|
Social cues: Unmasking autism in public leadership
by Adam Kofoed, WB City Administrator · Op-Ed · April 16, 2025
How do you wake up one day and realize you’re autistic?
The truth is you don’t become autistic, you always were. But for some of us, survival meant learning to mask our autism traits so well that we are unable to recognize who we truly are.
That realization hit me just four months ago. In our field, we navigate immense pressures — budget crises, community conflicts, unexpected tragedies. I’ve weathered my share, including the sudden death of a mayor in my first town.
I’ve served three years of active duty in the U.S. Army, earned an undergraduate and master’s degree while raising two children, and built a career as a city administrator. By all accounts, I was thriving.
So how could someone like me have autism?
For years, I coped by pushing through, running on a 24/7 adrenaline high.
But a particularly stressful event, along with two of my children needing therapy for their basic development, disrupted my usual coping mechanisms, and something shifted.
I began to wonder: Could I be autistic like my younger brother? I hesitated before voicing the thought aloud.
When I finally asked my wife, she laughed and said, “Um, yes, I’ve always known you had a bit of the ‘tism.”
Her casual acknowledgment floored me as I had begun following an online group of autistic adults whose diagnosis resulted in divorces.
But self-acceptance wasn’t immediate. I started therapy, hoping the feeling would pass. Instead, each day my autism became more undeniable.
Suddenly, familiar sensations overwhelmed me — the sound of water hitting the sink felt like a piercing alarm, the shower spray forced me to squint, and the whir of an exhaust fan made me instantly angry.
When I told my family, their reactions were mixed, mirroring my own confusion. They had never seen the signs because I had learned to suppress them.
Growing up in a small-town, small-business family in the 1990s, masking wasn’t just a habit, it was survival. I learned early that showing excitement could lead to ridicule; that teachers and classmates dismissed my restlessness as having “ants in my pants.”
So, I adapted each time a moment like this occurred. I learned to survive and be normal.
By high school, I was scripting my speech in my head before speaking, ensuring I met expectations. Eye contact, once impossible, became a rehearsed performance.
And trust? That was something I extended to no one.
But when I could no longer maintain the mask, I retreated to hiding in closets at home, at my parent’s house, even at work. The overstimulation was too much. The embarrassment, unbearable.
Eventually, I realized I had to be upfront with my staff and city council before they grew too concerned. It felt all too obvious and I felt I did not have the choice in hiding it anymore.
What happened next surprised me. Eventually, several councilmembers personally texted me with their support, and when I told my staff, they clapped.
The moment was overwhelming.
For the first time, I saw that I was in a safe space. And I knew that so many adults like me never find that kind of acceptance.
I can’t tell my autistic colleagues whether they should come out in their own workplaces. That decision is deeply personal.
But I can encourage them to find their own West Branch — a community where they feel seen, accepted, and supported.
Their ability to see the world in a different lens is valuable to any municipal government looking to have an edge over others.
West Branch, Iowa, has long been a place where humanity prevails. As a Quaker community, it played a pivotal role in the Underground Railroad, with residents risking and, in some cases, losing their lives for the sake of justice.
West Branch shaped a young orphan named Herbert Hoover who defied all odds to become president of the United States.
And today, that same spirit of acceptance is making history again, as West Branch becomes home to the first known openly autistic city administrator.
To my fellow public servants on the spectrum: You are not alone. I see you. I support you. And I hope you, too, find your West Branch, a place where you can unmask, be yourself, and be embraced for who you truly are.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
