Heramba Nath
(herambanath2222@gmail.com)
Across urban apartments and rural courtyards alike, a subtle but growing nervousness shapes the way parents view their children. A toddler, lost in a moment of fascination, spins the wheels of a toy truck over and over; another, deep in concentration, lines up crayons by colour; yet another avoids eye contact with a stranger, hiding behind their mother’s leg. None of these scenes would have caused alarm a generation ago. Today, for many parents, they are enough to spark a private panic—an almost involuntary thought: Is this a sign of autism?
This shift is the product of several intersecting forces: greater public awareness of neurodevelopmental conditions, broader diagnostic categories, instant access to symptom lists via the internet, and a cultural emphasis on “catching problems early”. While heightened alertness has clear benefits in ensuring that genuine cases of autism are recognised sooner and supported better, it also risks creating a new problem—one where the fear of missing a diagnosis overshadows the very nature of childhood itself.
Autism Spectrum Disorder is not a new phenomenon. What is new is society’s understanding and acceptance of it. For much of the twentieth century, autistic individuals were misunderstood, misdiagnosed, or entirely overlooked. Parents were often told their children were “slow”, “withdrawn”, “difficult”, or, worse, emotionally neglected, with theories blaming family dynamics rather than recognising neurological differences. The gradual evolution of diagnostic frameworks—from early psychological theories to the sophisticated behavioural criteria of today—has been a hard-won journey of scientific progress and social advocacy. Campaigns by autistic self-advocates, educators, and families have pushed for recognition not only of the challenges but also of the strengths that come with different neurological profiles.
In the early 2000s, many countries witnessed a sharp rise in autism diagnoses. Some of this was due to genuine improvements in detection—children who might once have slipped through the cracks were now identified and supported. But another part of the rise reflected changes in diagnostic manuals such as the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) and ICD (International Classification of Diseases). The definition of autism broadened, moving from narrow, severe cases to a spectrum encompassing a range of communication styles, social patterns, and sensory sensitivities. This inclusivity was a victory for those previously denied help, but it also meant that behaviours once considered within the normal range could now fall under a clinical label.
The challenge is that early childhood is, by nature, a time of eccentricity and uneven development. Speech may come in bursts, motor coordination may lag behind cognitive skills, and social interest may fluctuate from one day to the next. A child may prefer solitary play for weeks, only to suddenly become highly social; they may cling to one topic or object intensely before moving on to something new. All of these patterns are part of the messy, meandering path of human growth. But in an age where parents are hyper-aware of developmental milestones and quick to compare, tolerance for such variability is diminishing.
Social media has amplified this dynamic. Parents now have instant access to countless personal stories, many of them framed as cautionary tales. A mother shares a video of her son’s “first signs” of autism—lining up toys, avoiding eye contact, delayed speech—and urges others to get their children assessed. These stories, while valuable in certain contexts, can create a form of selective perception: parents begin watching their own children for those exact behaviours, interpreting them as warnings rather than neutral or even positive traits. The algorithms that power these platforms then feed more of the same content, deepening the impression that every second child is showing early signs of autism.
Healthcare systems, too, can unintentionally contribute to overdiagnosis. General practitioners, facing anxious parents, may refer children for assessment earlier than necessary, fearing legal or reputational consequences if they are seen to have “missed” a case. Educational institutions, under pressure to manage diverse classrooms, sometimes find that a formal diagnosis can unlock additional resources or special accommodations, creating an incentive to label borderline cases. The result can be a medicalisation of behaviours that might have resolved naturally with time and understanding.
This is not to downplay the importance of early detection for those who are genuinely autistic. Timely support—whether in speech therapy, occupational therapy, or adapted educational strategies—can make a profound difference. But there is a crucial distinction between vigilance and hypervigilance. Vigilance involves careful, sustained observation over time, considering context, family history, and the whole child. Hypervigilance leaps to conclusions on the basis of isolated behaviours, often in response to a cultural atmosphere of fear.
Real-life examples illustrate this tension. In one case, a three-year-old boy in an urban preschool was referred for an autism assessment because he rarely joined group activities and often repeated lines from his favourite cartoons. His parents, alarmed, began intensive therapy sessions. A year later, without any formal diagnosis, the boy began engaging socially and speaking in complex sentences. In hindsight, his initial behaviour reflected a shy temperament and a love of mimicry, not a developmental disorder. In another case, a rural family delayed seeking help for their daughter’s communication difficulties, assuming she was simply “quiet like her grandmother.” By the time they consulted a specialist, the girl was diagnosed with autism and had missed two years of early intervention that might have eased her frustration and improved her school readiness. Both families acted from love, but the outcomes show the delicate balance between acting too soon and acting too late.
The risk of premature labelling is not merely academic. Once a child is given a diagnosis—especially one as widely discussed as autism—it can shape the perceptions of everyone around them. Teachers may unconsciously lower expectations or interpret all behaviours through the diagnostic lens. Parents may become overly protective, limiting opportunities for independence. The child themselves may internalise the label, shaping their self-image in ways that are hard to undo. In some cases, children who later “lose” the diagnosis still carry the weight of that early identity, wondering if they are somehow “different” or “less capable” even when evidence shows otherwise.
There is also the economic aspect. Therapies and specialist consultations can be expensive, draining family resources. In households with limited means, money spent on unnecessary interventions can divert funds from other important areas of the child’s development, such as extracurricular activities, books, travel, or simply unstructured playtime—all of which can contribute as much to healthy growth as formal therapy. On a systemic level, overdiagnosis can strain public health services, leading to longer waiting lists and reduced availability of support for children with genuine, significant needs.
The cultural context of parenting in India further complicates the picture. In a society where academic achievement is often the primary measure of success, any perceived delay or deviation in learning can cause deep anxiety. Families may seek a medical explanation for what is, in essence, a mismatch between a child’s natural learning style and the rigid expectations of the education system. A child who thrives in exploratory, hands-on learning may struggle in a rote-based classroom, leading teachers to suggest assessment for attention or developmental issues. Without broader reform in educational philosophy, parents are left in the position of interpreting every difficulty as a potential disorder.
Alongside this, family structures themselves are changing. Every parent tries to help their children grow up naturally and socially, but in today’s climate, many families have become more self-centric. This global pattern of individualism can be particularly harmful for children, as it reduces the network of shared responsibility and support once provided by extended families and community bonds. When parents are also constantly occupied with machines—whether smartphones, televisions, or work devices—the result is a silent distancing from children’s real needs. Such detachment may not only heighten anxiety but also deprive children of the patient companionship that allows quirks to be seen for what they are: part of growing up, not signs of dysfunction. Families must learn to be loving towards one another, setting aside jealousy, arrogance, or narrow pride, for such emotions only build walls where children need bridges of affection. A household where warmth and humility prevail becomes the safest ground for a child’s natural growth, far more powerful than any early label or clinical assessment.
The irony is that in trying to protect children from the challenges of being misunderstood, we may be creating new challenges—turning their earliest years into a series of evaluations and therapeutic appointments, rather than giving them space to grow and adapt at their own pace. Childhood, after all, is not a diagnostic waiting room. It is a time for experimentation, for making mistakes, for finding one’s rhythm. This requires trust—trust that not every quirk is a symptom, trust that human development is a spectrum in itself, and trust that sometimes the best course of action is to watch and wait.
This trust does not mean complacency. Parents should remain informed, should consult professionals when genuine concerns arise, and should welcome support when it is needed. But they should also resist the pressure to seek certainty before it is available. Growth takes time, and in the space of that time, many apparent problems resolve themselves. A late talker may catch up suddenly; a solitary child may bloom socially; a fixation may transform into a lifelong passion. If we rush to pathologise, we may close doors that patience would have left open.
The way forward lies in balance and education. Public awareness campaigns should emphasise not only the signs of autism but also the range of typical developmental behaviours. Teachers should be trained to recognise both diversity and disorder and to support children without rushing to categorise them. Healthcare providers should communicate clearly about the limitations of early diagnosis and the value of re-evaluation over time. And parents should be encouraged to see themselves not as constant evaluators, but as steady, responsive companions in their children’s unfolding lives.
In the end, the measure of good parenting is not how quickly one identifies a potential problem, but how well one supports a child through whatever challenges and strengths they reveal. Some children will indeed be autistic, and for them, a timely diagnosis can be the key to understanding and support. Others will simply be taking their own route to the same developmental milestones. In both cases, the greatest gift we can give is the freedom to be themselves without the shadow of unnecessary suspicion.
Every child’s life is a story, and those early chapters are precious. They should not be written in the language of constant fear but in the language of curiosity, acceptance, and love. And in that story, let homes be places of kindness—free from jealousy, arrogance, or needless competition—so that children may grow surrounded not by suspicion, but by affection.