Behavioral Gatekeepers: The Quiet Control Behind ABA’s Goal Selection

Dr. Scott Frasard is an autistic autism advocate who is a published author and an outspoken critic of operant conditioning approaches to change natural autistic behaviors to meet neuronormative social expectations.

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Introduction

Imagine a three-year-old autistic child walking into a room filled with adults who have already decided what needs to be "fixed." Perhaps the child flaps their hands, lines up toys, or wanders the room humming. None of these behaviors are dangerous. None of them indicate suffering. Yet the adults have clipboards. They are taking notes. They are preparing to intervene. But has anyone asked the child what they want? Has anyone considered whether these behaviors are not symptoms, but expressions of joy, regulation, or identity?

This question reaches beyond the surface of behavior. It cuts to the heart of how support is defined, who defines it, and what happens when support becomes a tool of conformity rather than care. In applied behavior analysis (ABA), the practice of selecting target behaviors is framed as a rational, objective process guided by principles such as social significance and reinforcement potential. But in reality, it is often shaped by the priorities of outsiders, not the needs of the person receiving services.

This article challenges the assumptions embedded in behavior selection. It explores what autistic children actually want and need, how behaviorism erases meaning, and why the Māori model of relational understanding offers a more ethical path forward. It examines the moral and legal consequences of choosing goals for others, and it reimagines a world where support centers belonging, not compliance.

The deeper question is not how to fix autistic behavior. It is how to unlearn the systems that made us believe it needed fixing in the first place.

Behavior Selection as a Site of Power

The harms by behavior selection decisions are not theoretical. They have real consequences for real people, and they demand a full reckoning with the moral implications of behaviorist practice. These harms are often invisible at first. Children may appear more compliant, more still, or more quiet. But underneath that compliance is often a learned fear of being themselves, shaped by repeated cues that certain behaviors are unwanted or unacceptable. A child who has been redirected every time they stim may begin to internalize the idea that their natural self is wrong or broken. Over time, this can erode self-worth, compromise trust in caregivers and practitioners, and lead to patterns of masking that carry deep psychological costs. This is not a path to empowerment. It is a path to shame, alienation, and long-term harm.

Families, too, may suffer unintended consequences. When behavior plans focus on surface-level conformity, parents may unintentionally overlook opportunities to engage with their child's true personality and needs. They may be encouraged to praise behaviors like eye contact, sitting still, or verbal speech, even when these behaviors cause discomfort or suppress authentic expression. This dynamic can create distance and tension, replacing meaningful connection with an emphasis on outward performance.

There are legal concerns as well. Autistic people have the right to autonomy, dignity, and communication in forms that work for them, as recognized by disability rights legislation and international human rights conventions. Selecting behaviors for change without their consent or meaningful input is not only a denial of these rights but also reflects a disregard for the individual's lived experience and agency. This practice can violate disability rights frameworks such as the Americans with Disabilities Act and the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities. At a minimum, it constitutes a failure of ethical care and a breach of the foundational principle of respect for persons.

Beyond legality lies morality. At what point does helping become shaping, with someone else's goals imposed on the individual rather than drawn from within? At what point does support become control, silencing the person's voice under the guise of skill-building? These are the questions ABA rarely asks but must confront. Any practice that holds power over another's self-expression must be willing to examine its motives, its impacts, and its assumptions, especially when those practices influence core aspects of identity. Until such reckoning occurs, behavior selection remains an ethical fault line at the heart of ABA.

What Children Actually Need

If we asked autistic children what they need, the answers would be simple. They need to be understood. They need their environment to feel safe. They need space to move, stim, retreat, connect, or create in ways that feel right to them. They need people around them who notice what their behavior is communicating instead of assuming it is meaningless or incorrect. They do not walk into therapy asking to stop flapping, scripting, or spinning. They might ask for help with motor difficulties, emotional overwhelm, or communication breakdowns, but even then, how they frame those needs may differ from how adults perceive them. They are unlikely to initiate a campaign to behave like other children. Such a goal would be imposed by adults, shaped by systems that value conformity over authenticity.

What children often need is not behavioral correction, but relational safety. They need adults who are willing to slow down, observe without judgment, and engage with curiosity rather than control. Relational safety means the child feels seen, accepted, and safe to be themselves, without fear of punishment or redirection for behaviors that are natural to them. A child who spins in circles or speaks in echolalia is communicating something, even if the message is not immediately understood. Dismissing these behaviors as deficits overlooks the possibility that they are attempts to connect, express, or self-regulate in an overwhelming world. Recognizing these behaviors as purposeful and valid opens the door to more responsive and respectful forms of support.

Children also need environments that adapt to them, not just interventions that aim to reshape them. A quiet space to recover from sensory overload, a trusted adult who honors non-speaking communication, or access to peers who embrace difference can do far more for a child's development than a compliance-based behavior plan ever could. These elements create a foundation where trust and security replace fear and pressure, enabling authentic growth. Environments that are flexible, sensory-aware, and rooted in trust make it possible for children to engage, explore, and learn on their own terms. This approach communicates that they are welcome as they are, not temporarily accepted until they meet a prescribed set of behaviors.

When we ask what children need, we are really asking who gets to define what support means. Is support about helping a child flourish on their own terms, or is it about helping them fit more neatly into systems that were never built with their needs in mind? This is the crossroads at which ABA often finds itself. And too often, it chooses the path of conformity over compassion. Rarely is there a sustained effort to understand what a child's behaviors are expressing, or to include the child in shaping their own developmental path. Instead, ABA relies on a system of default assumptions that are deeply embedded in behaviorist teachings, which tend to favor externally defined goals over individual meaning and context.

Developmental timelines used in ABA further reinforce this disconnect. These timelines are based on statistical averages, which are often skewed by outliers and shaped by cultural bias. They turn deviation from the mean into pathology, framing it as failure rather than variation. This statistical framework places immense pressure on children to meet arbitrary milestones, without regard for how their bodies, minds, or experiences may differ from those norms. An autistic child who learns to speak at age five instead of age two is not broken. They are on a different path. But ABA teaches practitioners to interpret that difference as delay, and delay as a problem to solve. Once development is viewed through the lens of deviation and correction, the child is no longer met with curiosity or care. They are measured against a standard that was never made for them. It is this orientation that leads us directly into the logic of behaviorism, where internal meaning gives way to external control.

Behaviorism and the Erasure of Meaning

Before we can imagine what more affirming models might look like, we must first examine the costs of the one most widely used today. The assumption that only observable behaviors matter reduces human complexity to a narrow set of measurable outputs. This framework assumes that if something cannot be seen, counted, or replicated, it does not matter. In doing so, behaviorism discards the symbolic, emotional, and existential dimensions of experience, treating them as irrelevant or unknowable. For autistic individuals whose communication and self-expression may differ from mainstream norms, this framework becomes not just limited, but dangerous. It overlooks the inner logic of behaviors, the personal meanings they carry, and the humanity embedded in expressions that fall outside neurotypical expectations.

Consider a child who rocks and hums in a classroom. A behaviorist might label this as non-functional or distracting. But what if the child is self-soothing? What if this behavior is helping them regulate sensory input or manage anxiety? What if the rhythmic movement and quiet sound serve as a bridge between internal chaos and external demand? ABA does not ask. Instead, it collects frequency counts, builds intervention plans, and celebrates when the rocking stops. In doing so, it erases the purpose of the behavior and the message it might contain. It replaces interpretation with correction and overlooks the deeply personal significance such behaviors often hold.

This approach also fails to engage with the possibility that behavior may be multi-layered and deeply communicative. What looks like "non-compliance" could stem from confusion, sensory overload, emotional exhaustion, or a protest against a task that feels meaningless, unsafe, or disrespectful. Without efforts to explore these layers, ABA practitioners risk misinterpreting distress as defiance and responding with strategies that not only miss the point but actively compound harm. Rarely is there a serious attempt to understand what the behavior might be expressing or to challenge the default assumptions embedded in behaviorist training. This absence of inquiry turns complex human responses into targets for correction rather than opportunities for connection.

This erasure extends to communication. Cooper et al. (2020) warns against relying on what it calls "just talk," suggesting that verbal expressions should not be accepted unless accompanied by observable behavioral change. This logic delegitimizes non-speaking forms of communication and even invalidates the spoken word if it cannot be measured through action. It reinforces the idea that autistic people must prove their intent, their needs, and their feelings through externally approved forms of behavior. What is missing in this framework is any effort to understand what those behaviors might be expressing in the first place. Rather than engaging with the individual to explore the meaning behind their words or actions, behaviorism defaults to external validation, sidelining the person's internal experience and the rich communicative value that may be present but not immediately quantifiable.

By positioning practitioners as the ultimate interpreters of meaning, behaviorism creates an unequal dynamic in which the client's internal life is perpetually suspect unless it can be externally verified. This dynamic undermines the individual's right to define their own truths and reframes support as surveillance, not solidarity. It narrows the space available for genuine efforts to understand what a person's behavior might be communicating, particularly when those behaviors defy the expectations outlined by behaviorist doctrine. Instead of encouraging a dialogue grounded in mutual understanding, the framework often resorts to rigid control, prioritizing intervention over inquiry. This shift in orientation paves the way for exploring more affirming alternatives that recognize meaning, autonomy, and shared humanity.

Alternative Visions: The Māori Conceptualization of Autism

There are other ways to understand development, support, and difference. The Māori worldview, for example, offers a relational model of autism that does not pathologize divergence, but embraces it as part of a broader, interconnected human experience. In te ao Māori, the word for autism is "takiwātanga," which translates to "in their own time and space." This language reflects a deep respect for individual rhythms and differences, rather than viewing them through a lens of deficit. In this framework, identity is co-created within a network of relationships rather than formed in isolation. Behavior is not judged against a universal norm, but understood through the lens of whakapapa (genealogy), wairua (spirit), and whānau (extended family), placing emphasis on the person's roots, spirit, and community. This perspective recognizes that behaviors are deeply contextual and often communicative, calling for understanding over correction.

This perspective does not ask, "What behavior needs to change?" Instead, it asks, "What does this person need to feel connected, safe, and seen?" It begins with the assumption that the individual is already whole, rather than broken or in need of fixing. It places the responsibility for understanding on the surrounding community, such as families, educators, and clinicians, rather than the child who is often too young or unsupported to explain their experiences. It calls for practitioners to move beyond superficial observations and instead seek the deeper, subjective meanings behind each person's actions. This approach disrupts the behaviorist habit of imposing default interpretations on behaviors without exploring their emotional, sensory, or relational significance. In doing so, it directly challenges the core premise of ABA: that difference is a problem to be managed, rather than a human reality to be honored.

Within this worldview, autism is not a deficit or delay but a difference in relational rhythm, a unique cadence of connection and expression. The focus shifts away from missed milestones and instead emphasizes the relationships that can be cultivated to support a person's growth, well-being, and sense of belonging. This reorientation creates room for practices that validate stimming, silence, and solitary exploration as equally meaningful as eye contact, verbal language, and group play. These expressions are not merely tolerated, but understood as vital threads in a person's tapestry of communication and identity.

This perspective also reframes responsibility in profound ways. Instead of placing the burden on autistic individuals to work harder to meet dominant expectations, it challenges those expectations themselves, inviting the community to adapt and grow. It calls on families, educators, and practitioners to question rigid norms and to co-create environments where flexibility is a shared value. It prioritizes shared humanity over behavioral conformity, viewing differences not as obstacles, but as opportunities for connection. In doing so, it emphasizes collective support over individual remediation, signaling a broader cultural shift toward mutual care and respect.

By honoring the sacredness of identity and the interdependence of the individual and the group, the Māori model disrupts the traditional hierarchy between evaluator and subject. It reframes the relationship as one of shared humanity and mutual respect, rather than authority and compliance. This model invites us to replace metrics with meaning, data with dialogue, and intervention with inclusion. It encourages practitioners, families, and communities to shift from control to connection, and from standardization to solidarity. For those seeking truly ethical, equitable approaches to neurodiversity, this is not an alternative path. It is the one we must urgently take as we turn toward the moral and ethical implications of behavior selection itself.

The Moral and Ethical Costs of Behavior Selection

At the heart of ABA lies a practice that often goes unquestioned: selecting which behaviors are worthy of increasing and which are deemed problematic and in need of reduction. On the surface, this might appear to be a neutral or even helpful process. But this selection is not neutral. It is deeply value-laden, shaped by societal expectations of normalcy, productivity, and acceptability. When practitioners decide which behaviors to target, they are also deciding whose comfort, convenience, and preferences matter more. Rarely are these decisions made with the full participation of the autistic person.

Consider a common ABA goal of increasing eye contact. From a neurotypical perspective, eye contact may signal attentiveness, honesty, or respect. But for many autistic individuals, eye contact can be painful, distracting, or overwhelming due to heightened sensory sensitivities or differences in how connection is experienced. To prioritize eye contact is to privilege a neurotypical standard of communication over the autistic person’s lived reality and sensory needs. It sends a message that an autistic person's natural way of connecting is wrong and must be corrected. The same can be said of reducing stimming behaviors, even when those behaviors are harmless and self-soothing. These actions are often labeled as disruptive or inappropriate without considering their purpose. The underlying assumption is that visibly autistic behavior is undesirable and must be changed for the comfort or expectations of others.

The tendency to prioritize behavioral conformity over individual needs reveals the moral cost of behavior selection. When we define support as helping someone become less disruptive to the world around them, rather than helping the world adapt to include them, we reinforce a hierarchy of whose needs matter most. Children are molded to fit systems, not the other way around. Their bodies, voices, and preferences are shaped to align with dominant expectations, often without their consent or even their comprehension. This is not support. It is assimilation.

Even more troubling is the silence that surrounds the decision-making process itself. ABA textbooks, trainings, and promotional materials often frame behavior selection as a technical skill grounded in objective data collection and analysis. This portrayal creates the illusion of neutrality, masking the profound value judgments embedded in each decision. Why is flapping considered problematic? Who determined that scripting is inappropriate? What criteria define someone as too loud, too quiet, too active, or too withdrawn? These are not universal truths. They are culturally constructed judgments, shaped by dominant norms and disguised as clinical objectivity.

When behavior selection occurs without critical reflection or inclusive dialogue, the consequences can be deeply harmful. Children may come to believe that their natural behaviors are flaws in need of correction, rather than valid expressions of self. In response, they often begin to mask their differences in order to gain approval, which can result in chronic stress, emotional exhaustion, and a fractured sense of identity. Instead of fostering self-understanding or confidence, the very interventions designed to help them function in the world may ultimately sever their connection to who they truly are.

We must ask, again and again, whose voices are centered in defining the goals of therapy. When behavior modification decisions are made, who is present and whose perspectives are prioritized? Are autistic people leading those conversations, or are they positioned only as subjects to be analyzed and corrected? This power imbalance is rarely acknowledged, yet it has far-reaching implications. True ethical practice demands that we reject default assumptions and instead begin from a place of humility, consent, and mutual respect. Without that foundation, the language of support can quickly become a vehicle for suppression, cloaked in professional legitimacy.

Conclusion

Functional Behavior Assessments do not simply fall short; they entrench a self-reinforcing system of control that presents itself as both scientific and compassionate. What may appear to begin as objective inquiry often devolves into a loop of assumptions, hypotheses, and interventions that are rarely subjected to external critique or reflection. The process maintains an air of neutrality, yet it is steeped in a framework that resists self-examination. While FBA speaks the language of understanding behavior, it routinely drowns out or dismisses the perspectives of the very individuals whose lives it seeks to manage.

At its core, FBA presents a contradiction: a method that claims to be person-centered while structurally disregarding the person’s lived experience and voice. Practitioners are trained to decode behavior using narrow, predetermined categories that reflect behaviorist assumptions rather than human nuance. These categories (attention, escape, access, sensory) reduce complex emotional, relational, and contextual experiences into simplistic functional boxes that often ignore trauma, cultural background, or individual communication styles. Once a label is applied, every subsequent observation and intervention is filtered through that lens, reinforcing the original interpretation. The system ends up validating itself through its own design, completing the self-fulfilling prophecy with a veneer of clinical precision.

This critique is not aimed at individual practitioners but at a system that systematically elevates control over connection, prioritizes procedural efficiency over emotional intelligence, and upholds outcome metrics at the expense of ethical reflection. It defines success according to predefined behavioral goals, often disregarding whether those goals reflect the well-being or desires of the individual. The emotional distress, identity suppression, and the erosion of autonomy that result are concealed behind a carefully maintained facade of scientific neutrality and professional legitimacy.

But harm is not inevitable. A better path is possible and is urgently needed.

Reimagining behavior support means shifting from control to connection in a way that reorients our understanding of what it means to support another person with respect and authenticity. It calls for centering the whole individual, not just their behavior, and viewing actions as intricate expressions of unmet needs, emotional states, past experiences, and relational dynamics. This perspective encourages practitioners to consider not just the observable behavior, but the underlying message and context. Rather than asking, “How do we stop this behavior?” the more responsible and compassionate question becomes, “What is this person expressing, and how can we respond in a way that validates their experience, promotes safety, and affirms their dignity?”

Trauma-informed, neurodiversity-affirming approaches offer this shift by challenging the premise that behavioral conformity is the ultimate goal of support. These approaches prioritize emotional safety, reciprocal trust, and mutual respect, seeking to understand individuals in the context of their full lived experience rather than reducing them to observable outputs. They emphasize flexible, person-driven responses over rigid intervention plans. Models rooted in collaboration and co-regulation foster environments where relationships are central, power is shared, and solutions emerge through dialogue, not manipulation or coercion.

Most importantly, the people most harmed by ABA, such as autistic individuals, non-speakers, and disabled people, must be the ones to lead this transformation from the ground up. Their insights, needs, and lived experiences must not only inform the conversation but serve as the foundation for building new models of support. Their leadership ensures that new approaches are grounded in the realities of those most affected, not in theoretical ideals or professional convenience. This is not a symbolic gesture of inclusion or a checkbox for diversity; it is a moral obligation rooted in justice and the recognition of epistemic authority.

We must also broaden our definition of progress to include forms of growth and healing that may not conform to traditional behavioral metrics. Progress is not always linear or immediately visible. It might look like the quiet confidence to express a boundary, the gradual rebuilding of trust, or a reclaimed sense of agency in a world that has long denied it. These moments may not fit neatly into behavior charts or data summaries, but they are profoundly real and deeply consequential. They are the essence of what it means to support, not shape, a human life.

To dismantle the illusion that FBA is neutral or benign, we need more than revised strategies or better tools. We need an entirely different ethical orientation rooted in dignity, genuine consent, and the unwavering belief that every person deserves to be understood on their own terms, not measured against arbitrary behavioral norms. This demands that we reject the assumption that observable change is the only valid marker of progress. True progress may manifest in subtle but powerful ways: the quiet autonomy to make one's own decisions, the hard-won confidence to say no without fear, or the slow and courageous rebuilding of trust in environments that once felt unsafe. These kinds of growth might never be recorded on a data sheet, but they represent the deepest and most meaningful signs of healing, agency, and liberation.

In this reimagined future, science does not replace humanity; it uplifts and complements it. Intervention is not imposed from above but co-created through mutual respect and shared intention. Listening becomes more than a practice; it becomes an act of advocacy, a way to honor the lived truths of those whose voices have long been dismissed. Reflection is no longer optional but central to ethical care, inviting humility and course correction. The future does not belong to those who reduce people to patterns and protocols. It belongs to those willing to unlearn, to ask better questions, and to accompany others with curiosity and compassion rather than authority and control.

Reference:

Cooper, J. O., Heron, T. E., & Heward, W. L. (2020). Applied behavior analysis (3rd ed.). Pearson.

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