I’m 52 – but I cried hearing about the new autistic Barbie
This morning, I stopped in my tracks as a sudden, sharp jolt of emotion hit me.
I was scrolling on LinkedIn when I saw the news that Mattel had released its first autistic Barbie.
Immediately, I felt a lump in my throat.
It was a mix of relief that something I had spent a lifetime feeling unseen for was finally being acknowledged, and more unexpectedly, grief for the little girl who never had this doll.
As I read more about Autistic Barbie, my immediate thought was simple: she would have changed everything for me.
Representation shapes how children understand themselves and their place in the world.
For autistic kids who grow up surrounded by messages that they are too sensitive, too intense, or simply strange, seeing themselves reflected in something as culturally powerful as Barbie feels quietly radical.
I know this because, as a child, I was made to feel strange – and I never saw myself in any of the toys or popular culture that surrounded me.
At the time, I didn’t know I was autistic. I just knew I didn’t fit.
Other girls at school would sit together comparing Barbies and weaving elaborate social stories around them. Adults noticed my absence from those circles. I even overheard people wonder what was wrong with me.
Playing with dolls required inventing pretend conversations and understanding why people spoke the way they did, something I struggled with in real life, let alone in play.
These dolls felt like the representation of a life I was already failing to live.
And yet, without fail, I was given Sindy and Barbie dolls every birthday and Christmas. I learned quickly that there was a correct response: squeal with delight, unwrap the doll immediately, admire the outfit, promise to play with it straight away.
So I went through the motions – but inside, I felt nothing. Worse than nothing. I felt wrong, as though there was something defective in me that made me incapable of feeling what I was meant to feel.
The cost of that performance was high. I was masking – the neurodivergent act of suppressing your authentic reactions to mimic socially acceptable ones. I studied other girls closely, memorising the right facial expressions, tone of voice and length of gratitude. I monitored my body constantly: eye contact, posture, how to hold the doll, when to smile.
By the end of birthdays or Christmas mornings, I was exhausted, not from excitement, but from the relentless effort of pretending.
Each doll I was given reinforced the same message: everyone else understands this world, and you don’t.
It wasn’t just the toys, though; school was relentless. Noise felt physically painful. I still remember assemblies: hundreds of children shuffling, coughing, whispering. My skin would prickle, my chest would tighten, my whole body on high alert.
I struggled with rules other children seemed to absorb instinctively – when to stop talking about something you loved, how tone could change the meaning of words, why being factually correct could make you a target rather than admired.
I was bullied for being different and intense. Once, in the playground, I asked a group of girls if I could join their game. They smiled and said yes, then subtly changed the rules, closed ranks, and laughed as if I’d never been there at all.
I stood on the outside, trying to work out what I’d done wrong.
Instead of dolls, I played with Matchbox cars, Star Wars figures, and Scalextric sets – because these toys made sense. They had systems, movement, logic. They didn’t demand social improvisation. I could focus, feel calm, feel capable.
Aged eight, I was given my first home computer, a Texas Instruments TI/99. From that moment, computers became a sanctuary. They followed clear rules. There was no hidden subtext, no guessing. For the first time, I felt competent in a world that responded predictably.
As a teenager, I desperately wanted a Sony Walkman, not to be fashionable, but to escape. When I finally got one, it was transformative. Music became a shield.
They allowed me to exist without constant sensory assault. But for years, I saw my need for headphones as a character flaw. Adults told me I was being rude and antisocial, peers mocked me for being weird, and I internalised it all, believing I was simply too difficult to cope with what everyone else managed effortlessly, never understanding that my brain was processing the world fundamentally differently.
In June 2018, at 44, I was diagnosed as autistic after taking part in a research study on undiagnosed women. After a full day of assessments, a psychiatrist told me there was no doubt.
I wasn’t relieved. I was angry about a lifetime of bullying, and I grieved for the child who had forced herself to mask because she didn’t know why she was different.
In 2023, my diagnosis was reconfirmed, alongside ADHD, dyspraxia, and dyscalculia. Suddenly, everything made sense: the clumsiness, the illegible handwriting, the difficulty with numbers, the feeling of being out of sync.
I hadn’t been failing at being normal. The world simply hadn’t been designed for my brain.
All this is why Autistic Barbie matters.
The dolls I grew up with rehearsed neurotypical social norms I could never access. By contrast, a Barbie with noise-cancelling headphones, a fidget spinner and a tablet with symbol-based alternative communication buttons sends a different message: your needs are real, and your comfort matters.
Those accessories aren’t cosmetic. They are essential. Had I seen them reflected in a doll, I might have understood my need for headphones years earlier – not as weakness, but as self-care.
Autistic Barbie won’t fix everything. But for some children, it might be the first time the world meets them where they are.
That isn’t just progress. It’s powerful.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk.
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