Ky Dickens, the director of The Telepathy Tapes, repeatedly describes her findings — namely, that non-verbal autistic people can read minds — as “paradigm-shifting.” This is not a cherry-picked hyperbole: at the official Telepathy Tapes website, t-shirts bearing the phrase “paradigm shifted” are on sale for $40 USD (plus shipping & handling). The series is a roughly 500-minute explanation, spread across 10 episodes, of a silent revolution taking place among autistic individuals. One by one, the program presents the charged testimonies of families crushed by bleak diagnoses deemed “severe” or “profound,” peppered with recollections of callous doctors who suggest letting go of hope for the future. Defiant parents and teachers refuse this fate, and against all odds, manage to help the nonspeakers in their lives find some means of communicating. It’s easy enough to understand the appeal of such accounts, in which extraordinary individuals triumph over seemingly insurmountable adversity. But The Telepathy Tapes aims to do more than share feel-good stories. It seeks to lend credence to a truly radical claim that nonspeakers — not just the few featured on the show, but all nonspeakers — have tapped into something the rest of us have allowed to atrophy, a part of the mind capable of accessing a universal collective consciousness.
Farfetched as it may sound to the uninitiated, it’s a notion that’s garnered enduring appeal among a widespread audience. For a brief period at the start of 2025, the series eclipsed podcast juggernaut Joe Rogan on Spotify’s top podcast charts. In February, Rogan invited Dickens onto his show to speak at length for an audience of millions. By July, Spotify’s editorial team named The Telepathy Tapes one of the “best breakout series of 2025.” Beyond the less-than-reliable realm of The Joe Rogan Experience, the possibility of psychic thought transmission has captivated individuals not usually prone to magical thinking. Dickens’ truth-seeking odyssey stems from informal, unreviewed research conducted by Dr. Diane Hennacy Powell, a Johns Hopkins-educated neuropsychiatrist and former Harvard Medical School faculty member. Despite the unsubstantiated nature of her findings — Powell has never submitted her telepathy work to peer review — frequently cited and highly respected professor of psychology Dr. Scott Barry Kaufman sat Powell down for an interview, in which he expressed earnest interest in conducting further experimentation on the subject of telepathy. In the same exchange, Kaufman also revealed that prominent autism researcher Simon Baron-Cohen had expressed a similar interest in working alongside Powell. The message has found still more purchase outside of the sciences. Influencer and entrepreneur Packy McCormick praised the series to a readership of over 250,000 people. “[We are] moving past the stranglehold of the dogmatic rational materialist paradigm…and towards something both ancient and cutting-edge,”he wrote in a glowing review of the series. Author and investor Scott Britton, following a conversation on Telepathy with Ky Dickens, boldly claimed that “we will reach a tipping point in collective belief during this lifetime that will open up the aperture for much greater human capacity.”
Most recently, NewsNation — a scrappy, centrist cable network that deems itself “America’s source for fact-based, unbiased news” — featured an hour-long promotional interview with Ky Dickens and cognitive neuroscientist parapsychologist Dr. Julia Mossbridge. There’s also a feature-length documentary currently underway, said to premiere sometime in the spring of 2026. But amidst all the chatter about paradigm shifts, the voice I’ve found myself reflecting on most is my grandmother’s. In life, she was a devout Catholic, with the same steadfast faith that guided Acadian ancestors. For her last three decades on Earth, night after night, she punctually prayed that God would grant her one simple request. Though the act of prayer itself was a private matter, she candidly spoke of what she asked for one hundred thousand times over: that my eldest brother, Chris, would speak to her. When initially presented with the possibility that my brother might be telepathic, I thought immediately of her kitchen table in the soft morning light, where my family would sit, and my grandmother would tell us that her prayers had been answered overnight in the form of a dream. While she pieced together the conversation she supposedly shared with my brother, Chris would sit silently beside me, stabbing at the stack of brown sugar flapjacks in front of him or fiddling with the loose knob of a pot lid. If anyone else had doubts about the recollections she shared with such conviction, they were suppressed. Who were any of us to claim to better understand the nature of dreams, or to challenge a belief that brought her such unbridled delight?
Since discovering The Telepathy Tapes, I’ve frequently found myself revisiting this composite memory. In many ways, my brother resembles the non-speakers featured on the podcast. Despite being a few years shy of his 40th birthday, Chris would likely neglect many of his most basic needs if not for the gentle, constant patient prodding of my mother and father. He expresses himself through gestures, a few simple signs, and an occasional monosyllabic utterance, but he never truly talks. It has been this way since before I was born, and I’ve fully accepted that it will likely always be this way. Though the nuances of a highly variant neurodevelopmental condition like autism are difficult for a child’s brain to comprehend, I managed to discern two laws concerning Chris early on. Firstly, there is an enormous divergence in the way Chris and I understand the world, and this results in a struggle for him to accomplish things that come naturally to most, including communication. This is the basis of the second law: There will always be depths to my brother that I cannot know. Acceptance of these statutes have guided me through the most challenging parts of our strange and wordless relationship. They have explained his howls that occasionally rip through the chatter of restaurant dining rooms, his fixation with the flow of running water, his tendency not to react at all when I talk to him. When he flips through the pages of books, I am not sure if he is reading or up to something else entirely. The countless uncertainties become far easier to embrace and appreciate with the laws in place. But recently, I’ve been forced to question the laws that have long guided me. Something about The Telepathy Tapes — and, by extension, the suggestion that my brother and grandmother did find some impossible way to speak — rings true to a surprising number of people. It’s enough to make me wonder, if only for a moment, whether I somehow missed a sign of recognition all those years ago at the kitchen table, in the twinkle of my brother’s eye, or deep within the hint of a smile. My fleeting moments of self-doubt are always quieted by the stark juxtaposition between the idealistic claims presented by The Telepathy Tapes and my own lived experience, never mind the lack of compelling scientific evidence. Autism is a magnet for pseudoscientific theory, and I’ve formed skeptical calluses in response. All the same, I’ve found myself vexed by the tight grip these psychic notions have, particularly on otherwise skeptical individuals and organizations. When something strikes so close to your heart, you have no choice but to dig for answers — not just about the nature of telepathy, but of the cultural movement that wants to believe it’s real.
The strongest pieces of evidence for autistic telepathy are the anecdotal accounts shared by the caregivers, case workers, and educators who work firsthand with nonspeakers. Their stories are captivating, all the more because they are perfectly suited for audio. Naturally, The Telepathy Tapes leans heavily on these testimonies. From the opening of the first episode onwards, Dickens implores her audience to not only listen, but to believe the words spoken by oft-ignored parents and teachers. Unshakable faith is an absolute necessity moving forward with the series, because the fantastic claims that follow defy rational explanation. Dickens and her crew travel the United States to both meet nonspeakers who have found means of communicating and — crucially — conduct tests to verify their supposed abilities. To do this, nonspeakers are presented with stencil-like boards bearing numbers and letters, which they use to meticulously spell out messages. This in itself is remarkable, but The Telepathy Tapes takes things a step further. Dickens proceeds to ask nonspeakers to identify numbers drawn from a deck of UNO cards, or write words generated at random on an out-of-sight iPad. The podcast’s carefully curated sound bites suggest that the nonspeakers respond with astounding accuracy. Ever-present caregivers, always privy to the correct answers, enthusiastically encourage their sons, daughters, and students. Dickens posits that this astounding precision is attributable to the crystal-clear line of telepathic communication nonspeakers share with those they’re closest to. After establishing the infallibility of the nonspeaker’s mind-reading abilities, Dickens teases that telepathic communication merely represents “the tip of the iceberg” of autistic superpowers. By episode three, tales are told of non-speakers from across the world gathering on an astral plane called “the Hill” to chat. In episode seven, a little girl named Emelia exhibits an ability to read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. When asked how she learned to decipher the symbols, Emelia matter-of-factly spells, one letter at a time, that God taught her. Some nonspeakers are said to be able to predict the future. Others can confer with the dead. Disparate findings from a variety of “scientists” are strung together in an attempt to make further sense of some (but not all) of the extraordinary assertions. Electrical engineer turned parapsychologist Dr. Dean Radin describes the methodology of Ganzfeld experiments, an ESP assessment conducted for the sake of those seeking “proof-oriented research”. Cambridge-educated Dr. Rupert Sheldrake recounts a series of past experiments on potential telepathic bonds shared between humans and dogs. At one point, the notion of quantum entanglement is introduced as a possible explanation for telepathic communication. It’s disjointed, and The Telepathy Tapes knows it. However, definitive scientific proof isn’t really the point. Dickens posits that the majority of phenomena featured on the show lack a concrete explanation because our perception of reality itself is deeply flawed. We, as a species, cling too closely to materialism, the concept that our world is built upon energy and matter alone. Ultimately, the argument for autistic telepathy relies on faith. Specifically, faith in a single assumption: that every thought communicated through nonspeakers is accurate.
Early in the series, Dickens insists that telepathy is a pure form of communication, because the autistic nonspeakers themselves are pure of heart. Throughout, The Telepathy Tapes works hard to establish that all statements fit into a binary of truth and lie. And, as Dickens explains in episode seven, there’s a universal unwillingness to lie among nonspeakers. Why would they tell anything but the truth, given the intense effort it takes for them to produce sentences at all? “We can’t all be lying,” one exasperated mother partway through episode eight sighs. And she’s right. They can’t all be lying. Decades worth of documentation suggests that the messages coming from nonspeakers are something else entirely. In fact, the communication methods employed by the nonspeakers of The Telepathy Tapes are incompatible with intentionality at all. For individuals with speech difficulties, there exists a range of reliable augmentative and alternative communication techniques. In some cases, nonspeakers are able to use AAC techniques that are familiar and straightforward, such as sign language or a simple pencil and paper. Others with profound, comorbid intellectual or physical disabilities require supplemental aids or devices, like tactile and digital picture boards or text-to-speech apps. Such aids take individual impediments into account and allow users to independently convey messages using whatever the skills they have. That said, aided AAC can sometimes feel hollow and unsatisfying. Particularly if you are working with a nonspeaker who may not know how to read or write, messages can be practical but limited. Throughout the years, my brother has sporadically used the Picture Exchange Communication System, or PECS®, which consists of picking out and placing simple laminated picture cards sequentially on a velcro-laced sentence strip. If the mood suits him, he responds to concrete requests, such as what he’d like to eat for dinner, with vague, terse responses such as “CHICKEN” or “SHRIMP”. Rarely are there hints regarding how he’d prefer those dishes be prepared, or what he’d like on the side, or whether he’d like to stay at home or go out to eat. They’re the sort of answers that leave you craving further detail. The communication techniques featured on The Telepathy Tapes participants are something else entirely. They go by several different names: Supported Typing, Typing to Communicate, Rapid Prompting Method (RPM), and Spelling to Communicate (S2C). Dickens uses the catch-all term “Spelling” to refer to them from episode two onwards. Spelling techniques, in theory, offer a degree of communicative freedom, and the deep, insightful, detailed correspondences reflect that. It’s wildly appealing to those who have spent lifetimes making educated guesses regarding the needs and wants of their loved ones. However, the Spelling utilized by the nonspeakers on The Telepathy Tapes is collaborative in a way that spelling, in the traditional sense, is not. Spelling is very much dependent on neurotypical communication partners, who prop up unfixed letter boards, assist in interpreting messages, and occasionally, correct perceived mistakes in messages. They act as guides, and are often (understandably) deeply biased and deeply invested in the success of the nonspeaker. In the case of The Telepathy Tapes, they are the very people claiming to share telepathic connections. Modern Spelling methods are uniformly rooted in a contentious technique called Facilitated Communication (FC). It’s a term most people aren’t familiar with, because the practice fell out of favor before it had a chance to sincerely take off. Dickens herself readily admits that Spelling is a spiritual successor to FC, which she nonchalantly suggests was unfairly dismissed by the ableist masses. Conveniently left out of The Telepathy Tapes story are the uncomfortable controversy that led to the denouncement of FC, and the grueling trials that caused many to lose faith in it entirely.
When Australian educator and disability advocate Rosemary Crossley first developed Facilitated Communication, her initial reports were nothing short of miraculous. As a hospital assistant in the mid-1970s, Crossley met Anne McDonald, a nonverbal teenager diagnosed with cerebral palsy and severe intellectual disability. Since age 3, Anne had been institutionalized at the St. Nicholas Hospital in Melbourne. The facility was understaffed, its conditions horrendous, and Anne spent much of her time writhing on the floors. Nonetheless, Crossley thought she sensed something special in Anne, a hidden potential that belied all of her previous diagnoses. To realize this, Crossley developed a means of communication centered around pointing out word and letter blocks. However, due to her profound motor and coordination issues, Anne struggled to point. At some point, Crossley thought to support her client’s unsteady arm. Immediately, Anne’s messages became much clearer. Anne lacked any formal education, yet within the span of about three weeks, she was spelling in complete sentences. As time passed, she expressed familiarity with topics ranging from advanced mathematics to international nuclear policy. Crossley speculated she’d picked all this up through overheard conversations and the TV. Eventually, Anne spoke out about the abuses she faced in the institution that housed her, and expressed her desire to escape the substandard living conditions. At one point, she even accused a St Nicholas’ pediatrician of attempting to smother her with a pillow. A subsequent investigation ultimately dismissed these claims, but Crossley did manage to convince a court of Anne’s competency. Anne won her freedom, then went on to earn a humanities degree and pen a memoir, co-written by Crossley. Beautiful, poetic, and — above all — hopeful, the story spread across the country. All along, the only thing Anne needed was for someone to reach out and, quite literally, lend a helping hand. Her newfound words convinced many to reconsider decades' worth of human rights violations occurring in state-run asylums and psychiatric hospitals. Australia’s scientific community was skeptical. However, their misgivings were largely kept private, fearing that to cast doubt on Crossley’s methodology would unintentionally jeopardize the promising strides toward civil liberty the story inspired. It wasn’t until 1987 that the country’s top communications specialists banded together to publish a statement of concern. Specifically, they cited a significant risk that the thoughts and biases of facilitators might muddle the messages of nonspeakers. Even so, Crossley shared her breakthrough technique with other nonspeaking clients. Soon, FC was applied as a blanket treatment for nonspeakers facing a variety of physical and cognitive diagnoses, particularly autistic children. Eventually, word of facilitated communication reached Doug Biklen, a Syracuse University professor researching intellectual disability.
Astounded by the extraordinary outcomes Crossley’s method yielded, Biklen traveled to Australia to record a series of qualitative observations detailing her technique, which were published by the Harvard Educational Review in 1990. Biklen presented a theory that autistic difficulties in communication stemmed from “praxis rather than cognition”. Put simply, he believed autism might be a problem of physical expression rather than cognitive understanding. Word of FC’s efficacy spread through North America with fervor. Biklen touted it as a universally applicable communication aid guaranteed to bring out the locked-away thoughts of nonspeakers. Diane Sawyer described FC as “an awakening.” The New York Times, in a 1991 article, mused that the technique “could upset a half-century of thought” concerning autism treatment. In 1992, Biklen founded the Facilitated Communication Institute at Syracuse University. Students, parents, and clinicians, eager to serve as a conduit for the voiceless, clamored to be trained as facilitators. Story after story emerged of children with limited vocabularies expressing literacy and intellect far surpassing previous expectations. Then a disturbing trend emerged. Letter by letter, a rapidly growing number of newly communicative FC users described graphic accounts of sadistic sexual and physical abuse. Almost always, these accusations pegged loved ones and caretakers as victimizers. Compared to the general population, rates of abuse run markedly higher among those facing intellectual disabilities. It’s also true that a significant number of perpetrators are primary caretakers or disability service providers. Even so, the rate of new allegations was staggering, considering the relatively small number of people practicing FC. By the end of 1994, at least 60 such cases were reported across the United States — which, seasoned AAC professionals were quick to note, far outpaced rates of abuse reported by nonspeakers communicating through independent means. Trusted teachers faced termination and permanently tarnished career prospects. Devoted parents were caught entirely off guard by brutal rape allegations. Some cases culminated in criminal charges. Accused parties faced harsh consequences, including decades of jail time and staggering legal fees.
In one exceptionally extreme case covered in a 1993 FC-centered Frontline report, 16-year-old Betsy Wheaton accused everyone in her family – father, mother, brother, even grandparents – of sexual abuse. As a precaution, Betsy was thrust into the foster care system. While separated from her family, Betsy lost ten pounds, suffered two black eyes, and developed a severe ear infection that went undetected for weeks before rupturing. Betsy’s physical deterioration signaled to investigators something very wrong was afoot. Despite enduring excruciating physical pain, Betsy never used FC to express her discomfort. The local attorney covering her case then began to question whether Betsy was as capable of communication as she seemed. The court had a moral dilemma to untangle. If Betsy’s communications were accurate, sending her home would be unconscionable. If they weren’t, keeping her in the foster system would be unjust. All parties agreed to consult with an expert in communication. Betsy was brought to Boston Children’s Hospital, where Dr. Howard Shane conducted a series of tests to determine Betsy’s true communicative prowess. Frontline described them as follows:
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