Dear Cami:

When Gal Pal sent out the theme for this first issue, I took a deep breath. Firsts.

I’d already been thinking about how rare they become as we get older. They get buried under routine and softened by repetition, but they’re there. Glimmering in the corners. And sometimes, the biggest first is doing the thing you’re most afraid of.

So with that, welcome to the first edition of Dear Cami, a monthly advice column for neurodivergent folks (and the people who love us). It’s a place for honesty, curiosity, and side-eye at the systems making everything harder than it needs to be. I hope you’ll join me.

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This month’s letter comes from She Who Does Not Comply

A late-diagnosed autistic woman facing fallout with her extended family after speaking up about her diagnosis, her boundaries, and her beliefs.

“Is it worth disclosing a diagnosis to in-laws and extended family? Have you ever gone no-contact because of it? And how do you keep hostile neurotypicals out of your business?”

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Dear She Who Does Not Comply,

We don’t have the same story, but we’re walking some of the same fault lines, and I know what it feels like to speak up and get punished for it. For being inconvenient. For refusing to fold. For having the audacity to exist.

You’re not wrong, and you’re not alone. Regardless of the context, the process of coming out or othering yourself is exhausting. That goes for pretty much anything you come out about. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell the important people or the usual suspects. You’ll still have to come out again. And again. And again.

Raise your hand if that’s a lived experience. Thought so.

Is it worth disclosing your diagnosis to in-laws and extended family?

Yes.

If you can do it safely. If you have support. If it brings you peace.

Actually, do it even if it doesn’t bring you peace. This isn’t about comfort. It’s about giving yourself the opportunity to be your true, authentic self.

Not because you owe them anything. Not because disclosure makes it real.

But because telling the truth about who you are can be a kind of freedom.

Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it hurts.

And you deserve it.

If the family in question is your in-laws, let me say this clearly: the support of your spouse is paramount.

If you’re going to disclose something as vulnerable and potentially misunderstood as a neurodivergent diagnosis, ask your partner to be your ally. Out loud. On purpose.

They’re already fluent in the family dynamics. Let them translate. Let them deflect. Let them do the work so you don’t always have to.

Advocating for yourself is brave, but doing it alone in someone else’s family system is exhausting. You don’t have to be the only one holding the line.

Have I ever gone no-contact because of it?

Unexpectedly, yes.

Until I sat down to write this, I might have said no. Technically, no one was cut off because of my diagnosis.

But truthfully? I’ve drawn that line.

It’s invisible ink only I can see. Or maybe it’s like a wall. But invisible… And I’m like some weird autistic mime, silently tracing the air so you know where not to step.

Mimes are weird.

Wait. Where was I? Oh right. Barriers, perceived or otherwise.

I stopped speaking to the first relative I ever cut out when I was sixteen. She was cruel, self-centered, and full of rage. And I was always different.

Different made me an easy target. A vessel for her unresolved trauma.

So it wasn’t about a label. It was about refusing to keep shrinking myself to be tolerated by someone who was supposed to love me. Maybe it always is.

But that’s when I learned: a relationship to someone is not a reason to stay in relationship with someone.

How do I keep hostile neurotypicals out of my business?

Boundaries.

Set them. Speak them. Stand by them.

Don’t hint. Don’t soften. Don’t apologize for needing space.

Say what you mean. If they don’t understand, explain it once. If they pretend they still don’t, stop explaining.

You can do that however you like. With sunshine and rainbows as you shut it down, or singing “na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye.”

There’s also the silent send-off: She Who Does Not Comply has left the chat.

(This answer is dedicated to my therapist, who treats boundaries like a sacred art form and a contact sport.)

Yes, it might feel cold.

Yes, it might make you the villain in their story.

Yes, it might be the only way to stay whole.

Family situations are complicated. Just because some pink-haired woman with AuDHD on the internet says something doesn’t mean it’s the answer for you.

But it sounds like you’re ready to try something.

And that, my friend, is its own kind of first.

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Autistically yours,

Cami

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Psst.

If you’ve got a question—something tender, messy, or just too weird to say out loud at family dinner—you can ask me.

Dear Cami is open to neurodivergent folks and the people who love us.

You don’t have to make it nice. Just make it honest.

👉 Submit your question here.

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Cami Kaos is a writer, autistic woman, and former tech community organizer who spent more than a decade building inclusive spaces in an industry that rarely made room for people like her. After burning out from constant caretaking and code-switching, she turned inward—to reclaim the parts of herself that were silenced to make others comfortable. Cami writes about identity, survival, and neurodivergence—not always without apology, but with growing conviction. These days, she’s not interested in holding it all together anymore—just holding what matters. You can find Cami at camikaos.com. Bring snacks.