Why Being Purpose Driven Gets You Labeled as Autistic

 

A thoughtful moment at a cafe as a woman reads an article exploring purpose and modern societal labels.

“He’s just... different.” That’s what they say. Whispered in conference rooms. Glanced between lines in report cards. Embedded in diagnostic codes, masked as concern. You speak with purpose. You focus with intensity. You question systems, not because you enjoy stirring the pot, but because the pot has rotted from the inside. 

You stare blankly when small talk is required, not because you're aloof, but because you're trying to remember why humans still pretend that weather chat means connection. And so the label is handed to you like a quiet verdict. “Maybe he's on the spectrum.” Just like that, a lifelong sentence sealed in a folder. But what if the diagnosis says more about the culture than the person?

The modern world has created a dangerous inversion. It labels dysfunction as normal, and then calls those who resist it dysfunctional. The very traits that built civilizations—hyperfocus, moral clarity, deep questions, resistance to shallow conformity—are now suspicious. 

If you don’t respond fast enough to meaningless social cues, if you’d rather spend hours alone building something meaningful than spending minutes laughing at nothing, if you ask why school or work often feels like jail—you're flagged. And the flag isn’t just red. It’s diagnostic. It's clinical. It comes with a smile and a binder full of bullet points explaining who they think you are.

We’re living in a system that has replaced meaning with marketing. Purpose has been rebranded as a luxury. We’re expected to go with the flow, but the flow is a lie. From a young age, we are told what to do, what to value, what to become. And for many, that’s fine. 

The assembly line of modern life churns smoothly when no one asks questions. But what happens when someone stops the line? When someone dares to ask, “Why are we doing it this way?” The system panics. It doesn't know how to handle deviation from script. So it diagnoses the questioner.

Imagine a teenager who refuses to go to prom because it feels performative. A young adult who can’t stand small talk, not out of arrogance but exhaustion. A child who lines up their toys not randomly but as a system of categories. In another time, that would have been seen as the early signs of an inventor, a philosopher, a strategist. Now, it becomes a checklist for autism screening. The same traits that signal vision and depth are seen through the lens of impairment.

This isn’t to say that autism isn’t real. Of course it is. Many who bear the label face profound challenges with sensory processing, communication, or emotional regulation. But that’s not the point here. The point is that the definition keeps stretching, keeps widening. 

It now includes kids who are “too quiet,” adults who “don’t get social cues,” thinkers who “obsess over one topic too much.” What’s too much? Who decides? Is a boy who memorizes every fact about aviation really impaired—or is he simply living in a world that no longer values mastery?

Society is addicted to sameness. It wants predictable behavior, marketable personalities, and digestible identities. The moment you break that mold, even for noble reasons, you’re suspect. If you can’t fake the smile, if you won't play the game, if you burn with purpose and grow frustrated with how meaningless much of modern life feels, you're not seen as enlightened. 

You’re seen as “different.” The system’s answer to difference is a label. A diagnosis. A subtle exile wrapped in professional concern.

What makes this dangerous is how quietly it happens. It’s not a violent expulsion. It’s a slow distancing. Meetings you’re not invited to. Promotions you don’t get. Invitations that never arrive. The world shrugs and says you’re just not a “people person.” But what does that even mean? Does having a purpose disqualify you from people? Does speaking plainly make you dangerous? Does asking why make you unstable?

Think of the people you admire. The ones who changed the world. Would they survive in today’s classrooms? Would they pass the group work projects, the standardized testing, the performative school spirit rallies? Would they be marked “well adjusted”? 

Einstein was expelled from school. Da Vinci never finished formal education. Joan of Arc spoke with a fire that unsettled priests. They weren’t socially adept. They were purpose driven. And if they were around today, they'd likely be labeled, medicated, and told to calm down.

The system does not know what to do with people who cannot fake it. It thrives on compliance, not clarity. It prizes adaptation over authenticity. That’s why purpose is seen as threatening. A person driven by meaning cannot be steered by trends. 

They can’t be bought by comfort. They don’t numb themselves with distraction. They look straight into the abyss of the world and still walk forward. That kind of person doesn’t fit well in a cubicle or a classroom rubric. And so, the system retaliates. Softly. Systemically. With checklists and coded language.

It’s easy to see how this happens. A parent brings in their kid and says, “He doesn’t make eye contact.” A teacher says, “She won’t stop asking why we’re doing this assignment.” A manager notes that an employee “doesn’t seem to be a team player.” 

But instead of asking what these statements really mean, we default to pathology. We skip the hard work of understanding and jump to the convenience of labeling.

And here's the bitter irony: the very system that crushes purpose then markets its own lack of purpose as freedom. It tells you that drifting is self-expression. That not caring is maturity. That compromise is wisdom. And when you reject that—when you say, “I want to live differently, to build something, to stand for something”—you’re not praised. You’re pathologized. As if wanting more out of life is some kind of social threat.

Many who are labeled autistic in today’s world are simply those who resist the noise. They want truth, not trends. They care deeply about their interests. They see the world’s pain and want to fix it, not scroll past it. They feel everything. They ask too many questions. They see too many cracks. And that doesn’t make them defective. It makes them awake.

So how do we turn this around? It starts with changing the story. Instead of assuming that purpose is pathological, we must reclaim it as the highest human trait. We must remember that sensitivity is not weakness, that asking “why” is the beginning of wisdom, that being different is not a diagnosis—it’s a signal that something needs to change. If the system only works for those who play pretend, then maybe the system needs fixing.

Imagine a world where purpose is protected. Where we teach kids that their passions matter. Where adults are allowed to be intense without being labeled. Where work isn't about fitting in but about contributing something real. Where people who burn with questions aren’t shamed but celebrated. That world is not impossible. But it requires courage. It requires pushing back against the slow suffocation of meaning that now passes for modern life.

You don’t need to be labeled because you see through the charade. You don’t need a diagnosis because you want something deeper. You don’t need therapy for caring too much. What you need is space. Space to think. Space to build. Space to become. And if that space doesn’t exist yet, maybe you're the one who’s meant to carve it out.

It is time we stopped confusing alienation with illness. Not everyone who struggles in this world is sick. Some are just tired of the charade. Some are just unwilling to lie. Some are just too alive to fake it any longer. And if that makes you different, then good. Stay different. Stay awake. Because the world doesn’t change because of the people who fit in. It changes because of the ones who couldn’t.

What kind of world calls the truth-tellers broken? What kind of system treats purpose like a problem? What kind of culture labels intensity as disorder?

A broken one.

And broken things don’t need our silence. They need our courage.

And so we circle back to the beginning. That label. That glance. That whisper. Maybe it wasn’t about you at all. Maybe it was about their discomfort. Their fear. Their need to control what they can’t understand. Maybe your clarity shines too brightly in a world that’s grown addicted to the fog. Maybe your presence is a mirror—one that forces them to look at what they’ve lost. Passion. Purpose. Meaning. And maybe, just maybe, you were never the problem. You were the possibility they didn’t know how to face.