The community health student wants to make it easier for marginalized people to find connection
Apps like Tinder, Hinge, and Bumble, might not be suited for people who are autistic, Rachel Oriuwa, A26, said. “Built-in algorithms actually make it less likely for autistic people to match within their own communities,” they said. “That data surprised me.” Photo: Alonso Nichols
“I’ve always felt a responsibility to make my academic work address communities whose needs are often overlooked,” says Rachel Oriuwa, A26, a community health student who plans to pursue medicine with a focus on queer health.
Noticing how rarely LGBTQ+ loneliness and intimacy are addressed in public health, Oriuwa began exploring how marginalized groups experience connection. That question deepened during a direct care internship at a group home for women with cerebral palsy and other developmental disabilities, where Oriuwa heard stories of their infantilization and neglect—experiences that solidified a commitment to becoming “a clinician who could serve all kinds of people, regardless of their ability,” Oriuwa says.
When a resident shared that she wanted a partner but never had the opportunity to date, Oriuwa began investigating why neurodiverse dating is treated as taboo rather than supported.
As a sophomore in Eileen Crehan’s clinical psychology lab, they translated those questions into practice, creating inclusive dating manuals for autistic adults and later presenting the work at Boston Children’s Hospital.
Now, Oriuwa is co-authoring a journal chapter with Crehan on how neurodiverse adults can safely navigate digital dating alongside neurotypical peers, extending their work to both practitioners and the public.
Why is your project important?
Neurotypical people tend to learn dating through movies and talking to friends and family members: “Mom, how did you meet Dad?” “Oh, he took me out to dinner; we did this, we did that.”
We’re kind of taught a dating “formula.” My independent study explores the fact that autistic people may need a different set of tools in order to date—but this doesn’t lower their likelihood of successful romantic relationships or meaningful, fruitful, positive dating experiences.
I also look at how the digital dating environment, such as apps like Tinder, Hinge, and Bumble, might not be suited for people who are autistic. Built-in algorithms actually make it less likely for autistic people to match within their own communities. That data surprised me.
There are existing communities that we can look at as models for how autistic people form healthy, long-term relationships. For instance, in furry communities, people dress up and go to conventions. That community is based on casual, consistent relationships with casual, consistent ways of getting to know each other. Shared interests are a key way that autistic people are able to form long-term connections. I found that, in communities like gaming or anime, you’re more likely to find a romantic partner if you have that shared special interest. But how are you going to expose yourself to this, unless you have some support?
As professionals, we have to look at it differently. It’s not going to be a traditional dinner date for everybody. It might look a little slower. It might also be harder for people to know different social cues on dates. It requires a lot of patience to support someone through dating, whether they’re autistic or not, but it’s important to not make any assumptions.
What inspired you to pursue a career as a physician interested in LGBTQ+ health?
I grew up on Long Island, which is one of the most segregated districts in the United States. I grew up driving past the white neighborhood, the Black neighborhood, the Latino neighborhood. I knew that I wanted to give people equal access to things like healthcare, education, financial literacy—so many things that people don’t get taught or exposed to because of their zip code. As a community health major, I’ve seen how policy and medicine can overlap.
A lot of it also comes down to my own personal identity as a queer person. I felt that there weren’t many discussions about the Black queer experience. This led me to co-found Black Queer Jumbos at Tufts with a few friends my sophomore year. We focus on communities that aren’t heard and that don’t have much visibility.
I’m interested in gender-affirming care that helps people feel comfortable in their bodies. I also want to be able to have honest and transparent conversations about relationships, about sexual health. This project is really valuable for me, because the work that I want to do is always going to be based in interpersonal relationships, and I want to help people have healthy relationships.
How do you hope your project will make a difference?
I want to change the lives of autistic people. I want them to be able to see that, if they’ve had bad experiences with dating, there isn’t something wrong with them.
I’d also like to change the general public’s idea of autism and dating. Just because someone has developmental disabilities doesn’t mean that they can’t form meaningful, long-lasting relationships and connections. There are a lot of assumptions about autism and dating. Let’s start to debunk that.
