Written by: Ruth Szpanka, MA, LPC (she/her)
Introduction: The Mirror in the Therapy Room
A few months ago, during my own therapy session, my therapist asked if I had seen the new Netflix documentary Room to Move. A few of her clients had mentioned it, but she hadn’t seen it herself. Intrigued by the title and the theme, I found the documentary and watched it within a day or so.
Although Jenn Freeman’s life and artistic talents are very different from my own, I felt an immediate, piercing sense of familiarity. As both a late-diagnosed autistic individual and a practicing therapist, watching her story felt like looking into a clinical mirror—one that reflected the invisible scaffolds we are forced to build when the world recognizes our differences but fails to offer us support.
The Film at a Glance: What is Room to Move?
The Netflix documentary Room to Move (2026), directed by Alexander Hammer, is an intimate portrait of acclaimed contemporary dancer and choreographer Jenn Freeman, who was formally diagnosed with autism at age 33. For decades, Jenn carried a deep internal knowing that she was “different,” yet she navigated her childhood and demanding career without answers or support.
The film tracks Jenn as she channels her diagnosis into a raw, evening-length solo dance performance titled Is It Thursday Yet?. Through striking movement and childhood archives, the documentary reveals that Jenn’s lifelong dedication to dance was actually an intuitive form of somatic self-accommodation and stimming—a brilliant, desperate attempt to regulate her sensitive nervous system.
Section 1: The Visceral Memory of “Knowing”
The movie starts with flashbacks to Jenn’s early life. Jenn is seen “dancing” even as a very young child. The repetitive movements everyone saw as dance were actually “stimming” to help young Jenn deal with her world as an autistic individual. Dance has never been a strength of mine, but the movements Jenn instinctively used to soothe and regulate brought to mind the ways I used movement as a child to do the same.
There was something more haunting, though: I recognized in her eyes the feeling I knew too well as a child. I had a visceral reminder of looking out at a confusing world I desperately wanted to understand. I somehow knew something was “off” in me too, and that other people knew it as well as I did.
Section 2: The Art of Accommodating the Unknown
Jenn had her own way of setting up accommodations by gravitating toward dance. This was a world of movement, and movement was soothing. It became her ally and allowed her to find support from others in the arts community who knew the importance of dance, even if it was from a different perspective or a different need.
While Jenn had dance, I was lucky in that I had an ally in my father. My dad was a practical man. He was a mechanical engineer by training, which fit his problem-solving personality. I’m not sure my dad had ever heard the word autism, but somehow, he knew how to help. He instinctively taught me scripts to handle social needs as simple as buying something at the store. More importantly, he seemed to understand the way the world overwhelmed me, providing comfort and some sense of safety.
From these early childhood moments, Jenn and I both found ways to get by into adulthood. Yet, despite better coping mechanisms and the addition of supportive friends, I still held the awful awareness of feeling like an alien observer trying to go unnoticed. These are the nagging feelings that lead so many of us to the path of finally naming what felt “off” through a diagnosis.
Section 3: Confronting the Grim Facts and Therapist’s Grief
With a late diagnosis comes a tumultuous mix of understanding, grief, anger, and frustration. It is incredibly difficult not to be angry that things were so much harder than they had to be. The questions fly through our minds: “How did they not see?” “Why didn’t they help?” “Why were so many people so cruel when this is just the way I’m made?” and “How did they not see my pain?”
Jenn had the gift of her dance and creativity; she was able to tell her story and express her emotions in her solo piece. But so many of us do not have a public platform to tell our stories or express our grief. Therapy is the most viable path for most of us. We need to be seen for all of our struggles and gifts and a neuro-affirming clinician can guide us in that journey, but the realities of this diagnosis are striking and hard.
Room to Move does not shy away from these difficult truths. It highlights the heavy toll of living as a late-diagnosed autistic individual, serving as a necessary trigger warning for the film. The story is powerful but raw, as are the statistics it presents. As a therapist, I see the living version of these numbers every day: we face drastically higher rates of trauma, suicidality, and chronic difficulties with employment, among other struggles. These numbers are the literal receipts of high masking, hyper-vigilance, and hiding our baseline needs just to survive.
Conclusion: Creating “Room to Move” in the Chair
Myself and other autistic clinicians spend our careers helping clients find space to heal, but Room to Move is a vital reminder that therapists deserve that exact same space.
Receiving a late diagnosis doesn’t mean we are broken clinicians; it means we are survivors who intimately understand the cost of masking. By honoring the intuitive survival strategies of our childhoods and validating the grim, systemic realities of our adult lives, we can finally stop performing a rigid, neurotypical version of “the perfect therapist.”
When we allow ourselves our own accommodations, our own boundaries, and our own moments to unmask, we bring our most authentic, integrated selves into the room. And in doing so, we give our clients the greatest therapeutic gift possible: a shared, safe space where they, too, finally have the room to move.
If you are looking for a neuro-affirming therapist with a personal experience of autism, Elements Counseling and Wellness Spa can help. Reach out to schedule an appointment on telehealth or at our office in Pittsburgh, PA. Contact us here or email info@elementspgh.com or call 412-587-6020.
The information contained in this blog does not replace professional treatment or diagnosis and is for educational purposes only.
References
Hammer, A. (Director). (2025). Room to move [Film]. Netflix. https://www.netflix.com/title/82748667
