We thought we’d found the perfect school in Alice Springs. It’s small, creative, and built around a philosophy of nurturing the whole child. The kind of place where kids’ natural rhythms are respected, and individuality is supposedly celebrated. I imagined my daughter, paint in hand, thriving in a place that valued her imagination as much as we do at home.
We filled out the application, paid the hundred-dollar fee, and waited. Two other families we know from New Zealand applied around the same time. All their children got interviews and offers.
We didn’t even get a call.
At first I thought we’d just been unlucky. When I asked how applications were prioritized I was told that we hadn’t applied early enough. But after hearing that others in our position had been offered places, the truth hit hard: the only difference between our application and theirs was that I had disclosed my daughter is autistic. That single word – autism – was enough to shut the door before she was even seen.
And then, almost on cue, I watched President Donald Trump stand at a podium and announce to the world: “Don’t take Tylenol. Don’t take it.” He told pregnant women that using paracetamol during pregnancy causes autism. No nuance. No evidence. Just a sweeping statement that poured fuel on the same fire that had just burned my daughter.
Fear-Mongering Dressed as Advice
Trump framed autism like it’s a disaster to be avoided at all costs. That if you take something as ordinary as a pain reliever, you’re to blame if your child is autistic. The implication is loud and clear: autism is a problem. Autism is something to fear. Autism is something to prevent.
But autism isn’t new. It didn’t appear when Tylenol hit shelves in the 1950s. It has always been here, woven into humanity long before medications, vaccines, or modern life. What’s changed is our ability to recognize it.
And the science? The most rigorous studies – the ones with millions of children, carefully designed to account for genetics and family circumstances – find no evidence that Tylenol causes autism. Some weaker studies have found small correlations, but even those vanish vanish once you factor in confounding issues. For example: mothers often take Tylenol to treat fever, and fever itself can affect development. That’s not the medication’s fault.
Meanwhile, every major health authority still says the same thing: acetaminophen is the safest option in pregnancy when used properly. Not perfect, but safer than the alternatives. And safer than leaving fevers untreated. Which is why Trump’s blanket “don’t take it” isn’t just irresponsible, it’s dangerous.
When Attitudes Become Barriers
Watching Trump’s announcement, I couldn’t help but connect the dots. When leaders tell the world that autism is something to fear, it seeps into the everyday. It’s why schools feel justified turning away kids like mine. It’s why parents whisper in playgrounds, second-guessing every pill they swallowed during pregnancy. It’s why mothers carry guilt they never deserved.
The school’s rejection made it painfully clear: for all the talk of “valuing the whole child,” some institutions still see autism as a red flag. And Trump’s words only validate that bias. They embolden it. They tell the world, “See? Even the President says autism is bad. Best to avoid those kids if you can.”
But here’s the thing: autistic kids aren’t broken. My daughter isn’t a cautionary tale. She’s a bright, funny, wildly imaginative little girl who deserves a chance to be seen for who she really is.
Autism Runs in My Veins
Autism runs in my family. I’m autistic. My daughter is autistic. Others are too. Did Tylenol magically strike every generation of us? Or is autism simply part of our wiring?
I only realized my diagnosis in adulthood. Growing up in the 90s, the stereotype of autism was Rain Man. Girls like me – high-achieving, high-masking, deeply anxious under the surface – were invisible. It’s why so many women are only discovering their autism in their 30s, 40s, or later. Autism isn’t “exploding.” It’s just finally being recognized.
And yes, autism brings challenges. Parenting an autistic child is hard. Advocating for her in a world not built for difference is even harder. But it also brings brilliance. My daughter has a memory that stops people in their tracks. Her vocabulary is way beyond her years. She feels emotions with an empathy so strong it could move mountains. These aren’t deficits. They’re extraordinary gifts.
The idea that all of this could be reduced to “a pill did this” is laughable. And insulting.
What We Actually Need
What frustrates me most is how Trump’s words frame autism as “less than.” As something to be eliminated. Meanwhile, he takes advice from Elon Musk – an openly autistic man, and praises him as a genius. The irony is staggering.
We don’t need fear. We don’t need guilt. We don’t need mothers tortured by the thought that they “caused” their child’s wiring. What we need are schools that say yes to autistic kids, not no. Communities that adjust to difference instead of excluding it. Leaders who understand that autistic people are valuable, capable, and worthy of respect.
TL;DR
To every pregnant woman who heard Trump and felt a stab of fear: breathe. Tylenol didn’t cause your child’s autism. You didn’t ruin anything.
To every parent of an autistic child: your kid is not a tragedy. They are not “less than.” They are exactly who they’re meant to be.
And to President Trump: autism doesn’t need your pity or your pseudo-science. Autistic people don’t need erasing. What we need is a world ready to accept us as we are.
