Before I knew I was neurodivergent, I chose psychology because I had this gut sense that the more I learned, the more I could understand myself. I didn’t have the language yet. No “AuDHD,” no “sensory profile,” no “masking.” Just a deep pull toward understanding the human mind, especially the parts that didn’t quite fit the standard mold.
As a psych undergrad, I needed clinical experience, so I applied to a job labeled “Behavior Interventionist” through an ABA company. No degree required. Some psych knowledge preferred. I thought, “sure, I know a bit about autism“.
When I was growing up, I had a friend everyone called “nonverbal.” But I understood her. We’d play together, and I got her. Even if she didn’t speak in the way adults expected her to. That connection made me think I could do some good. That I already understood more than most.
So I trained. Weeks of modules on Discrete Trial Training, antecedent-behavior-consequence models, reinforcement schedules. It wasn’t too different from what I’d already learned in my psych courses. Just applied to actual children instead of rats in a Skinner box.
That’s exactly where the problem started.
Classic behaviorism doesn’t translate cleanly to humans, especially not to neurodivergent children who are communicating through movement, rhythm, sound, and sensory input. The ABA world I entered didn’t seem to account for that. What was missing was humanity.
I lasted three months.
The first was training. The last was me calling out as often as I could. In between, I witnessed what I can only describe as borderline abusive practices.
I was told to ignore stimming behaviors like pacing or rocking at the dinner table. We used timers to “build tolerance” for sitting still rather than asking why that movement was needed. We treated echolalia as something to extinguish, rather than recognizing it as communication. Sometimes a way to show joy, sometimes a signal of distress.
The model focused on training behavior, not understanding the person. And the consequences weren’t theoretical. I saw aggressive restraints. I saw children’s autonomy violated. Forced pad changes, coercive toilet training, all under the guise of “functional independence.” I came home every day depleted, tearful, and morally conflicted.
There’s one moment I’ll never forget: I was working with a child on identifying colors using blocks. The “correct response” was to point to the blue block when I said “blue.” If they got it right, they were rewarded. If they pointed to anything else, I was told to ignore them.
But over time, I noticed something. When this child pointed to other blocks (yellow, green, red), it wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t defiance. They were showing me something. Their fascination. Their joy. Their curiosity. They were communicating. But because it didn’t fit the rigid “correct response” framework, I was instructed to ignore them. That moment broke something open for me. I remember thinking, “how can we call this help when it demands that we ignore someone’s attempts to connect?“
On top of that, the structure of the job itself was a red flag. Most behavior technicians were underpaid, often juggling multiple jobs, and turnover was sky-high. I was expected to jump into sessions with kids I’d never met before. Sometimes with only ten minutes to skim their chart. No introduction. No warm-up. Just: Follow the protocol. Gold sticker for one correct response. I remember thinking, Even in animal training, we build trust first. WTF are we doing?
So I quit.
I started searching for something, anything, that could help me pursue a clinical path without feeling complicit in harm. That’s when I found Marriage and Family Therapy. Systems theory. Context. Relational meaning. Finally a lens that accounted for complexity and a reflection of my own neurodivergent brain, trying to understand how I fit into the world around me.
That was over 13 years ago.
Since then, I’ve seen both ends of the spectrum—pun intended. I’ve journeyed from behaviorism to liberation psychology, from ignoring stims to honoring self-regulation, from “compliance” to connection.
To be fair, modern ABA has evolved in some ways. It’s not always abusive. I have met neurodiversity-informed ABA providers who are thoughtful, empathetic, and genuinely trying to do better within the system. They exist, and I see their efforts. But even in these more progressive models, there’s still a glaring issue: the child is often left out of the conversation. Consent is rarely centered. Protocols are still created about the child, not with them. And the field is still deeply influenced by insurance mandates, compliance goals, and outdated frameworks.
Parents often have great instincts when they say no to a provider that feels too harsh or rigid. I always encourage families to trust those instincts.
Some families I’ve worked with tried out alternatives like RDI (Relationship Development Intervention). And while there are aspects of RDI that attempt to center relationships and shared attention, I’ve also seen parents back away after realizing how scripted and manualized it felt. And, more importantly, how much visible distress it caused their child. RDI is now covered by insurance in many cases and is sometimes positioned to go toe-to-toe with ABA as a “gold standard” treatment.
But that leads to a bigger conversation: many self-advocates believe the problem isn’t which model we use. It’s the entire framing of autism as something to “treat.” The assumption that autism is a problem to solve, rather than a difference to understand and support, is at the root of so much harm. No amount of rebranding or softening of methods can change that if the underlying goal is still conformity over authenticity.
So much of this journey, both for families and for professionals, is unlearning. Learning to stop overriding our gut feelings. Learning to listen to the kids themselves, even if their communication looks different. Learning to question who gets to define “progress,” and at what cost.
ABA was never designed with Autistic people in mind. It was designed for them, without them.
And that’s the crux of it. The field still too often mistakes control for care. As someone who is now proudly AuDHD and has spent years supporting neurodivergent clients, I know that true support starts with seeing the person. Not fixing the behavior.
I didn’t leave ABA because I was weak. I left because I was awake. And I’ve never looked back.
If this resonated with you and you want to learn more about neurodiversity-affirming care, ethical mental health practices, and the journey of unlearning and reimagining what true support looks like…follow along! We need to change the way we’re helping and healing. And that starts with listening, learning, and choosing connection over compliance.
With love and gratitude,
Dr. Panicha