My daughter has not spoken for five years. She initially had a limited vocabulary, but all her words disappeared just before her second birthday. She used to clap along with music, respond when called by name, and even tried to feed her baby doll Cheerios. Those abilities faded rapidly, like trying to hold water in cupped hands. Several months later, in October 2020, she was diagnosed with Level 3 autism, the most severe classification. When I asked the child psychiatrist why such regressions occur, she admitted no clear explanation exists but noted it is not unusual—about one in three children diagnosed with autism experience similar declines.
When Robert F. Kennedy Jr. recently stated that autistic children will “never pay taxes,” “never hold a job,” or “never play baseball,” his comments triggered strong backlash within the autism community. Yet, I found myself recalling the psychiatrist’s somber outlook and silently agreeing with his depiction of the difficult realities faced by children with profound autism.
This is not a stance I ever anticipated taking. I have never supported Donald Trump. I vaccinated my children. I identify politically as left of center and advocate for Medicaid expansion, increased funding for special education, caregiver support, and investment in research—areas that current policies often neglect. I have no intention of defending Mr. Kennedy, whose questionable claims and conspiracies do not help families affected by autism.
Nonetheless, his remarks resonate with the experiences and frustrations of some parents whose children have severe autism and feel sidelined in mainstream discussions. Many advocacy groups emphasize acceptance, inclusion, and celebrating neurodiversity, sometimes at the expense of acknowledging painful realities. Parents are often discouraged from using terms like “severe,” “profound,” or “Level 3” autism, as these words are deemed stigmatizing; instead, we are urged to say “high support needs.” In 2022, a Harvard-affiliated research center canceled an autism awareness panel after students protested that the language used was “toxic.” A petition circulated online asserting that autism “is not an illness or disease and, most importantly, it is not inherently negative.”
This shift in perspective reflects a broader cultural evolution in how disability is understood. Society has moved from a purely medical model—viewing disability as a defect to be fixed—to a social model that emphasizes accommodating differences. Autism has become recognized as an identity, a unique way of perceiving and interacting with the world. From this viewpoint, autism itself is not the problem; rather, it is the lack of adequate support and understanding that creates barriers. These changes have brought significant progress. Institutionalization is no longer widespread. Children with autism have legal rights to appropriate education and accommodations, and public spaces offer sensory-friendly options.
However, there are limits to these advances. While educating peers on how to interact with classmates who struggle socially is valuable, my daughter cannot even say her own name and finds social engagement extremely difficult. Families like ours face harsh realities—our children are often deemed “too severe” even for inclusive environments designed to help. Unfortunately, these struggles frequently go unrecognized and unsupported.
