An autistic Barbie: a nice gesture, but also an awkward question

Mattel launched the first Barbie with autism this week. She features noise-canceling headphones, a fidget spinner, a tablet (AAC-like), movable elbows and wrists (for hand movements/stimming), and eyes that look slightly to the side (referring to less direct eye contact). The doll was developed in collaboration with the Autistic Self Advocacy Network.

Let me start with what I do appreciate: this is clearly meant to be representative. And representation can really make a difference, both for children who recognize themselves and for those around them who learn that “aids” (headphones, fidget spinners, AAC) aren’t a rarity but sometimes simply a daily reality.

At the same time, I noticed my enthusiasm quickly shifting to something else: a kind of professional hesitation. Not because I’m against this doll. But because this is precisely the kind of well-intentioned step that can also reinforce stereotypes, precisely because it’s being distilled into a single icon.

Autism is a spectrum. We often say that, but we don’t often take the implications seriously. A spectrum means: no uniform set of characteristics, no standard “look,” no fixed toolkit of resources. One person uses headphones daily, another never. One person avoids eye contact, another looks at you long and intently. One person uses stimming with hands, another with feet, language, rhythms, or even internally and invisibly.

If you make one Barbie “autistic,” there’s a good chance that doll will (unintentionally) serve as a template: this is what autism looks like. And because Barbie is such a powerful cultural symbol, such a template can be more persistent than one might think.

Accessories don’t always help. Headphones and a fidget spinner are recognizable to many people, but they can also reinforce the idea that autism is primarily about stimuli and “typical behavior.” While autism is also about communication, information processing, social scripts, energy management, special interests, hypersensitivity or hyposensitivity, and a world that’s often not designed for neurodiversity. A doll can hardly convey that.

Is Barbie a suitable vehicle for explaining autism? Perhaps that’s the core question. Barbie is a toy. Toys simplify. That’s not a moral judgment, that’s its function: a child can build an entire world with a doll in five minutes. But explaining autism is different from representing it.

The risk arises when we translate a complex reality into a recognizable “set of signals” so that it becomes marketable and understandable. Then something creeps in that I would call “stereotype by design”: not because anyone means harm, but because the design without simplification is no longer a product.

And then inclusion suddenly becomes something you can buy. For €11.87 (just to name a few), you get not only a doll, but also (implicitly) a lesson in autism. But who decides which lesson? Mattel’s collaboration with ASAN is a major plus. Co-creation with the community itself truly sets the bar. But even with co-creation, the question remains: which stories become visible, and which disappear due to the existence of a single “iconic” version?

What would be a less stereotype-prone approach? Because I don’t just want to criticize, I also want to contribute. I thought of an alternative that Mattel (or really, any manufacturer who wants to design “inclusively”) could consider:

Don’t make just one autistic Barbie, but make room for stories.

1. Give each Barbie a mini-life story (a card, booklet, QR code to a short animation): not a diagnosis as a label, but context as a person. “This is Noor. Noor loves trains and sometimes wears headphones in crowded spaces. Noor also loves theater and is very good at puns.” That way, it doesn’t become one-dimensional.

2. Work with multiple “neurodiversity stories” instead of a single doll that embodies “the” diagnosis. Not the autistic Barbie, but Barbies with different sensory profiles, communication styles, and routines. (And yes, some without visible aids, because invisibility is also a reality.)

3. Avoid symptom-centric designs. Don’t let accessories become your identity. Headphones can be a tool, but they shouldn’t be the epitome of identity.

4. Make education explicit and diverse. If you say, “Here’s a broader view of inclusion,” then also provide materials that add nuance: multiple perspectives, including those of autistic adults.

In short: less label, more story. Less icon/token, more human.

Autism is still too often diagnosed based on clichés (which automatically means that people who do have autism but don’t exhibit the clichés are overlooked). This has been happening for decades, especially among girls and women (and other groups that less fit the traditional diagnostic model). A doll that unintentionally reinforces one dominant image can therefore also—however small the effect may seem—contribute to a world in which some people are seen and others are not.

I believe this is meant to be noble. And I want every child to have that moment of recognition: “Hey, this looks a little like me.” But precisely because it’s noble, we can also be critical of the execution.

And perhaps that’s the lesson that extends beyond Barbie: inclusion isn’t something you add to the lineup once. It’s something you build into the story—and into the way you allow complexity to exist. In every character, behind every face.