Joy, Spectacle, and the Stories We Steal
When performative empathy replaces real connection, and praise becomes projection.
I’ve been thinking about praise.
Not all praise. Just a certain kind—the kind that feels off, even when everything about it looks right.
The kind that shows up when someone autistic—or anyone visibly different—does something joyful, expressive, or just… visible. The kind that floods the moment with applause, tears, and comments that all start to sound the same: “This is so beautiful.”
And maybe it is. That’s not what I’m questioning.
What I’m questioning is why people respond the way they do—and who that response is really for.
Because sometimes, that praise isn’t actually about the person at the center of it. It’s about how they make the audience feel.
No, it’s not mean-spirited. It’s not hostile. But it’s not really empathy either. It’s comfort. Self-comfort.
It’s people reacting to something unfamiliar by quickly turning it into something they do understand—something they can smile at, share, and feel good about supporting.
And behind that performance, there’s often another one.
Years of shaping. Masking. Compliance training dressed up as care. Being taught—explicitly or implicitly—that your joy only matters when it fits a certain mold. That people respond better when your emotions are easy to read, when your voice lands neatly in their expectations. That if you want to be embraced, you need to be inspiring—but not too complicated.
Sometimes they call that therapy. Sometimes they call it growth.
But what it often amounts to is erasure, carefully disguised as inclusion.
There’s a clip going around right now—an autistic woman performing on a daytime show. If you’ve seen it, you know. Her joy is real. Her presence is strong. This isn’t about her. I don’t want her dragged into this. She deserves her moment, without critique that centers anything but her own agency.
This is about the response.
The spectacle that gets built around moments like this. The way someone’s life, voice, and expression get absorbed into a public narrative that says, “Look how far she’s come.” Or worse: “Look what she’s overcome.”
That framing isn’t harmless. It often reflects deep discomfort with autistic adulthood—especially when that adulthood doesn’t conform to traditional standards of independence or presentation. And instead of confronting that discomfort, people reach for the easiest tool they have: praise.
Performative empathy isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a standing ovation. Sometimes it’s a well-meaning comment. Sometimes it looks exactly like support.
And to be fair—not all of it is self-serving. Some of it comes from a desire to bridge a gap, to be inclusive, to connect across difference in the only language a person knows. But that doesn’t make the effect any less complicated.
Because if it’s still centered on your comfort—your story of what this means—then it’s not really about the person you’re reacting to.
Real empathy doesn’t need to be public. It doesn’t always feel good. It doesn’t tidy things up or turn difference into a teachable moment. Sometimes it just listens. Sometimes it sits with discomfort. Sometimes it chooses not to speak.
And that doesn’t mean all public praise is performative. There is such a thing as genuine public empathy. You can see it in the way someone resists turning a person into a metaphor. In the way they leave room for contradiction. In the way they acknowledge joy without needing to repurpose it. You can feel it when someone reacts with care, and then gets quiet—because they know the story isn’t theirs to tell.
And look—I get that this won’t land for everyone. Some people just aren’t in a place to hear it. That’s fine. I’m not trying to ruin anyone’s moment or shame anyone for feeling moved. I’m just saying maybe we could pause a little longer before we turn someone else’s joy into our narrative. Maybe we could sit with the tension instead of rushing to resolve it.
Maybe empathy starts there. ∞