Glimmers of Autistic Joy: Capybaras, Cherry Chai, and the Fourth Dimension of Feeling
The cafeteria buzzed with the mundane orchestra of lunch hour—plastic trays clattering, juice boxes being punctured by tiny straws, the crinkle of foil wrappers. To most, this was Tuesday at Oakridge Elementary. But sandwiched between two broad-shouldered classmates, a slender boy with chestnut hair remained untethered from the commotion.
Then it happened—the distant wail of the 12:15 Union Pacific SD70ACe locomotive cutting through town. His body tensed, eyes widened beneath wire-framed glasses, and his fingertips began tapping an unconscious rhythm against the table's edge. The cacophony of the lunchroom dissolved into nothing. The horn's pitch told him exactly what he needed to know—the SD70ACe, introduced in 2004 as Union Pacific's response to stricter emissions standards, with its distinctive 4,300 horsepower engine that produced that particular resonant frequency.
In that moment, he wasn't just hearing a train. He was feeling fruit snacks dissolving on his tongue in the back of Mom's Odyssey after successfully navigating the social labyrinth of Billy Johnson's birthday party when he was four. The train and that memory—they existed on the same frequency in his neural architecture, an intuitive connection that defied conventional explanation but made perfect sense in his beautifully wired mind.
This is autistic joy. Not just happiness with an autism label slapped on it, but a neurological experience unique to the autistic brain. Studies show it's partly the work of an amygdala and prefrontal cortex that process sensory information differently, coupled with unusual dopamine and serotonin pathways that create intense, immersive emotional experiences when triggered by specific stimuli. The autistic brain's reduced filtering of sensory information allows certain experiences to flood neural pathways with unmitigated intensity.
For me, when I experience what I call autistic joy, I've tended to use the phrase "I am ascending to a new astral plane." The joy I feel isn't just an emotion, but an experience in my soul. On some level, it feels spiritual, and I can almost feel my happiness expanding into a fourth dimension of feeling.
My recent astral projections, or glimmers of autistic joy, have been the result of numerous seemingly small things.
Taking my first sip of Starbucks' new iced cherry chai. I've always loved chai—in fact, it served as a hyperfixation drink for a while—but the combination of the pillowy sanguine foam hitting my upper lip transported me as it washed down the back of my throat. My eyes bulged out of my head while simultaneously twinkling, a contradiction only possible in moments of pure sensory bliss.
When I went to Bangkok, Thailand, I had just completed a 27-hour travel day sequestered to an aisle seat and hour-long cab ride. But after dropping my bags at my hostel, I had one mission: to see my beloved capybaras. I sat in traffic for another hour, not caring about the overwhelming new sights and smells. I was going to the capybara café. Not only was I greeted so warmly, but I got to start my experience with a coconut branded with a capybara carving. A smile erupted across my face before I had even met the creatures. My eyes fixed beyond the glass door where I saw it—a baby capybara. The very animal in its coconut fur-coated flesh standing before me. The very creature that had brought me hope, passion, and happiness for the past two months, something I had only ever seen on my phone screen, now materializing before my own eyes. My hands flapped involuntarily at my sides, my body's natural expression of an emotion too massive to contain.
It's date night, Valentine's night in the city, and luckily I had made a reservation, an infrequent occurrence for me (as I battle food demons). But, upon stepping into Planta Queen, a place where gluten-free labels line the menu, I felt safe. I had a few different dishes, but the star of the show—what I want to be buried in—is the ahi watermelon. Sounds gross, right? I know, the idea of vegan sushi, especially an umami-tinged melon? The moment it hit my tongue, it was almost again as if I ascended to a new astral plane. My atoms entangled in some other dimension, getting tapped into it via this food experience. The bill came, and before I could lay my card down, I had to order another one. A big win for me and a huge win for eating disorder recovery. Autistic joy isn't just for fun; it's healing
Oh, my beloved Sony XM-1000 M3 headphones. Nothing is a greater friend to someone who is neurodivergent than noise defenders or over-the-ear noise-canceling headphones. And I've had mine for six years. They've gotten me through every flight, every night with snoring roommates, every step I take on campus, everywhere I go. The sound quality always mesmerizes me, so I try to make it a habit to listen to new music in them. Just the other night, I was eagerly awaiting the release of Miley Cyrus's new song, queued up in my headphones. Within the first dazzling moments, my ears were enchanted by the serene sounds of her ethereal production. The song built on brightness, filling me up with anticipation before its gritty drop into a cerebral bass. My jaw dropped, and I once again ascended.
What I realize is that my moments of autistic joy tend to surround sensory experiences that I find deeply fulfilling, satisfying, and often eagerly anticipated. Yet even if I am waiting for a song that is next in queue, or knowing I'm sitting in traffic on the way to capybaras, the reality of autistic joy always tends to exceed my premonitions. There is no way to describe the glimmer of earth-defying feelings that overtake me.
Being autistic, you feel things bigger and much differently than someone who is neurotypical. I cry louder. I laugh longer. I scream deeper, and I smile bigger.
My moments of autistic joy don't exist in a vacuum. They exist in the context that I also experience autistic meltdowns. That I also experience autistic burnout. That I also experience feeling so alien in this world built around people who experience life much differently than me.
But I always return to the question and ask myself: Would I rather be calloused than experience life on the deep emotional spectrum that I do? No. The answer is no. If not for my intense suffering, for my intense feelings of unbelonging, for the guttural shame and sadness, for the pain... I wouldn't know the flipside of joy so big it can't even be explained except for the look you see on my face.
Autistic joy is beautiful. Seeing someone stim, shaking their hands, spinning in circles, or repeating their favorite phrase is beautiful. Autistic feelings are valid, autistic feelings are beautiful, autistic feelings deserve to be respected.
Which brings me to this: society has recently shown a shift in its representation of autistic minds. For example, the show "Love on the Spectrum," a dating show featuring young adults on the spectrum navigating the dating pool while also managing their personal needs. Yes, autism is a part of them, but it's not who they are. The show showcases how each individual is completely unique, not only in their needs but their personality—just like you or I.
Tanner, the lanky twenty-something with perpetually animated speech, transforms each "Love on the Spectrum" episode into a masterclass of unfiltered enthusiasm. Viewers lean forward in their seats, smiling as his rapid-fire delivery tumbles out between half-breaths—stories about his hotel job woven seamlessly into passionate dissertations on the majesty of giraffes. When he appeared on Kelly Clarkson's show, the studio audience watched his usual exuberance, his body practically vibrating with excitement as he spoke. Then came the moment—Kelly's eyes darting offstage, a subtle nod, and suddenly those massive studio doors swinging open to reveal Jack Black in all his bearish glory. Tanner's face froze in that half-second of cognitive processing—eyes widening to perfect circles, mouth dropping open, hands suspended mid-gesture. His entire body launched upward from the chair, a sound escaping him that was half-gasp, half-squeal as he bounded across the stage. For once, words failed the usually verbose Tanner, replaced by pure physical jubilation. The studio audience rose with him, their applause amplifying as Jack enveloped Tanner in a bear hug, meeting the unexpected full-body embrace with equal enthusiasm. Jack's hands clasped Tanner's shoulders, his famous eyebrows dancing as he matched Tanner's energy beat for beat, creating a feedback loop of joy that radiated through screens into living rooms across America. To some people who might not understand that autistics have a different perspective on personal space, Black took it in stride, meeting Tanner where he was at and saying how excited he was to be in his presence. You could feel the joy in the room. And I could feel the tears in my eyes.
To see autistic joy celebrated in mainstream media is what we need in the world. Autistic joy is a beautiful window into a different way of experiencing the brilliance of being alive.
