AUSTISM ISN'T THE ENEMY w/Dr. Todd Brown

They say the scariest monsters wear suits. Smile too much. Talk like they’ve got secrets, not answers. That’s how Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has been talking about autism, like a man who thinks he’s discovered a horror no one else has noticed. He hasn’t. But he's doing damage in trying to simplify a story as layered and human as this one, and not the kind that can be undone with a headline correction or a clean apology.

Kennedy called autism a “tragedy.” He said it “destroys families.” He spoke about it with finality, like a man who’s never sat in a living room with a kid on the spectrum and actually listened. The real tragedy isn’t autism. It’s the way people like him talk about it, acting as if it’s a curse, a contamination, a ghost that came from nowhere and stole the child you were supposed to have. Autism is not new. The way we understand it is. Let’s get the facts straight.
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Kennedy leaned hard on the myth of the “regressive” autistic child. The idea that everything is fine until the second birthday, and then, suddenly, it’s not. But science has moved on. We now know that differences in brain development show up much earlier. As early as six months, researchers can sometimes see signs in eye contact, movement, and the subtle rhythms of early interaction. The change isn’t sudden. We were just too late in learning how to see it.

But Kennedy’s most dangerous claim, the one that lingers in headlines and backrooms, is that autism is an “epidemic.” He insists that something in the environment, something sinister and recent, must be behind it. It’s an idea designed to scare. It’s also false.

Autism is, by all credible estimates, between 60 and 90 percent heritable. Nearly half of diagnosed cases can be linked to specific, identifiable genetic differences. That doesn’t mean the environment plays no role. Things like air pollution, prenatal health, and premature birth can increase risk, but the rising numbers are not evidence of an invisible poison. They’re the echo of something simpler: better tools, broader definitions, and a system that’s finally catching up to what’s always been there.

Back in 2000, when the CDC’s Autism and Developmental Disabilities Monitoring Network (ADDM) first started tracking data, one in 150 eight-year-olds was diagnosed as autistic. Today, it’s one in 31. The numbers are real. But so is the context.

Autism used to hide in plain sight. Misunderstood, mislabeled, or missed entirely. In the first edition of the DSM, the clinical manual used to diagnose psychiatric conditions in the U.S., autism was described as a type of childhood schizophrenia. It wasn’t until 1980 that “infantile autism” became its own diagnosis, and even then, the criteria were narrow. Delayed speech, resistance to change, odd attachments. That was the picture.

In 1987, the picture changed. The criteria expanded, and as expected, more kids qualified. In 1994, Asperger’s disorder was introduced. In 2013, that, too, was folded into the broader category of “autism spectrum disorder” (ASD). For the first time, a child could be diagnosed with both autism and ADHD. Before that, an ADHD diagnosis ruled out autism entirely, even though we now know that over half of autistic people likely have both.

These aren’t just academic changes. They changed lives. They made it possible for people to get help. To get answers. To get seen.

Kennedy waves all this away like it’s an excuse. But science tells a different story. A 2015 study out of Denmark found that diagnostic changes explained 60% of the increase in autism rates among kids born between 1980 and 1991. A U.S. study of special education programs from 2000 to 2010 showed something even more striking: as autism diagnoses tripled, diagnoses of “intellectual disability” fell sharply. Kids weren’t changing. The labels were.

Look at the map, and you’ll see another clue. Autism rates vary wildly from state to state. California has the highest, with 53.1 diagnoses per 1,000 eight-year-olds. Texas has the lowest, with 9.7. This isn’t about the environment. It’s about access, advocacy, and awareness. California pushes early screening. Texas doesn’t. That’s it.

In a recent interview, Annette Estes, who directs the University of Washington Autism Center, says it plainly: “There are benefits to getting an autism diagnosis. So people seek it out.” The stigma is shrinking. The understanding is growing. And parents are no longer afraid to ask questions earlier.
That doesn’t mean every increase is just paperwork. People are having kids later. Older parents face a higher chance of having an autistic child. Medical advances are helping more premature babies survive, another known risk factor for autism. Some environmental elements are real: infections during pregnancy, or prolonged exposure to fine particulate pollution, have been shown to raise the odds slightly. However, none of this supports the apocalyptic theories that Kennedy was selling.

And still, he pushes on. He’s promised answers by September, now that he’s been named Secretary of Health and Human Services. He wants to “start from scratch.” He’s suggested investigating ultrasounds during pregnancy, even though a 2023 multisite study of more than 1,500 pregnancies found no link. He’s raised the vaccine question again, even though dozens of studies (including a major one in 2019) have closed that case for good.
The original MMR study, the one that started the fire, was exposed as fraudulent. The lead author falsified data. Lost his license. But the damage stuck. Fear has a longer shelf life than truth.

And now the CDC, under political pressure, has greenlit another study to “re-examine” vaccines and autism. It’s being led by a known vaccine skeptic who was previously disciplined for practicing medicine without a license.

Meanwhile, real science, quiet, complicated, and often underfunded, has been at work for years. Agencies like the National Institute of Environmental Health Sciences have built tools to make sense of vast datasets. They’re not chasing silver bullets. They’re asking the hard questions. The right way.
“There’s no one cause,” Estes says. “And it doesn’t need to be scary.” She wishes there were more ways to communicate that—to talk about the incredible progress made, the mountains moved by parents and scientists working together, the real beauty of understanding something complex, not to fear it, but to help.

But fear sells especially when it’s framed as clarity. The real story is harder. Autism is not a tragedy. It’s not a monster. It doesn’t steal children. It changes how they grow. And that difference, when seen with care instead of fear, can open doors instead of closing them. The story we tell about autism matters. Kennedy is telling the wrong one. And too many people are still listening. ∎