit that picture, I kept thinking, “Oh my God, that’s me.”
So this work became personal. The last ten years have been transformative. We’ve learned so much about high-masking autism, and now I can look at my whole family and go, “Yup, that all makes sense.”
It’s become a real passion for understanding myself, my relationships, and helping others do the same.
An Autistic Therapist Serving Autistic Clients
Amanda:
You describe yourself as “an autistic therapist serving autistic clients.” How important is that identity in your work? Does it change the nature of the therapy you offer?
Kory:
It’s a slippery slope. I always clarify that you don’t have to be autistic to work with autistic clients. My own therapist isn’t autistic, and she’s wonderful.
But my practice is identity-based. Everything we do is grounded in the autistic experience. We’re not just touching on autism occasionally. It’s central.
All of my techniques, whether we’re working on communication, special interests, self-care, or trauma, stem from understanding the autistic brain and body. That’s my lived experience, and it helps me connect differently.
I’ve never been drawn to generalist therapy. It never felt natural. My brain seeks patterns, logic, and connection in ways that line up with autistic clients.
That doesn’t mean a neurotypical therapist can’t help. It just means the shared language and sensory experience can be powerful.
I do think it’s an advantage. When clients describe an experience, say sensory overload or relationship fatigue, I don’t have to imagine it. I know what it feels like.
Sometimes I’ll say, “Some people describe it like this. Does that fit for you?” That often helps clients feel seen. They realize, “Yes! That’s exactly how my brain works.”
It’s that sense of recognition that’s missing in many generalist settings.
Creating Accommodations in the Therapy Room
Amanda:
And in a way, what you’re doing in therapy is creating your own accommodations, right there in the room.
Kory:
Exactly. Everyone needs accommodations in order to feel safe and seen.
Amanda:
You worked in both public and nonpublic education before private practice. What kinds of supports or gaps did you notice for neurodivergent students? And how does that translate to what you see now in therapy?
Kory:
It was really difficult being part of the school system. I loved the kids, the daily work, seeing them in their natural environments.
But I learned quickly that our schools fail autistic kids in so many ways.
The biggest flaw is that you have to prove you’re failing before you get help. You won’t get an IEP or 504 plan unless your grades drop, you skip school, or you have behavioral problems.
That means the quiet, high-achieving kids, especially girls and gender-diverse students, fly under the radar.
Amanda:
So the harm they experience is internalized.
Kory:
Exactly. Instead of flipping desks like boys might, they’re having panic attacks, hiding in bathrooms, shutting down. They’re brilliant, creative, articulate, and completely exhausted.
They get mislabeled as “difficult,” “arrogant,” or “rude,” when really they have no idea how they’re coming across.
What broke my heart most was seeing parents fight endlessly to get support. They thought the school would identify issues, but it rarely does. It’s more work for the system, so staff look away.
I would pull parents aside after meetings and quietly say, “I believe you. I think I know what’s going on, and I want to help.”
That was technically against the rules, but it was the right thing to do.
Eventually, I hit a breaking point.
My last assignment was at an elementary school during COVID. There was a little boy, non-speaking, struggling immensely after being home for so long. His parents were terrified and had no idea what was going on with him.
I suggested at a meeting, “We should do some assessments to see what’s happening, one of which being an autism assessment.” The principal pulled me aside afterward and said, “If you ever bring up the word autism in a team meeting again, you’ll never sit in another one.”
That was my last day. I walked out. I couldn’t force myself to be a part of a system that was actively hurting kids. It became incredibly clear that if I didn’t leave that day, I would be causing harm by keeping my mouth shut.
Now, in private practice, I help parents navigate those same systems from the outside.
Because if we’re not identifying what’s actually going on, we’re not helping kids at all.
Therapy for Autistic Clients
Kory:
Showing what unmasked looks like could be the clothes you wear as a therapist. I don’t feel like I need to show up in a blazer and sit here with a clipboard. I’m wearing a hoodie right alongside my clients. I use real language. If something happens in their life, I’m not a blank slate saying, “Oh, that sounds hard.” I talk the way I’d talk to a friend. It’s about showing what reciprocity looks like, not just in the therapy role but as a human.
There’s such a big shift from what I learned in therapist school, the rigid ways we’re taught not to be people, not to share anything about ourselves. I actually find the opposite is true. My clients appreciate that I put forth ideas from my own experience. It means a lot to someone who feels shame about having a meltdown when their therapist says, “I have meltdowns too; it’s part of being autistic.”
They realize they’re not alone, that these are universal experiences. Part of helping clients unmask is unmasking yourself. Being authentic and open is such a beautiful process.
Amanda:
Mm-hmm. And it makes me think about this question, which almost feels like the wrong question to ask.
When you’re in therapy school, I can’t imagine they’re teaching therapists how to work with autistic clients the same way you do. People aren’t coming to you to be ‘less autistic’. They’re coming because they need therapy like anyone else. They just happen to be autistic, and maybe there’s trauma from the world they’re moving through.
But at the end of the day, they’re people who might just need the conversation a little differently.
Kory:
Right.
Exactly. It’s about understanding how things play out in the brain and body.
Clients come in saying, “When I’m in the middle of a breakup or an argument, I feel crazy. Everything is so bad, and I feel in the moment that it is never going to get better.”
In generalist therapy, when someone says, “I feel like I want to die; what’s the point of life?” the therapist hears suicidality. That’s terrifying, right? They’re thinking about safety and self-harm protocols.
But through the lens of autism, you understand that’s what happens physiologically. Autistic people don’t do gray area. When we feel something, it’s all or nothing.
Amanda:
Exactly. It’s not because they’re doing anything wrong in healing or coping.
Kory:
Right. Their bodies are literally in fight or flight. That’s measurable.
So when a client says, “I can’t do this anymore,” you can sit with them and say, “I know everything in your body is telling you this won’t get better. Remember other times you felt this way. This is your nervous system talking.”
They can’t perspective-take with themselves in that moment because their body’s in crisis. So we deal with the body first, calming it down before talking about the future.
It’s easy to pathologize or even hospitalize that moment, but what they’re really saying is, “I can’t calm my body down. Can you help me?”
Within that hour, we can help the body come down. It’s completely different when you understand what’s actually happening.
Amanda:
Because for a neurotypical person, those words would sound alarming.
Kory:
Yes. And that’s why so many autistic people have negative experiences with therapy. Their distress is misinterpreted as danger rather than dysregulation.
Reimagining Neuroaffirming Care
Amanda:
That feels like the heart of your work, reframing what crisis means in an autistic body.
Kory:
It is. Neuroaffirming care means I’m not pretending to be the expert. I’m always learning. Every client teaches me something new.
I’ve had to examine how often I got it wrong early on. The beauty of this work is that you’re growing constantly. You’re sitting beside people saying, “How can I help you?” over and over again.
And sometimes it works. Sometimes you see hope spark again. You sit with people in their darkest, most horrific moments, and just by being there, you witness change begin.
Grief and Hope
Amanda:
When I was in school and becoming more involved in justice work, really learning what it meant to be an activist, one of my political science professors told me something that has always stayed with me.
She said, “To be an activist, you need two things: grief and hope.”
You need grief, something that has moved you, something that you cannot accept as it is. But grief alone is not enough; you also need hope. Without hope, grief will not propel you forward.
So, we have heard about the grief, and we have heard a little bit about the hope, but maybe you can share more about that hope.
Kory:
Yes. I gave a presentation recently, and right before submitting it, I decided to interview a few adults so they could share their own stories. I thought it is one thing to listen to someone talk for eight hours, but it is quite another to hear directly from people who have lived the experiences we are discussing.
One of the women I interviewed shared an unbelievably powerful story. Every system that could have failed her did: the healthcare system, the education system, all of it. She was bright, resourceful, and determined, but had to figure out how to get therapy on her own at sixteen. She kept seeking help, going from one provider to another, and again and again people saw her only as someone who needed medication. They made assumptions about her trauma and her life.
It was not until she was in her thirties that someone finally sat with her and took the time to understand her experience. She said it was the first time someone did not just throw medication at the problem. As she told her story, I was completely absorbed. I thought about it for days afterward, and I could not wait for others to hear it.
When people did, the reaction was overwhelming. The chat filled with comments, therapists saying how much it opened their eyes, how they realized they might have misinterpreted similar situations in their own work. Hearing her story helped them grasp the grief she had endured in a way that statistics or lectures never could.
Afterward, she saw the responses, people telling her how brave and vulnerable she had been, how much they admired her courage. Later that night, she emailed me to say that for the first time in a long time, she felt a sense of purpose. She said, “Seeing people really hear me, knowing that my story might help them give better care, made me realize that what I have been through means something.”
She wanted to keep sharing her story. And I think that is the intersection of grief and hope, facing the pain, telling the truth of it, and allowing something new to grow from that.
For me, as a therapist, that is what neuroaffirming care is about. It means continuously learning, never pretending to be the expert, never assuming you have all the answers. It is about sitting with someone and asking, “How can I help you?” again and again.
The most hopeful thing to me is that sometimes it works. Sometimes, even in the darkest and most painful places, when you stay with someone through the grief, there is a moment when hope emerges.
I love that idea of grief and hope existing together, that “grief-relief” feeling people often describe after diagnosis: Now I know what is going on, and it still really hurts.
I have had to look back at all the ways this affected me too, the help I did not get, the people who did not see it. But what comes from that reflection is hope.
Not just hope in the abstract, but the kind that comes from understanding my brain, from knowing that I have what I need within me to learn and grow, to make the rest of my life meaningful, even if the early days were not easy.
That is what keeps me going. Watching people go through that process, finding meaning in the midst of pain, is one of the most beautiful things I have ever experienced, personally and professionally.
Amanda:
Thank you for sharing that. I already feel better.
Kory:
We are all okay.
