- - Autistic Barbie Doesn’t Represent Me. She Shouldn’t Have to

Sarah KurchakJanuary 16, 2026 at 1:27 AM

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Credit - Mattel, Inc.

Earlier this week, Mattel launched the first ever autistic Barbie—or at least the first Barbie to be explicitly identified as such. The newest addition to the Fashionistas collection, a line of Barbies that aims to bring more of the real world’s diversity to children’s play, was designed in conjunction with the Autistic Self Advocacy Network. Everything from her outfit to her accessories to her joints was made with input from real autistic people.

Autistic Barbie doesn’t really represent me as an autistic person.

Let me count the ways. First, there’s the fact that she comes with an AAC (Augmentative and Alternative Communication) device, a tool that helps non- and minimally speaking people communicate. My favorite method of communication is writing on my laptop—I can be a motormouth when you get me going. Next, she wears noise-cancelling earmuffs to help protect against sensory overload, where I find the sensation of them against my ears causes more dysregulation than it prevents. Then there are her eyes, which look slightly off to one side to represent the fact that many autistic people don’t make eye contact because it’s too uncomfortable, and we don’t get the same nonverbal feedback that neurotypical people do, anyway. I, meanwhile, took people too literally when they told me to look them in the eye as an undiagnosed child. As a result, I sometimes make too much eye contact, like I’m staring through people’s souls. The doll’s wrists and elbows are articulated so that she can flap her hands—I’ve always been more of a hair twirler when it comes to stimming. Her dress is loose-fitting to cut down on fabric to skin contact, while I find fitness compression gear more soothing. She’s brown and I’m white.

And honestly? I think that’s great. The autism spectrum encompasses a range of abilities and support needs, as well as every race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, and class on earth. One character or toy is never going to represent all of us. Good representation might still be in its infancy, and none of us has truly been seen or understood enough. I yearn for characters and stories that speak to me personally, too, but I also understand that many of my fellow autistic human beings are still waiting to be seen at all. And I’m aware that most of the characters and toys that do exist tend to look a lot more like me than this Barbie. For me, caring about good autistic representation isn’t just about looking for a mirror in popular culture, it’s about looking for windows into other autistic experiences that can speak to any of us—and possibly expand the general public’s knowledge or acceptance along the way. This doll has the potential to do that.

My take on autistic Barbie is far from universal in autistic communities. A lot of autistic people are truly thrilled about this development, and many don’t care at all. But there are also some autistic people who are deeply concerned about the impact she could have on our real lives. Some autistic people who pride themselves on not fitting any autistic stereotypes, I suspect, don’t like being associated with anyone who is more recognizably autistic or different. I’m not a big fan of the argument wielded by some parents who are angry that the doll doesn’t properly represent the struggles or downsides of autism. Autistic life isn’t easy for any of us, regardless of our support needs, but there is more to all of us than our suffering. And no child should have to be reminded of how hard their lives can be while they’re trying to play.

The most popular argument against autistic Barbie is that branding one specific doll with one specific set of traits and accessibility aids as the autistic one will have too much influence on how people perceive autism. This, the theory goes, could lead to any children who don’t use ear guards or AAC devices going unrecognized or unsupported. This might sound ridiculous to the uninitiated, but pop culture has had a disproportionate impact on our lives. For decades, people who weren’t like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man slipped through the cracks. I was one of them. But it’s not the 1980s anymore, and this toy is unlikely to be anyone’s only example of autism. Girls who don’t look like this Barbie can still relate to another real-life or fictional example, including Julia from Sesame Street. If anything, this Barbie could end up expanding people’s concept of what autism can look like. Outside of Paulo from the animated PBS KIDS series Carl the Collector, we don’t see a lot of AAC users in the media. The majority of autistic representation is also still very white. This specific Barbie isn’t reinforcing a singular presentation of autism that’s already dominant. She’s drawing attention to underserved ones.

Another big anti-autistic Barbie stance is that autism doesn’t have a look at all, therefore any Barbie could be autistic. The concern here seems to be that giving one officially autistic Barbie a visible collection of traits will prevent kids from imagining Barbies—or, by extension, people—who could look or be any other way. I think this comes from a fundamental misunderstanding of autism and children’s creativity. Autism doesn’t have one look and many of our issues can be invisible, at least to those who don’t know what to look for. But some autistic people’s traits and the aids that they use are very visible. They deserve to be part of the world and part of play, too.

Besides, the idea that subsets of people don’t look exactly the same even if there’s one doll that represents some of them is already baked into the Barbie experience, which is inherently built around imagination. Not all doctors look like Doctor Barbie or use the accessories she comes with, but that doesn’t stop children from giving Astronaut Barbie a turn with the scalpel, or computing that both this doll and their uncle can share the same profession. Children have been making their Barbies autistic for as long as autistic kids have been playing with them. I might not have had the words for it as an undiagnosed kid in the 1980s, but that’s exactly what I was doing. (I also used my dolls as makeshift support tools, because I realized that chewing on their feet calmed me down when sounds made my whole body freak out.) I have complete faith that children will continue to do so. I bet some of the other Barbies will start using ear guards and AAC devices, too, just like other Barbies use stethoscopes and roller skates and rhythmic gymnastics equipment in kids’ unbounded imaginary worlds.

The most pertinent criticism I’ve seen of the doll is that a mass-market toy cannot bring about meaningful change for a marginalized population. It is true that a commercial product ultimately intended to generate revenue for a major corporation is no substitute for real-life policies, meaningful accommodations, and other supports that would improve autistic lives in the real world. But, like autistic characters, autistic toys can do their small part to help people see us as part of the world. Children who play with a little pink plastic AAC device are probably going to see their real counterparts and the people who use them as just another part of normal life. They might be less likely to stare at or shun someone flapping if their Barbie does it, too.

Those little steps matter, too. At a time when the U.S. government is trying to paint a very different picture of autistic children who look a lot like autistic Barbie, I’ll take a little autistic-informed corporate exploitation over the alternative. When U.S. Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is telling the world that autism “destroys families,” that it’s an “individual tragedy,” I’m glad that there’s a market for a product that represents no such things. And when he talks about all of the things that these kids can never be and will never do, I’m glad there’s a doll that can be anything those children want to imagine instead.

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