We don't pick our special interests. They pick us.

The dog rescue worker brought out the puppy that ended up being my dog son, followed by his brother and rotated the two of them multiple times before I announced that I was stuck in indecision because I loved them both so much. When she reflected to me that it was clear to her based on my mannerisms and emotional expression that I liked one more than the other, I was truly astounded. How did this person know how I was feeling better than I did? Did it make sense to outsource to an objective stranger since I didn't have a connection to my own gut feeling? The dog I apparently subconsciously chose was the higher-energy one at a time when my energy was low, the more playful one when my ability to find motivation to start anything was waning. He was the floofier one when I'd been struggling with understimulation and unmet sensory needs. As much as I prefer to appeal to logic and understand my reasoning for everything I do, sometimes the information is underground and can't be unburied by sheer will.

That's what happened with my special interest, too. Autistic special interests are often described from the outside looking in as random, excessive, or impractical, even while we feel a unique, intense pull to engage in them. Why would we gravitate toward something that harms us? Does that mean an impractical special interest is a form of self-harm? No, hang on, we have to look at all sides. We don't feel authentic desire for things that only harm us. Even self-harm has a function, meets a need.

Many of us notice that the interests we're drawn to don't merely provide joy or fascination but also meet very specific regulatory, cognitive, emotional, and social needs. Often, they do this before we can articulate those needs consciously.

Looking back, it's striking to me how my handful of true special interests throughout life (i.e. longer-lasting than my many, many hyperfixations) have arrived at exactly the moment I needed what they offered. I'm writing this blog to invite exploration into what makes certain hobbies, topics, or activities particularly "sticky" or nourishing for the autistic neurotype and how our internal, often subconscious wisdom pulls us toward interests that challenge us just enough to support growth without demanding masking or leading us into burnout.

Let's work with my current special interest that emerged as a curiosity a little under a year ago and rapidly ramped up to be one of my primary sources of joy: Disney pin collecting. I know, it's niche, but I think it will illustrate principles that show up across many autistic interests.

Special interests as self-scaffolding systems

First, let's get clear on what special interests are and aren't. Having been lovingly mocked for the intensity that I clung to my interests from a young age so much that I internalized the narrative that "obsessing" over things was part of my identity and created the AIM (millennial shoutout!) username ilyk2obsess. Special interests, and even shorter-term fixations, are not "obsessions." I'm not one to police language that feels right to an individual, but it's almost important to me not to co-opt language that's associated with others' pain, and in OCD, obsessions refer to unwanted, distressing, anxiety-provoking thoughts and emotions that evoke uncontrollable self-doubt. None of that describes an autistic special interest, regardless of how others' perceive us when we engage with it.

Instead, I like to conceptualize special interests as self-scaffolding systems. That means it is something that meets us where we are and gently invites us to stretch. A good special interest:

• Offers structure without rigidity

• Provides novelty without chaos

• Creates optional challenge rather than forced exposure

• Allows participation across a wide range of energy levels

• Rewards engagement without punishing withdrawal

Social interaction without social performance

"Disney pin collecting" is actually an umbrella term for the many activities it can, but doesn't have to, involve. Yes, there's the acquisition of the actual pins being collected, but there's also trading, negotiating, showing up to events to browse or to talk to other people who enjoy what I enjoy, depending on the vibe (both mine and others'). The cool thing about it is that I can collect without trading if I want. It's flexible; I'm not blocked out from the hobby if I don't have the spoons to make the small talk that is part of trading culture. I can get new pins in other ways, like through online messaging or buying, trading on boards that don't require talking to anyone, or I can pause growth of my collection temporarily and just enjoy the non-social aspects: organizing and cataloguing my collection, re-watching Disney movies to foster love of the characters I'm collecting, and browsing databases of pins to add to my "in search of" list.

The kind of social interaction that face-to-face pin trading requires is unique in that there is a shared script. The pin itself is the conversation. The goal is concrete and mutual. Interactions are time-limited and purpose-driven. That means I can engage socially without needing to generate small talk out of thin air, perform warmth, guess at unspoken expectations, or sustain the interaction beyond my capacity. That's not to say it's cold and unfriendly but rather that there's room for it to be what I need. I've made some friends going back and forth with trades because we like the same character and got into an enjoyable conversation about how we both came to collect dog-themed pins, specifically, which led to a sense of ease in future interactions, but that's neither my hope nor expectation with every trade. That really takes the pressure off!

The social energy I expend results in something tangible: a pin I wanted. It's a natural reward, rather than an imposed one. It's like trying to get yourself motivated to work at a coffeeshop because there's coffee there, and you're in need of caffeine. The two just go together, in contrast to "Do this because it's good for you" or "You can have coffee once you've completed this much work." I got the pin because I did the (often) hard thing, but I didn't have to dangle the reward over my head like a carrot. Often fellow ADHDers tell me rewards don't work for them because there's nothing stopping them from giving themselves the reward now before completing the task. The guardrails are built in here.

Chosen uncertainty

Mystery pin boxes introduce uncertainty, something I and many autistic people have a limited tolerance for. But this uncertainty has predictable boundaries attached. I know the set. I know the odds. I know the price. I know the maximum possible disappointment. That transforms uncertainty from something imposed on me into something I consent to. Opening mystery pin boxes becomes a practice in risk assessment, emotional forecasting, and deciding how much disappointment I'm willing to tolerate today in exchange for the possibility of delight. Sometimes I get it wrong, and I'm positioned to cope with an overflow of emotion, so it's also a practice in strategizing to meet my support needs. For example, I try to open mystery boxes only when I'm with someone who can co-regulate with me or in a place filled with positive distractions (putting my "squirrel!" energy to good use).

They key is that the joy is real, not hypothetical. Sometimes there really is something wonderful inside. The uncertainty is worth engaging with because the payoff matters to me. This is very different from being forced to tolerate ambiguity with no meaningful reward or because it would be more convenient for other people that I do.

Decision-making that rewards thoughtfulness

Pin collecting involves constant decision-making. Do I buy it now or wait? Trade it or keep it? Complete a set or curate selectively? Pay more for certainty or risk a mystery option? These decisions engage executive function in a way that feels motivating rather than draining. This kind of layered decision-making may provide dopamine through evaluation and strategy, not just impulse-buying or novelty-seeking. Those sources aren't bad, but they're usually a lot more readily available (think scrolling, shopping, etc.) and it's always good to have diversity in how we get this need met to prevent feeling stuck or dependent and thus out of control. Additionally, it offers predictability, pattern recognition, and a sense of agency. It's a hobby that thrives on careful thinking rather than speed, and given that so many of us value efficiency above all else, it's a welcome treat to have that rewarded.

Budgeting as agency, not deprivation

Spending limits within a special interest can be emotionally charged. If you're someone recovering from an eating disorder, that goes double, since any form of restriction can feel antithetical to the goal of giving yourself permission to take up space and prioritize happiness. Budgeting in the context of a special interest, though, can be meaningful rather than moralized, though. In pin collecting, a budget isn't about restriction for its own sake but about protecting future joy. Each spending decision communicates something about what kind of collector I want to be. This supports financial self-trust by showing me I can enjoy this thing without being controlled by it, and I can stop without losing access to the interest itself. It gently challenges both my tendency toward rigidity ("I have to complete everything") and impulsivity ("Buy now, regulate later") without being a source of shame.

Curation over completion

I decided from the start that I wasn't going to be what pin collectors call "a set completer," or someone who buys and trades with the intention to collect all the pins within a certain set. Call it demand anxiety perhaps, but I was not going to let Disney tell me what to collect. Opting instead to only collect pins that fit within the categories that spoke to me has made the experience of collecting more about the thrill of the hunt and given me the opportunity to practice appreciating something without needing to have it, like window shopping. Not collecting sets challenges black-and-white thinking, scarcity anxiety, and the idea that value comes from totality rather than from resonance. Curation asks different questions than completion: Do I actually like this pin? What about it do I like? Does it belong in my collection? Am I collecting out of joy or obligation? Practicing this builds flexibility without requiring me to abandon structure entirely.

Engagement without acquisition

Another skill built through this special interest is the ability to browse without buying. Researching pins, tracking prices, and watching auctions end, or wish-listing pins allows me to be engaged deeply without immediate ownership. I can tell you the values of the majority of pins featuring my favorite character, Dug from Up, because of how much time I've spent scrolling through listings, but if I never own the $800 piece of metal on which Dug is pictured wearing a Halloween costume, I'll be just fine. My nervous system has adjusted nicely to tolerating anticipation without urgency and interest without compulsion. For ADHDers in particular, this is a valuable regulation skill that is hard-earned, made possible by an interest that is stimulating enough to sustain my attention without an action having to always follow.

Sharing without performing expertise

Pin collecting also creates opportunities to share enthusiasm without turning into into labor. Talking about pins casually, sharing news of new releases with fellow collectors, trading for pins I know my friends will like and knowing they're doing the same for me, and trading knowledge about pins when invited without needing to be the most informed, the most serious, or the most impressive is a great relief in such a competitive world. In fact, because I collect some characters that are less commonly collected, I have some fun facts about my little corner of the pin world to share with people who have been doing this far longer than I have because they are focused on their corner. Even though we're all technically "competing" with each other to get the pins we want, there are so many pins in existence that it's not cutthroat, and most fellow collectors enjoy learning from each other. In this world, visibility is optional. Expertise is optional. Belonging does not depend on output.

Energy-responsive participation

Perhaps most importantly, pin collecting supports participation across energy states. There are high-energy options, like trading in the theme parks, hunting down rare pins, and negotiating exchanges. And there are low-energy options like organizing, browsing, admiring, and researching. The interest doesn't disappear when my capacity drops because there's room for it to shape-shift. This is a great model for a sustainable relationship with monotropism, one where intensity doesn't have to end in burnout.

Your interest is a reflection of your internal knowledge about your needs

It's clear that my pin collecting interest didn't just happen despite my needs; it actually aligns with them beautifully. It offers structured social interaction, consent-based uncertainty, meaningful decision-making, joy without justification, and stretching outside my comfort zone without masking. If I didn't need these things, it's not likely I would've developed the interest that I did at the intensity that I did.

Many autistic people can recognize this in their own interests once they look closely. What if our brains are not pulling us toward random fascinations but toward activities that meet us where we are and help us practice skills we're ready to build? This may be a major shift in how you think about behavior change. It's not through force; it's not through desensitization; it's through joy.

In many ways, this mirrors what we already know from play therapy with children: growth, emotional processing, and skill-building happen most effectively when they're woven into play rather than demanded through insight or force. Why do we assume that stops being true once we grow up, or that our inner children somehow disappear?

An invitation

If you have a special interest, or are noticing on forming, consider asking yourself a few reflective questions so that you're getting the maximum benefit:

• What does this give me that other things don't?

• How does it let me engage on my own terms?

• Where does it gently stretch me?

• Do I feel confident that I can self-assess whether I have capacity to lean into the stretch in the moment?

  
  

You may find that your interest already knows something about your needs that you're still learning how to name. That's your internal wisdom at work.