An Outdated — But Enduring — Business Model
I came across a monthly column recently about autism. It is written by Mike Briggs, president and CEO of Little Friends — a well-known service provider in Illinois.
The first column was careful. Almost boring. The kind of piece you’d skim while waiting for coffee. But then I read the next one. And the next. And I kept going.
What I found wasn’t just repetition. It was infrastructure. A system. A narrative built over time — one that sounds like support but functions like control.
When I read Briggs' columns, I see a man who genuinely believes he’s helping. He believes in early diagnosis, therapeutic schools and job training. He believes in supporting families. He believes in data, programs and professional expertise. And because he believes he’s one of the good guys, the system he leads gets protected from critique — even as it harms the people it claims to serve.
He knows the word "neurodiversity." He uses it in a column. He nods at inclusion. But nothing about his work suggests he’s taken the time to understand what neurodiversity actually demands — not just variation, but shared power. Not just accommodations, but a fundamental challenge to the systems that medicalized us in the first place. In his writing, the term appears — the work doesn’t.
Here’s what Little Friends has been doing for years:
- Diagnosing children early to funnel them into “therapeutic” environments shaped by compliance
- Operating schools where communication means speech, progress means normalization and masking is the price of praise
- Supporting research partnerships that exclude autistic people from authorship, design or leadership
- Pushing workforce programs where independence means being useful to companies that never changed for us
- Using the language of empowerment while upholding the same behavioral standards underneath
- Centering parents, professionals and institutions — and leaving autistic leadership out of sight
In his May op-ed, Briggs pushed back against a federal official’s ableist comments — not by affirming the worth of autistic people who don’t work or date or speak, but by insisting that “some of them do.”
That’s not advocacy. That’s public relations.
And while the topics vary, the structure holds:
- The system is never the problem — only its funding or visibility
- Progress is measured in performance
- Programs are praised, not questioned
- Autistic people are referenced, not centered
This isn’t misinformed. It’s engineered.
Little Friends doesn’t just reflect harmful norms. It builds the scaffolding. Expands the registries. Writes the grants. Staffs the schools. And then puts a bow on it with language like “dignity,” “trusted resource” and “lifelong support.”
But support without agency is surveillance. And dignity without power is branding.
The harm here is long-term. Systemic. Rehearsed. And Mike Briggs, with every polished column, ensures it continues — uninterrupted, unexamined and publicly endorsed.
Even the name — Little Friends — tells on itself. It frames autism as childhood. As small. As something to manage, soothe or fix before it grows. It denies what autistic people know in our bones: that this is a lifelong way of being, not a temporary challenge for professionals to solve. No autistic adult, including me, wants to be someone’s "little friend." But that’s the point. The name was never meant for us.
This is not a misunderstanding. This is a business model.
To moms:
This system, this service, you are paying for — it isn’t neutral. It may have offered you relief. A plan. A therapist who smiled. A binder full of goals. But understand what you’re buying.
You are paying for your child to be made legible to a system that will never value them unless they change.
You are paying for data sheets instead of dignity. For speech goals instead of autonomy. For a workforce “pathway” that doesn’t ask whether your child wants to walk it.
You are not failing your child. But you are being sold a version of “help” that rewards proximity to normal, not protection from harm.
If that makes you flinch — stay with it. Because your child will one day feel that flinch in their own body. And they’ll wonder if anyone saw it coming.
We did. That’s why we’re telling you now. Not to shame you — but to show you where the exits are.
You won’t find them in the IEP. But you’ll find us outside the building. Waiting. Still autistic. Still whole. Still not “improved.” And still trying to tell the truth.