Julien, 25yo, carefully peels open a Panini football sticker packet, a ritual from childhood that instantly transports him back. He’s saving these small squares of football history, not just for the collection, but for the feeling – maybe a link to his younger self. Sitting with him in the living room of his mother’s apartment, I feel this blend of nostalgia and forward motion.

He speaks openly about his life, the past hurts, the things that excite him now, and the future he’s trying to build, piece by piece, like filling the pages of his album. “Just doing this,” he says, a genuine smile lighting up his face, “I see myself as a little kid… My grandad got me into football.” It’s a simple act, but it connects him deeply to who he was and who he is becoming.

Diagnosed with autism about ten years ago, following an earlier diagnosis of dyspraxia, Julien admits he spent nearly three years in denial. “I had the clichés in my head too,” he confesses. “I thought, ‘No, I’m not like those people’.” It took hitting a low point, a depression, and finding his way to specialized support like the school Les Quatre Vents, for him to begin accepting and understanding his autistic identity. “You realize,” he reflects, “an autistic person isn’t just someone who rocks in a chair or has no friends. It’s not that.”

Julien knows from his own experience what it means to be treated differently because people tend to see not the person but their own prejudices and stereotypes about disability.

“I hope that neurotypical people stop underestimating us, the “different” people. Of course, we are different, we think and function differently from others, but that doesn’t mean we’re stupid, weak, or incapable. We are capable of great things, and there are many things we do better than neurotypical people.

Just because a person rocks in their chair doesn’t necessarily mean they’re autistic. And even then, an autistic person doesn’t necessarily rock in their chair. A person with ASD is a person like everyone else, with a heart, a brain, feelings, and emotions. They function and have a different way of thinking than others, but before being autistic, we are human beings first and foremost.

A lot of neurotypical people are convinced that an autistic person is someone who is always alone, who has no friends, who doesn’t talk and who is always in their corner because they are not informed, and I find that really sad.”

School looms large in his memory as a place of profound difficulty. “The worst years of my life,” he states plainly. It wasn’t just the students; the isolation and harassment extended to teachers. “If you weren’t like them, if you weren’t a sheep following the herd… they’d crush you, walk all over you, ruin your life.”

He recounts being openly insulted by teachers in class, the silence of others feeling like complicity. This experience made him acutely aware of differences from the social norm, and the social resistance or unwillingness to accommodate differences. “It’s like people are afraid of the disability,” he remarks, “like seeing an alien… but really, we’re just like them, just with a different way of processing, thinking, functioning.”

This sensitivity to the nuances of interaction remains. He talks about the difficulty with second degré – humour or subtlety – especially when it tips into unkindness. He gives an example of an educator casually remarking, “That’s such an autistic thing to do,” after Julien scanned his own ticket at a self-checkout even though the gate was already open. “Even if it’s meant as a joke,” Julien explains, “it points a finger at your difference. It’s not nice.”

I ask him about his dreams and expectations regarding work. He sees himself working with people, particularly as a social facilitator or assistant educator. He’s had some brief work experiences in schools and inclusive playgrounds, finding genuine joy in “supervising groups, sharing moments, doing activities with kids, with adults… it makes you feel alive.” The administrative side holds less appeal; the direct interaction is what energizes him.

For Julien, drawing and writing are important outlets. He writes songs and comedy scripts, allowing him to externalize all the emotions with “no barriers, no limits, no filter.” He dreams of writing and performing a one-man show, a stand-up routine, though he feels he’s not quite there yet. His drawings often merge with text, exploring subjects from the simple joy of sunshine to complex themes like sincere friendship or the nature of disability.

During one of my weekend visits at his mother’s apartment, I see him placing his tablet on the living room table and searching for something online. It’s a rap soundtrack. He then searches through the lyrics he writes directly on his mobile. The soundtrack starts and he waits for the cue to start singing, standing and gently rocking left to right. And off he goes:

“Don’t judge when you don’t know.
For things to change, you have to fight, and I will fight to the end.
Opening up to people with disabilities is a battle that must be fought day and night.
Know that our lives are difficult because of you.
There’s nothing we can do about being like this forever.
Down with all these prejudices.
Down with all these clichés.”

Oh, and then there’s cosplay. He embodies different characters, attends cosplay conventions, and is active in the online cosplay community. He shows me photos on his phone – him serious and focused as Demon Slayer character, katana poised. Choosing characters is about personality, “flow,” whether he can see himself stepping into their skin. “It’s fun to put yourself in the shoes of a character,” he explains, whether a hero, a coward, or even a villain. It’s another way to explore human nature, a subject that fascinates and sometimes appalls him. “The human being,” he says thoughtfully, “sometimes their behavior is fascinating, interesting, instructive. But other times… you see cruelty, betrayal, maltreatment… It’s what I love the most and sometimes what I hate the most.”

My meetings with Julien cover an important transition: moving out of a supervised co-location into his own studio apartment in Schaerbeek. In earlier visits, he shows me photos and videos of the space, still under renovation but full of potential. He’s excited about this increased autonomy, even as he acknowledges needing ongoing, albeit less frequent, support. Later on, I visit him in his new apartment and he tells me about the seemingly never-ending problems linked to the delivery of furniture or the set up of a phone line and internet connection. He speaks about clueless phone operators, rude delivery guys who want to finish and leave as soon as possible, and the administrative nightmare of trying to set up the basic for a new home.

A key part of preparing for this independence has been managing his own finances. For a long time, he explains, paying with a card felt too abstract; the money disappeared digitally without him fully registering the diminishing balance. Recognizing this challenge, he worked with support staff to implement a cash envelope system. “Now I see the cash,” he explains, gesturing as if holding an envelope, “I see it getting emptier. It’s visual, physical.” He allocates specific amounts for groceries, hobbies, the barber, and other expenses. “If the envelope is empty, it’s empty. There’s no overdraft like with a card.”

Mastering this practical skill isn’t just about paying bills; it’s about building confidence and autonomy. Knowing he can manage his finances allows him to plan better, for instance to save for a cosplay costume – a passion that often leads to social events and collaboration.

I ask Julien about his social and support network. For him, this includes autistic friends, mostly met through an association that helps adults with autism with their social and professional integration. His mom is always there, her constant care and support sustaining him through the good and the bad. Certain family members, like an aunt and cousin, offer understanding, having taken the time to learn about autism after his diagnosis. But others remain distant, unable or unwilling to bridge the gap. Crucially, there’s his psychologist, someone he’s met on and off since 2015, who truly listens without minimizing his feelings – a stark contrast to past experiences. And a professional coach helps him navigate the job market, connecting him with employers open to diversity.

In my later meetings with Julien, I also meet his girlfriend. Like him, she is fully immersed in the cosplay universe. They attend cosplay conventions together and use their savings to buy costumes and accessories. We go to a nearby park during a cold afternoon of early spring, the two of them wearing costumes and wigs. They are playing two characters from the “Dan da dan” anime: Julien is Ken Takakura and his girlfriend is Momo Ayase.

We look for different photo locations and they try different poses, thinking out loud what their characters would do and look like. I notice their gestures of affection towards one another, tiny shy gestures at first, then more and more visible and self-assured. Julien has also taken his camera to practice. He gently directs his girlfriend and reviews the photos with her on the camera screen, building up confidence as he tries new compositions.

After each of our meetings, I send him a few photos. He replies by telling me what he is looking forward to the next one and this always cheers me up. When you photograph somebody, you take on a certain authority, the authority of the the one who can decide how the photos will be taken and what the subject needs to do. How you use that authority says a lot about you – and not only as a photographer.

Although he generally seems to feel at ease with me, I sometimes see his shyness and hesitations when I raise the camera to my eye. But what he probably doesn’t know is that I have my own doubts and hesitations. Am I good enough to tell this story like it deserves to be told? Does he trust me? What are the moments, angles, situations that I am missing? Should I be only a witness of what is happening or try to slightly direct or nudge from time to time? I cannot be a fly on the wall; the very fact that I am there changes the way my subject behaves.

Julien’s writing, his deep dive into cosplay characters, his fascination with why people act the way they do – these aren’t just ways to pass the time. They are his way of exploring the world and finding his footing within it. They are his way of finding meaning, of building his own world of meaning, beyond what he was taught or coerced into.

There’s a gentleness that shines through so many of his words and small gestures. There’s also a determination to make his voice heard. To reaffirm himself as a part of this world, gently but insistently. To reaffirm his right to be treated as a full member of humanity, despite the fact that part of humanity insists on treating him differently.

I watch him pour his focus into bringing a character to life or finding the right words for a feeling and I see the simple, vital need to make sense of things, to express oneself, to find spaces where that expression is seen and understood, to be accepted, to be loved.

“What makes me happy is living my life while being recognized for who I am deep down, for the human being that I am, autistic or not. Another thing that makes me terribly happy is sharing and practicing my passions with the people I love, whether in a professional setting or not. I find that in life, the environment is extremely important because in the event of low morale or low self-confidence, having good people around you who believe in us is extremely motivating in order to gain strength.”