Featured Essay: How "Brat" Helped Me FInd Autistic Joy

by Jessica Gentile

On “Girl So Confusing” Charli XCX expresses uncertainty over her status within the pop princess hierarchy. The speculation of her social standing among A-list celebrities may seem like an unrelatable scenario, yet as an autistic woman struggling to decipher the finer points of office politics, I immediately latched on to it. Few songs matched my inability to navigate my own ranking in the workplace, all the unspoken tension and competition between my coworkers and I that festered between us during awkward after-work drinks. “If only middle managers could work it out on the remix,” I joked with a fellow neurodivergent friend. She nodded in agreement and cited “I Might Say Something Stupid,” as her personal refrain, one she claimed as her own, long before “Brat” came along. But instead of wallowing in our anxieties as we might have in years past, we shrugged them off with a laugh and a smile. As I had come to learn, that’s brat.

My dorky, day-job working friends and I might be a far cry from the hard-partying it girl, Charli envisions as the ultimate Brat archetype, and yet those of us who identify as autistic, ADHD, or otherwise neurodivergent, share an unlikely kinship with the “Brat” experience. As a recently diagnosed autistic adult, who’s been labeled loud, messy, selfish and honest to a fault, I had been unwittingly living a brat summer for my entire life. I lead a parade of spilled drinks, rude questions and pop culture hyper-fixations into every unreadable room I enter. For the longest time, I viewed this as a deficit. It was Brat that taught me it was an asset.

Brat’s ethos is resonating with neurodivergent audiences well beyond my own anecdotal experiences. From TikToks extolling “Brat Summer” as an extension of ADHD August to articles by mental health professionals in Psychology Today, Brat has been praised as an aspirational model of honesty and self-compassion, one rarely flaunted so unapologetically. To a demographic that faces frequent systemic discrimination and struggles to gain social acceptance, let alone necessary accommodations, Brat is an assertion of power, honesty and joy.

Charli describes Brat as “a girl who is a little messy and likes to party and maybe says some dumb things sometimes. Who feels herself but maybe also has a breakdown. But kind of like, parties through it, is very honest, very blunt. A little bit volatile.”There’s something very familiar in this description, one that acts as a funhouse mirror when opposed to the spectrum of negatively framed diagnostic criteria for so many neurodivergent conditions -that is deficits in social interactions, communication and executive functioning.

Brat intensely reckons with these subjects in an immensely relatable way. On “Sympathy is a Knife,” Charli’s brief run-in with a perfectly poised pop star triggers pangs of inadequacy. “I couldn’t even be her if I tried /I’m opposite, I’m on the other side/ I feel all these feelings I can’t control. “ The challenge of blending in with A-list celebrities parallels my experience masking around neurotypical folks. Attempts to feign a smile, make eye contact or exchange pleasantries is physically painful and at times downright impossible. While the context is wildly different the crux of standing out as an volatile, unwieldy mess remains the same.

“Talk Talk” presents another yet autistically-aligned scenario. Charli corners a crush at a party, blind to whether or not they reciprocate her feelings. She sings, “Are you thinking ‘bout me? /I’m kind of thinking you are/ I followed you to the bathroom /But then I felt crazy” So many times I’ve been unable to gauge romantic intention (or any non-explicitly stated intention) simply because of how my brain is wired. Are you thinking about me or am i just mistaking politeness for flirtation, as us so often the case. In eager search of clarity, the urge to approach and initiate conversations in the most inappropriate of places is both terrifying and all-consuming.

However, Charli’s utter defiance, and total embrace of her flaws the album is an exercise in self-acceptance and ultimately joy. The hyperactive beats make up the backbone of such jubilation. I find the constant sonic movement aurally akin to the repetitive, self-soothing motions of stimming. From the rush of “Von Dutch” to the electro-pop onslaught of “Apple,” Brat harnesses the sensory-seeking thrill of the drop. In other words, Brat provides an outlet to expend the endless energy of an overwhelmed brain that’s drinking in the world as rapidly as a martini.

Amidst this backdrop of hyperpop cacophony, Charli doesn’t care if you mistake her existence for entitlement, no matter how blunt, or loud she may seem. You’re granted permission to be, in Charli’s words, “an absolute nightmare” and be proud of it. The boastful “360” revels in dance music conquest and all the hedonism it entails. It’s a brash and unapologetic nod to her cultural and musical ubiquity, without concern for those who may not care for her presence. While other tracks allude to the negative impact that looming public opinion and critical appraisal have on her self-esteem, “360” is an opener that smashes the haters. A pure rejection of those that reject you.

As someone who frequently experiences negative comments for my inability to modulate the tone or volume of my voice, inadvertently speaking out of turn or fidgeting, and prattling on too long about my special interests, I’ve internalized a lot of criticism (and ableism). Through a kaleidoscopic lens of hyperpop, “360” challenges and refracts these flaws into a day-glo thrill ride, one worth taking again and again. Only after multiple repeat listens, could I come to the realization that my relentless curiosity, endless question-asking and niche obsessions that I’m so often mocked for are also responsible for most of my professional success as a writer and librarian. The Brat model is helping me unlearn rejection and embrace the totality of me. Learning to like what I see, both the 666 and the princess streak.

I’ll never forget the first time I heard “Brat,” I scrambled to make my toddler breakfast. Mentally, I was ruminating on day-old texts and dense work emails, whose subtext painfully eluded me. Physically, I spilled yogurt in a daze of distraction. At the time I was just looking for frothy pop music to escape my tangled mind, one where mental overwhelm and sensory overload are the default state. Instead I found music that embraced it.

As my kid cried for more pancakes, I cried for a moment of peace. I almost shut the album off. And yet as frustrated as I was, I was also enthralled. I smashed a banana, while my daughter flung a sippy cup on the floor. Brash beats and even brasher lyrics burst out of my tiny iPhone speaker in tandem with our meltdowns. My body registered “Brat’s” liberated joy before my brain did. At the drop of a beat we started bouncing in our seats, arms waving in the air, a giddy flail of limbs breaking free from the rut of our morning routine, ready for the joy about to come.

Jessica is a writer and librarian based in New Jersey. Her work has appeared in The Atlantic, Slate, Pitchfork among other publications. You can find her on bluesky

I Have That on Vinyl is a reader supported publication. If you enjoy what’s going on here please consider donating to the site’s writer fund: venmo // paypal