I've been thinking about writing something about my experience as an autistic archer for some time, as it's something folks message and ask me questions about. A thing I've discovered in my own experience, and talking to other autistic archers, is that just like in other parts of life it gives us strengths but also gives us additional things to manage and navigate. Often, there might be things we can't quite approach like allistics (non-autistics). Each autistic person is incredibly different–in fact, studies show autistic brains are more diverse from one another compared to allistic brains ("Unmasking Autism," Dr. Devon Price)–so anything I talk about here is just my experience. If you are or know an autistic archer, what you read here might reflect your experience or might contain good advice, or it might not.
The Struggle: Sensory Overload and Tournaments
One of the main features of most autistic brains is how we process information. In fact, much of what you might know as the more stereotypical signs of autism stem from this. Allistics typically see the world from the “top-down,” with their brain starting out using expectations and past experience to fill in details they don’t have to pay attention to, letting them focus on individual things while filtering out others. Many autistic brains do the opposite: we perceive every sensory stimulus around us all at once and continuously, and then build up our experience from what we add together. The classic example is allistics see a forest, then can pick out trees and details if they want; autistics see every tree, every fleck of moss, every animal individually. Each way of seeing the world gives certain strengths and weaknesses depending on the circumstance.
So, imagine a typical tournament. As I step on the line, I’m feeling my socks–they’re a little damp from stepping in snow that morning–the texture of the floor under my shoes; I can feel every article of clothing on my body, the pressure of my glasses on my temples, the way the neckline of my jersey lays against my skin. I can smell the plastic of the folding chairs, the wax on the gym floors. I hear every conversation around me and behind me; I hear the music, the slight delay between the two speakers; the crack and creak of every piece of archery equipment; I hear people eating and chewing behind me, the muttered profanities under an archers' breath as they shoot.
You get the point. Imagine all that at once, and there’s no off switch.
While many autistic folks struggle with strong stimuli, it’s often complex input that overwhelms us most. For me, complex sounds are particularly disruptive. But sometimes a singular loud stimulus, like loud music, can actually be soothing, because it lets focus on just one thing for once. Funny enough, the calmest I’ve ever felt shooting was at the Lancaster Classic, one of the biggest and loudest archery tournaments I’ve been to. The music was so loud, and there were so many people talking in Spooky Nook’s echoing hall, that I was able to settle into the din, and actually felt relaxed.
What You’re Told: Get Used to It
In various conversations, live-streams, etc., with archery coaches, I used to ask: How do people deal with this much noise? Why is it not like golf, where there’s an expectation of quiet? Can’t I wear earplugs? This was before I fully accepted that I was autistic–at that time, I knew I’d been recognized as autistic, but was still in denial (a common thing for diagnosed adults).
From judges, archers, and archery influencers, I heard the same thing: “Get used to it. You'll adjust.” Or, as one judge told me when I asked if they could turn down the music: "Get used to it or quit."
For two years I tried, but with minimal and always wavering success. For a while I thought it meant I was just a bad archer: sure, I could hit high scores when things were quiet, but in a tournament there was just so much going on. Other archers could deal with it, so why couldn’t I?
This is why knowing you’re autistic matters. Often people tell me it’s something I should look past, but the thing they’re implying I should look past is my experience and towards “normalcy” as they know it. But this is normal when you’re autistic. A common analogy in the autistic community is that it’s good to know you’re a healthy zebra, and not a weird horse. Often the real struggle is not that you need to adjust, but that we’re told we can only adapt and adjust in very specific ways, and aren’t always allowed to use the tools we need. (More on that later)
The Fix: Manage What You Can
First off, I make sure my clothes and equipment are the same for every tournament. I wear the same shoes, same socks, the same boxers, the same jersey, the same hat I’ve practiced in, eat the same foods…you get the idea. Rituals like these are soothing, and common among autistic folks, not because we think they possess some magic or ward off some evil, but because they allow us to relax and slip into comfortable, familiar experiences. They limit the number of surprises and thoughts we have to manage, and can hopefully help us “tune out” certain things because they’re more familiar. When I practice, I often even play USA Archery's official Spotify playlist (which I still think was originally used as a CIA torture device) because it gives me one more thing I might not be surprised by. It sounds silly, I know, but you get caught off guard by a weird Kid Bopz version of Eminem's "Lose Yourself" followed up by Offenbach's "Can Can," and then just like literally every Billy Joel song for some reason.
On the line, I do various things to control being overwhelmed by stimulus. Sometimes I listen to loud music when I’m not shooting; I have bluetooth headphones synced to my phone stashed away in my bag, playing one song on repeat the entire tournament, so I can catch a quick breath between ends by slapping my head phones on. On the line, Coach Kyle Bissell taught me to recognize and focus on a single stimulus at key moments, and to identify the first stimulus I notice: “I see the butterfly fluttering past the bale; I feel the wind on my skin; I feel the grass under my feet.” Sometimes, this helps. Sometimes it makes you focus on your opponent drilling an X...so mixed bag there.
There are things we can do to tone down input: sunglasses and hats for light are obvious ones, wearing comfortable clothes, regulating temperature with cooling towels on hot shoots, etc. Noise, however, is tricky: by most interpretations of the current WA rules, we’re not allowed to wear foam ear plugs, an understanding that I think is a mistake, both in interpretation and intent, but that’s something I’ll write on more later. The short version is I believe people are misreading the rule completely, and it’s an interpretation that needlessly burdens autistic and sensory sensitive archers.
One thing I’ve done more frequently is just not fight the feeling of being overwhelmed. I’ve often heard from various archery podcasts and speakers that you’re supposed to maintain a laser focus while we shoot. Frankly, I don’t know if I can: my brain is literally wired not to in these environments. And from what I’ve heard, many elite athletes can’t: countless Olympians are plagued by nervous, intrusive thoughts even as they flawlessly win gold medals. For me, so long as I’m hitting and recognizing the internal cues I need in my shot, it’s fine if my mind is also picking up on something else. I found I yipped worse when I fought the distraction; when I’ve acknowledged I’m distracted, but can still pick up on my internal shot cues, I can relax and know it’s probably fine.
Conclusion
It’s important to acknowledge where autism gives us gifts, and where it presents us with challenges. Acknowledging these challenges doesn’t give us an excuse necessarily: the point of archery is relentlessly pursuing perfection, regardless of circumstance. But plainly understanding ourselves, and our challenges, gives us perspective as to why we might struggle where others don’t, and helps us understand that we might not adapt the way others do. Maybe one day I’ll figure out how to overcome these struggles, but even if I don’t, I know I’ll find a way to shoot strong while fighting a battle most can’t see, let alone even comprehend. Knowing that gives me a sense of pride in what I do that is worth something all its own.
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