For those who don’t know me, I’m autistic. I’ve been a developer for north of two decades now.
I didn’t find out I was ASD until 19, and didn’t reconcile with that until years later. These posts will be a combination of advice I’ve given to those who are like me, as well as a letter of sorts to my past self who could have used a lot of it.
I write these posts in the hopes that someone like me will find value in knowing a very simple and very important truth about ASD:
You are not alone, and you are loved.
Content Warning
This post is about depression, and it will not be a light read. If you are not in a good place right now this may not be the post to read today, but perhaps in reading it you’ll find that you’re not alone in what you’re carrying.
If you are struggling, please reach out to the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline or someone you trust. You do not have to carry it by yourself.
The Triumphant Brandon
If you were to ask people about me you would hear some variant of the same messages: I’m someone who’s driven, who charges forward, who always has a plan, that I never leave people behind, and that I will constantly fight to make sure others are heard and represented. Not only that, but that more often than not I succeed in this.
One person even went as far as to say that if all hope feels lost and you don’t know where to go, find Brandon, because he will either find a way or make one, and if he says it can be done it will be done.
My career arc has been unusually fast by standard metrics. I was promoted to Principal Engineer at a major company by 30, found a knack for politics and working with leadership, and an uncanny ability to cut through uncertainty and deliver results others thought impossible. Some folks even call me almost psychic, because I tend to anticipate what an organization needs before it realizes it.
On paper, a lot of it holds up. At PlayStation I led deployment orchestration, logging, and monitoring for the entire PSN. At Square I went from leading API and SDK standards to owning Ruby architecture across the company. At Gusto I was a Principal Engineer defining modularity standards and leading payroll initiatives. At Amazon One Medical I worked on the cutting edge of AI in healthcare and laid the foundations for Amazon Health AI, and now I’m a Principal Engineer at GitHub building my next chapter.
In the Ruby community I’ve spent years writing, influenced the direction of the language on topics like pattern matching, given dozens of talks, and keynoted RubyConf 2024. I sit on the Ruby Central board, working toward its long-term sustainability and a vision for how the language evolves in the age of AI.
Back home I was recognized as a distinguished alumnus, described as a quiet force for good. I give back substantially to the universities and schools that taught me, because I believe in providing a path for the next generation, and giving them some of the opportunities I might not have had.
Why do I say all of this? Not to brag. It’s because too many people see this Brandon, the triumphant one who always has a plan.
They do not see what is behind him, and what it cost to get there.
Behind every item on that list, hiding in the shadows, unseen to all except those who know me the best and even then rarely, is another Brandon. To understand him we need to understand both the triumph, as well as the shadow and hunger behind it.
High-Functioning Depression
The insidious thing about that shadow is that unless you know what you’re looking for you will never see it, because as someone with autism I have become increasingly adept at masking it, at continuing to push beyond that. When you hear depression you probably picture someone who can’t get out of bed, can’t work, and can’t keep up with their lives. That’s valid, but it’s one type, and it does not tell the whole story of what people like me tend to go through.
My depression keeps going. The talks, proposals, teams, code, all of it from the outside looks like someone at the top of their game who is dominating in the field. By all reasonable metrics that’s someone who’s successful, and it certainly looks that way, but that’s exactly why it’s so hard to notice even for myself.
High-functioning depression hides in plain sight. You’re functional, often enough to get praise and recognition for all you do, but that depression will rob you of every bit of fulfillment any of that praise could ever give you, and none of it will land in a way you can believe.
The Voice Underneath
No matter what I do there’s a voice I hear. When I’m on stage, when I’m congratulated, when something I wrote gets attention, it’s always there playing in my head, and it sounds like this:
I do not deserve this, I am not worthy of this praise, this work isn’t even that good, what if I can never produce something of this level again? Are they just having pity on me by including me? Does anyone even appreciate it? They’re going to figure out that I’m a fraud who doesn’t deserve to be here.
It’s always there, in the background, poisoning anything I do and stealing what little joy I might be able to find in my accomplishments. I know, logically, that it is wrong, but knowing that has never once made it quieter.
Where It Came From
That voice didn’t come from nowhere, it had years to grow, and to understand it we’re going to need to go back to when I was growing up.
In Lemurs mean Hope I told the stories of the teachers who had built me up and given me hope, but I explicitly left out the teachers who had done the opposite. I didn’t believe in giving them a single second of attention, and quite frankly they deserved none.
In elementary school I had a teacher who actively mocked me for my mannerisms and awkwardness, going as far as to encourage other students to join in. She dismissed concerns, graded my work exceptionally harshly, and ensured that I was repeatedly in detention for even the smallest of offenses or slights. Every interaction carried the same message: you will never be good enough, and you will never amount to anything.
In middle school I had a teacher who repeatedly confiscated my sketchbooks during class, chastised me for not paying attention, and would get visibly angry whenever I happened to be fidgeting or playing with something. That was how I kept myself focused, how I coped back before I knew about any of my conditions.
In high school I had a math teacher who went as far as to say that math was not meant for people like me. They taught solely by rote memorization, which never landed for me as someone who wanted to know the why behind things and fully understand their relevance.
I grew up constantly mocked, belittled, bullied, or worse by both peers and teachers. I was told, explicitly, that I would never amount to anything.
My answer was an unyielding rage, a desire to prove myself and prove every last one of them wrong, to become someone so accomplished that no one could ever question whether I belonged again. I would refute them no matter what it cost me to do so.
I’ve carried that burden every day of my life, and I still have that desire to prove them wrong, even decades later.
Even when I’ve already done more than enough, it’s still not enough. Those confiscated sketchbooks became a series of illustrated conference talks, math became foundational to my job and I even go as far as giving talks on category theory, and now I’m a Principal Engineer at a major company. Every single one of those teachers has faded into irrelevance, and the vow is still there.
Proof That Never Lands
No matter how many wins I stack up, every talk, promotion, and award, none of it lands in a way I can believe, and I can never put that rage down. Even when I did finally prove them wrong, it didn’t satisfy me, not once.
When I was offered a role as a Principal Engineer at GitHub I had people congratulate me, and I appreciated every one of them, but it still felt hollow. It felt like I was finally catching up after years of being stuck and behind, after being down-leveled to Senior at Amazon when titles merged, and this was the bare minimum expected of me. I’d spent weeks and weeks preparing, practicing, and training for those interviews, and at the end of it I felt like I was finally coming back to the starting line. Too many people framed it as if I had finally “made it,” but I have never once believed that.
When I was leaving PlayStation years ago, a friend said something about me that’s stuck with me since:
You don’t get it, for him that was a stepping stone, for us it was the dream. He’s not satisfied where things are at.
They were right. I don’t think I’ve ever been fully satisfied.
That distinguished alumni award was the same. My hometown, the place where I was told repeatedly that I would never amount to anything, had finally formally recognized me. If there was ever a moment when that vow to prove people wrong was allowed to land, that would have been it. I’m not sure I even allowed myself to enjoy it, or that I even could, because to me I am not an impressive person who deserves such things. To me I am still so far behind that I’m sprinting just to try and keep up with where I know my potential is, and how much I have failed to realize it.
However far I get, my mind goes right back to telling me how far behind I am.
My value comes almost entirely from my achievement, but even that doesn’t last very long before I need another win to make me feel alive again.
The Strong One
I am someone who is not allowed to fail. Even when everything else is failing, when everything around me is falling apart, I must go on and I must get things done.
Part of this is that same rage, but another part is what I’ve seen happen when no one steps up. Across engineering teams for years the folks who should have led didn’t, and it fell to no one. When no one takes charge, things fall apart, and when people abdicate that responsibility I will not let things fail, even if that ends up costing me personally. I took charge when no one else would, because if not me, then who?
When hope is lost people come to find me, and that makes me someone who cannot afford to let anyone see me struggle. The moment I do, the people around me may lose what little hope they have left.
Even with my closest friends and family I hide this more often than not. I must be the strong one to help people through things, because someone needs to be. I would light myself on fire to keep others warm, and ensure that no one is left behind, and that has exacted a heavy cost on me.
The Cycle
My depression has become my baseline over the course of my life. For years I’ve lived in the gray, a heavy weight I carry with me every day, interrupted by brief interludes of sunshine.
You’ve probably seen a few of those periods, and they can be exceptionally deceptive. I have limitless energy to produce, to be myself, and in that you likely see a lot of art, writing, music, and other things come into existence. From the outside that looks like thriving, and it isn’t.
Not a single bit of it is satisfying, despite all the awards, accolades, and recognition. Soon enough the energy runs out, I relapse back into the gray, and I’m left struggling to motivate myself to do anything at all.
High-functioning depression hides so well because I am genuinely productive during these periods, and in the gray I can mask well enough to pass.
It hasn’t always held. Depression has cost me things I spent years working toward, and some of them I can’t get back.
The Light
If achievement can’t get through, what does?
People. Every time I’ve been pulled out of the hole it’s been a person, and almost never because of anything I accomplished.
Mrs. Tubbs
That award from my hometown is named for Mrs. Tubbs, who is no longer with us, and there’s a reason that matters more to me than the award itself.
She would not let me talk down on myself, belittle myself, or question whether I was valuable enough to be heard, and she repeated that until I started to actually believe it. She saw the fear, the depression, all of it, and she charged straight at it without hesitation and forced me out of its jaws.
When people describe me as someone who will fight and fight and fight to make sure people are heard, they’re describing what she did for me. I learned it from her, and I want others to be heard just the same way she heard me.
It’s fitting that the award carries her name. It felt like one last message from her beyond the grave, a final attempt to get me to believe that I had indeed made it, and I’m still trying to believe her.
The Guitar
At my lowest point in a previous job I was so far down in a hole that I had started to lose a lot of hope and motivation. Someone remembered I played guitar, happened to have an instrument in the office, and asked me to play.
That one simple act was enough to snap me out of it and help me find myself again. They had no idea what it meant at the time, but it meant the world.
Being Seen
In another role there was someone who cared about and was invested in my advice, my work, my conference talks. For a moment they saw the me behind the mentor, and I can’t overstate how rare that is or how much it meant.
The Bright Ones
Over the years there have been several engineers across different jobs who were sources of sunlight on a dreary day. They gave me the strength to keep working, and to wake up from the gray.
I find myself drawn to people with that brightness, as if I’ve forgotten what it felt like, and they remind me of who I was when I was able to find happiness. I try to encourage it whenever I see it, because I know how valuable it is, and how easily it can be lost.
Bringing joy to others is one of the most valuable things a person can do.
What I’m Doing About It
I’m not going to lie to you and say I have answers, because I’m not through it.
I still go to therapy, where I’m working to understand my motivations, and why that vow still has the hold over me that it does. I’m working on finding value in myself, rather than needing constant accolades or recognition. I’m also exploring clinical options. In the post on panic I mentioned I should probably explore medication more seriously, and this time I’m following through.
Even with all of the pain, I’d rather put my energy into the teachers who lift students up the way Mrs. Tubbs lifted me, and I’ll keep investing in education so there are more of them.
For the Strong Ones
I’m writing this for all of the people who haven’t been able to admit to themselves that they don’t need to carry everything. That they’re allowed to exist as they are without earning it. That even the most accomplished and joyful people are struggling too, and some of them are barely treading water.
If that’s you, you’re allowed to rest, you’re allowed to put it down. I’m still learning how to, and I have failed more times than I would care to admit, but still I get up and try again.
If you have someone in your life like that, who everyone relies on and goes to when there are no answers, the one who has a plan, please check in on them, get to know the real them. Show them that they are loved in ways that aren’t about their output or how impressive they happen to be.
They still need affirmation, and they still need to strive. It’s who they are. That striving cannot be the only thing driving them, because that exacts a heavy toll, and they may not be able to see it on their own.
Wrapping Up
To Mrs. Tubbs, to the person with the guitar, to the person who saw the me behind the mentor, and to the engineers who reminded me what brightness felt like: thank you. Thank you for reminding me who I was, and for giving me the strength to keep going when I’d otherwise given up.
Often times I only appear strong, when I may actually be barely holding on to sanity. You reached me anyways, often without knowing you had, and it mattered more than I can say.
If you’re the strong one in your circle, you’re tired, and no one sees it: I see you, and I’ve been there, and I’m still there some days. You are allowed to just exist, you are valid, and most of all remember:
You are not alone, and you are loved.