Autism in therapy: Monotropism, meditation and autistic flow

I wish I could show you, when you are lonely or in darkness, the astonishing light of your own being. 

Attr. Hafiz Shirazi (1325/26-1389/90) (Ladinsky, 2006) 

Imagine standing on a rock cliff, high above a surrounding forest that is shrouded in fog so dense you can barely see the trees. It's a monochromatic scene of various shades of black and grey. You are entirely alone. The world around you is unknowable and you feel unreachable… 

One of the most painful experiences in life, especially for many autistic people, is feeling deeply misunderstood and alone - an alien dropped into a world (allistic culture) that doesn't make any sense. It seems like everyone else got a manual titled How to be a Human in the World and unfortunately you didn't. Life is painted in broad brushstrokes of loneliness and confusion and the important details seem to be missing: who am I and where are the others like me? Where are my people? 

Of course, I can only speak for myself and my experience of being autistic. There's a common saying: If you've met one autistic person, you've met one autistic person. Here I am, one autistic person sharing their story through various lenses: the traumatised teen who discovered meditation, the monotropic experiences of an autistic therapist and the human who accessed the healing qualities of self-energy. 

Neurodiversity-affirming perspective of autism 

I understand being autistic to be a cultural identity and recognize #actuallyautistic people as experts on their own culture. 

Janae Elisabeth (2020) 

Autism is often very misunderstood, so let's begin with what I mean when I say autistic or autism. Autism is a genetically based neurotype, not a medical disorder. Autism is simply the label given to autistic neurology, and the simplest definition of this neurology is this: Autistic people have a hyperconnected bodymind (meaning: nervous system and brain) (Rose, 2023). 

The complex set of interrelated characteristics that distinguish autistic neurology from non-autistic neurology is not yet fully understood, but current evidence indicates that the central distinction is that autistic brains are characterized by particularly high levels of synaptic connectivity and responsiveness. (Walker, 2021, p.81) 

According to The Autistic Advocate, Kieran Rose, autistic people: 

actively process more sensory information than non-Autistic people and that can create big differences in processing speeds, communication styles and how we interpret and interact with the world. There is no negativity or positivity in this, just difference. (Rose, 2023) 

Janae Elisabeth (2020) blogs on Trauma Geek: 

We have more neuronal branching than neurotypical people which means more opportunities for connection between parts of the mindbody that may not typically connect. 

She goes on to say: 

Hyper-plasticity predisposes us to have strong associative reactions to trauma. Our threat-response learning system is turned to high alert. The flip side of this hyper-plasticity is that we also adapt quickly to environments that are truly safe for our nervous system. 

Due to the hyperconnected nature of the autistic bodymind, the (allistic-centred) world can often feel overwhelming for autistics. Regularly experiencing states of monotropic flow can be essential for overall autistic wellbeing. I'll share more about monotropism later in the chapter, but first this: meditation found me in a meteor shower, and I need to tell you about it. 

Meditation found me in a meteor shower 

If you need to rest, let the earth hold you. Lama Rod Owens (2021) Meditation saved my life. I mean this almost literally. I had just turned 20 years old and was, without realising it, coping with symptoms of trauma that were causing significant distress in all areas of my life. Here's the long story short: in my late teens, I experienced two violent and very traumatic events. I didn't know much about meditation back then, and I certainly wasn't aware of the healing benefits of a mindfulness practice, but, quite mysteriously, meditation found me one night. 

Let me set the scene. Remember that person standing on the rock cliff at the beginning of this chapter? We're back there again, but this time it's a comfortably warm summer night after my second year of undergrad. I'm lying on the rock cliff above a forest along the rustic shore of Lake Superior, deep in conversation with a close friend. We take turns sharing about our traumas, our fears, our doubts and dreams, while gazing up at a sky full of twinkling stars and an unexpected meteor shower that eventually cascades through much of the night sky. I begin to (quite unintentionally) enter a state of meditation. 

If the days, weeks and even several years after that night on the rock cliff are a chapter in the 'story of my life', the most appropriate title is this: 'Meditation in Motion'. Quite spontaneously, and without effort, meditation became a daily practice - a valuable part of my routine. Most mornings, I would sit in states of contemplative meditation for hours at a time, but these meditative states weren't always the archetypal 'sitting perfectly still in lotus pose'. I'd also enter a meditative flow while painting, writing, reading or spending time in nature - essentially, any time I was captivated by something of interest. 

Over time, the debilitating trauma symptoms began to recede into the background, and calm, creative, confident and courageous parts of myself began to step forward. Let me be clear here: I'm not reducing the healing of trauma to simply practising daily meditation- recovering from trauma is more complex and nuanced than that. What I am saying is this: these meditative flow states had a profound impact on me, both internally (the way I experienced and perceived myself) and externally (how I perceived and engaged with the world around me). I returned to studying a topic I'd been interested in since high school: what it means to be human. My curiosity with what creates trauma and what heals it was insatiable, eventually leading to a graduate degree in clinical social work. 

Fast forward many years to now. I didn't always know I was autistic; I discovered this about myself two years ago. In the past couple of years, as I've learned about my autistic neurology, I've realised that the meditative flow states I experience while connecting with something (or someone) I care about can be explained by the theory of monotropism. 

Monotropism and autistic flow 

Remember, the entrance door to the sanctuary is inside you. 

Rumi (2004) 

Let's revisit that rock cliff, this time with a new perspective: I'll explain it through the lens of monotropism. That night, all of my attention was focused on the meaningful conversation and the streaks of light from the meteor shower. It was like being inside a cosy, protective bubble where only the conversation, the stars and the meteor shower existed. My attention was entirely absorbed in the experience of each moment, and it was as if nothing outside of that 'protective bubble' existed. Only the moment, and then the moment after that… 

Let me explain it another way: imagine looking through a telescope and all you can see is what's on the other side of the lens. The direction of the telescope determines what you see. In Kripalu yoga teacher training, I learned a different way to put this: where attention goes, energy flows. This is the essence of my experience when I'm in a monotropic, meditative state. 

Before I continue, let me give credit to the three autistics who introduced the theory of monotropism. Dinah Murray began exploring the concept of monotropism in the early 1990s (F. Murray, 2022), and in 2005 she, Wenn Lawson and Mike Lesser wrote about this theory in the journal Autism, in a paper titled 'Attention, monotropism and the diagnostic criteria for autism' (D. Murray et al., 2005). 

Fergus Murray (Dinah is their mother) describes monotropism as: 

the tendency for our interests to pull us in more strongly than most people... It rests on a model of the mind as an 'interest system': we are all interested in many things, and our interests help direct our attention. Different interests are salient at different times. In a monotropic mind, fewer interests tend to be aroused at any time, and they attract more of our processing resources, making it harder to deal with things outside of our current attention tunnel. (F. Murray, 2018) 

Matt Lowry, licensed psychological practitioner (LPP) and co-host of The Autistic Culture podcast, emphasises that 'monotropic focusis the outcome of having a hyperconnected Autistic brain' (Lauria & Lowry, 2022a). He explains that, due to autistic neurology, monotropic flow states can often come with ease for autistics when they're engaged in SPecial INterests (SPINs). Where attention goes, energy flows; when the telescope ('attention tunnel') is pointed towards something enthralling, it's difficult to step back and lookaway, and everything outside of your view disappears. 

Lowry explains that, when autistic people are in monotropic flow, they truly are in a meditative state, and that it's actually a change in brain wave states, from alpha (brain waves when we're awake and alert) to theta (brain waves when we're deeply relaxed). Hehighlights that this shift to theta waves is what creates the experience of deep meditation that can be incredibly healing (Lauria & Lowry, 2022b). 

The theory of monotropism suggests that autistic brains are monotropic and allistic brains are polytropic. If we continue using the analogy of the telescope, then polytropic attention is like stepping back from the telescope and casually glancing around at the night sky and shadowy scenery without focusing on anything in particular. Put more simply: polytropic attention is dispersed over many different things and monotropic attention is hyperfocused on the thing of interest. 

Let's return for a moment to the concept of 'flow state' and give credit to the psychologist who coined it. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi initially developed flow theory in the 1970s, and in 1990 wrote the popular book Flow: The psychology of optimal experience (1990). In his book, he describes flow as: 

a state in which people are so involved in an activity that nothing else seems to matter; the experience is so enjoyable that people will continue to do it even at great cost, for the sheer sake of doing it. (p.4) 

Flow states are not unique to the autistic experience and can be accessed by allistic people but, due to monotropism, autistic people likely enter flow states more regularly and with greater ease. I often refer to the monotropic focus that autistics experience as autistic flow. Remember the saying, 'If you've met one autistic person, you've met one autistic person'? I can't speak to what other autistic people experience when in autistic flow, but my experience is one of hyperfocus, respite, retreat, passionate interest, insatiable hunger for more information about the SPIN, meditative flow, lack of distractions, singular focus, healing, restoration and being in my own (cosy and safe) world. 

Looking through the lens of monotropism, it makes sense that I (quite instinctually) continued to seek meditative flow states after the night on the rock cliff. It's as if my brain knew that one of the antidotes to my overwhelm and emotional hurt was to focus monotropically - to intently 'point the telescope' towards what I care about, in order to heal. 

SPINs can bring autistic people into flow, and three of my SPINs are therapy (what it means to be human), a type of therapy called Internal Family Systems (IFS), and learning about autism and autistic culture (most of my clients are autistic). One of my favourite things about being an autistic therapist is that, because of these intersecting SPINs, the process of therapy often becomes a flow state for me - meaning therapy sessions can be like looking through an extra powerful telescope towards the absolutely most fascinating part of the night sky. 

Therapy as meditation 

Let the truth exist somewhere other than inside your body. 

Della Hicks-Wilson (2021) 

I'm going to try to describe what feels like the indescribable: my experience as an autistic therapist. Before I continue, let me be clear: autism is a neurotype and doesn't need to be 'treated'. Autistic clients come to me for a variety of reasons, none of which include trying to make them 'less autistic'. If they're late-identified, like me, they may want to learn more about their neurotype or need support in affirming their autistic identity. 

Therapy sessions with clients can often feel like that night on the rock cliff, except I'm meeting with each person online, not outside, under a starry sky. The screen provides us each a space in which to get cosy and comfortable - feeling safe is an important element of therapy. 

As I enter monotropic flow, my vision focuses and the screen disappears; it's just me and the client sitting together, almost as if we are in the same room. My hearing focuses and it's easier for my brain to tune out distracting background sounds, so that I'm mostly only hearing the two of us. An important note: when I'm not in a monotropic flow state, I'm incredibly sensitive to sounds and often experience sensory overload if I'm not wearing noise-cancelling headphones or my Loop earplugs. 

Just like the night on the rock cliff, the world outside of the client and me disappears; even my thoughts are incredibly focused. Remember: my brain is in 'telescopic mode', focused on the client, so I'm rarely distracted by thoughts unrelated to the session. I'm simply present in each moment and the session becomes a meditation of all the details: every word, every movement, every sensation, every feeling. Therapy becomes a meditation on seeing someone in all their complexity: all the nuances that make up a person, moment by moment. 

To be clear, I'm not using meditative as a synonym for peaceful or relaxing - especially when the content of the session is grief, trauma or heartbreaking sorrow. In sessions with painful content (most sessions, in fact), monotropic focus draws me into the realness of the moment. Some sessions become a gritty meditation on grief and noticing all the subtleties that make up an experience that words often can't fully describe. 

Some sessions are a meditation on witnessing what needs to be seen: the deep ache of a lifetime of feeling misunderstood. In these sessions, monotropic focus supports me in helping the other person to really feel seen, heard and understood. Sometimes this involves supporting and encouraging an autistic client to enter their own state of monotropic flow. In these moments, we enter a state of healing flow together as they enthusiastically (and unabashedly) infodump about a SPIN. It's important (and vital to the therapeutic relationship) that therapists create a safe space for autistic clients to share their SPINs (Lauria & Lowry, 2022c). 

Entering a state of autistic flow with clients often increases the access each of us has to self. 

Autistic flow and self-energy 

be easy. 

take your time.  

you are coming  

home. 

to yourself. 

Nayyirah Waheed (2013) 

Self (often referred to as self-energy) is a concept from Internal Family Systems (IFS), a non-pathologising model of therapy developed by Richard Schwartz. Because this chapter is about my monotropic experience of therapy as an autistic therapist, I won't go into thedetails of IFS as a therapeutic model. Instead, I'll focus on my experience of the dynamic relationship between self-energy and autistic flow. 

But first: what is self? I think of self as the wise and intuitive nature I was born with: essentially, who I truly am underneath all of the trauma, heartbreak and stress. In IFS, self is described as 'an innate presence in each of us that promotes balance, harmony, and nonjudgmental qualities' (Anderson, 2021, p.8). It is often referred to as the eight Cs: compassion, confidence, clarity, curiosity, calm, courage, creativity and connectedness (Schwartz, 2001, pp.33- 48). This is an over-simplification but, essentially, in IFS therapy, accessing self- energy is integral to healing trauma and self is considered a 'state of being that can neither be created nor destroyed' (Anderson, 2021, p.8). 

My experience of self-energy feels like calm, connected, intuitive, restoration, healing, compassion, creative, meditative flow, safe and cosy. You may notice that the words I use to describe my experience of self-energy are similar to the words I used to describe my experience of autistic flow. I often experience a dynamic relationship between self-energy and autistic flow. This means that, when I access self-energy, it's more likely that I will enter an autistic flow state, and when I'm in an autistic flow state, it's likely that I will experience more connection with self-energy. 

The most meditative moments for me as a therapist are when I'm connected with self-energy. The more I'm able to access self when I'm in session with a client, the more monotropic the experience will be. When I have access to self- energy, it's like looking through that super-powerful telescope at an intriguing part of the night sky and feeling boundless compassion and immense calm. 

The meditative flow I entered that night on the rock cliff gave me an opportunity to access self-energy. Connecting with self-energy sparked the 'meditation-in-motion chapter of my life' that followed, healing some of my trauma and ultimately teaching me the importance of autistic flow. This interplay between self-energy and autistic flow continues to inspire my work as an autistic therapist, writer and artist. I'll close this chapter with a specific type of meditative practice: metta meditation (often called loving-kindnessmeditation). 

Finding safe refuge under a starry sky 

Healing happens when we feel safe enough to show up exactly as we are. 

Think back to the person standing on the rock cliff amidst a forest shrouded in fog. Have you ever felt this alone, this forgotten, this lacking in vibrancy and aliveness? Maybe I'm speaking directly to your current experience, or possibly to a younger part of yourself - maybe 'middle school you' or 'teenage you'. Whatever part of you may be standing on that cliff, anxious and alone, I hope, if any of the following words are supportive, they'll find their way to you: 

May you find a place - a someone - where all parts of you are welcome and where you feel safe enough to show up exactly as you are. 

May you discover within yourself a wellspring of curiosity, creativity and compassion. May you have enough support to tenderly hold both grief and gratitude, sorrow and joy. 

May you find your way into the deeply healing state of flow... 

May you know that you are enough exactly as you are. 

• River Marino (they/them) is an artist, writer, therapist and Kripalu-certified yoga teacher. River fell in love with meditation and mindfulness when they were 20 years old and have been practising ever since. Writing and creating art began as ways to cope when River was in high school and over the years have become nourishing practices of self-care and personal expression. As an autistic therapist, River is trauma-sensitive, social justice-informed and views therapy through an intersectional lens (bodymind, environment, culture, etc.). River's approach to therapy is both collaborative and holistic, centring around values of embodied presence, empathy, connection and deep listening. River provides an autistic-affirming perspective in therapy and believes autism is a genetically based neurotype, not a medical disorder.
• On Being an Autistic Therapist edited by Max Marnau published by PCCS Books is available to order now.

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