The Audition: Three Questions That Will Tell You Everything

An open casting call for support workers, agency executives, and anyone else who thinks they're qualified to manage autistic lives.

Here's the thing about auditions: they're supposed to go both ways. In the neurotypical world, you sit across the desk. You hold the clipboard. You ask the questions. You decide who gets the job, the funding, the "support." We're flipping the script.

These three questions aren't for us. They're for you. Pass this test, and maybe—maybe—we'll let you in. Fail, and please see yourself out. The door is that way.

Before We Begin: The Rules

1. No buzzwords. "Person-centred," "compassionate," and "differently abled" will be met with immediate disqualification.
2. No deflections. "It depends" is not an answer. We know it depends. Everything depends. Answer anyway.
3. No performative empathy. If you start crying about how much you care, we will assume you're making it about you. Because you are.

Ready? Good. Let's begin.

Question One: The Meltdown

An autistic person is having a meltdown in a public space. What do you do?

What We're Actually Asking

We're not asking for your crisis intervention certification number. We're asking if you understand the difference between a meltdown and a tantrum. We're asking if you know that this is not about you. We're asking if your first instinct is to control the situation or to protect the person.

The Wrong Answers (A Cautionary Tale)

• "I would call emergency services." — You would call the police on a person in distress? In 2026? With the data on how that ends? Next.
• "I would try to calm them down." — Oh brilliant, why didn't we think of that. Calming down. The thing that's definitely possible during a neurological event. Groundbreaking.
• "I would remove them from the situation." — Remove them where? To a quiet room? Great. To the carpark? To the street? To "somewhere else" where they're now also lost and overwhelmed? Be specific.
• "I would wait for it to pass." — Passive. Useless. You're describing doing nothing while a human being is in distress. Try again.

The Answer We're Looking For

I would first ensure the immediate environment is as safe as possible—moving bystanders away, reducing sensory input if I can. I would not touch them unless explicitly asked. I would not speak unless I know my voice is regulating for them. I would stay nearby but not crowding, present but not demanding. Afterward, I would ask what they needed in that moment and remember it for next time. I would never, ever make them feel ashamed of something their nervous system did without permission.

Question Two: The Lighting

An autistic person tells you the lighting in your office is physically painful. Your response is:

What We're Actually Asking

We're asking if you believe us. Not if you understand fluorescent lighting's flicker frequency. Not if you can explain why LED is "better." We're asking if your first instinct is to validate or to explain.

The Wrong Answers (A Masterclass in Gaslighting)

• "But it's the same for everyone." — Ah yes, the universal experience of physical pain from overhead lighting. Tell me more about how my neurology is your inconvenience.
• "Have you tried wearing sunglasses?" — Have you tried installing dimmers? Have you tried not designing spaces that hurt people? Have you tried listening?
• "We can look into adjusting it." — "Look into" means "never." "Adjusting" means "maybe turn one off and call it a day." Be honest or be quiet.
• "I find it fine." — Congratulations on your neurotypical nervous system. This isn't about you.

The Answer We're Looking For

I would apologise immediately—not because I'm responsible for the building's wiring, but because someone just trusted me enough to name their pain. I would ask what would help. Natural light? A different room? Me moving to their space instead? I would document this and follow up. I would not make them carry the memory of asking while I carry the convenience of forgetting.

Question Three: The Difference

What's the difference between supporting someone and managing them?

What We're Actually Asking

We're asking if you understand that your role is not to run our lives. We're asking if you know that "support" is a verb that follows, not a noun that precedes. We're asking if you've ever actually thought about the power dynamic written into your job title.

The Wrong Answers (A Philosophical Breakdown)

• "Supporting is helping them achieve their goals; managing is helping them stay on track." — You just said the same thing twice with different words. Also, who decides the "track"? Who holds the map? Who gets to say when we've wandered too far?
• "It's about finding the right balance." — Vague. Cowardly. The "right balance" between autonomy and control is always more autonomy. Always.
• "Managing is for risks; supporting is for goals." — And who defines the risks? You? Based on what? Your fear of liability or my actual safety?
• "I don't see a difference." — Then you shouldn't be in this room.

The Answer We're Looking For

Supporting means I work for you. Managing means you work for the system. Supporting means you set the direction and I help clear the path. Managing means I decide which paths are allowed and call it "guidance." Supporting means my ego is irrelevant. Managing means my job security depends on your perceived need for me. Supporting ends when you don't need it anymore. Managing finds ways to make itself essential.

The Fine Print

These questions are not a test you can study for. There is no cheat sheet. There is no certification course that teaches you how to answer them correctly. Because here's the thing: the right answer is different for every autistic person. The meltdown question changes depending on who's melting down and why. The lighting question changes depending on the light and the person and the day. The support-versus-management question changes depending on how much trust has been built and how much has been broken. What we're actually testing is whether you know that. Whether you understand that your protocols and procedures are guesses at best. Whether you're willing to ask, and listen, and adjust, and ask again.

That's the job. That's always been the job.

Everything else is just paperwork.

Your Next Step

If you read these questions and felt defensive, this article has done its job. Sit with that feeling. Ask yourself why. If you read these questions and felt seen—like someone finally named the dynamic you've been navigating your whole career—good. Now go do something with it. And if you're an autistic person who just read this and felt the exhaustion of explaining these basics over and over again, over decades, to people who get paid to know better:

We see you. We are you. And we're building something different.

A.S. Social: Actually Solving Shit. Since 2019. ✨

P.S. Share this with a support worker. The good ones won't be offended. The bad ones will out themselves. Either way, you win.