I get called AI because I’m autistic and don’t mask ‘well’ enough
It’s happened more than once. I post a video or share a thought, and the comments roll in—not about the content, but about me.
“Is this AI?” “Something about this feels off.” “This is uncanny valley.”
The people making these comments appear to be serious. They’re genuinely doubting my existence, asking if my words, voice, and expressions are computer-generated.
And I get why it happens. In a digital world flooded with algorithmically smoothed voices and cloned personalities, suspicion comes easily. But these reactions are ultimately about how I show up as an autistic person whose neurodivergent presentation doesn’t match social expectations.
What they’re really saying is: “You don’t express yourself the way I expect humans to.” And that taps directly into one of the most harmful stereotypes about autistic people—that we’re robotic, emotionless, or unnatural.
When Neurodivergent Presentation Challenges the Script
In those moments, it becomes clear that there seems to be a standard template for what a real person looks like—and I don’t fit it.
My face might not move the “right” way. My voice might sound too steady, or too intense. My tone might be too neutral for the topic, or too focused to feel casual. Whatever the case, my delivery doesn’t fit their invisible checklist for “authenticity.”
This kind of scrutiny doesn’t come out of nowhere. It’s trained into people. They’re taught to equate humanity with expressiveness, warmth, eye contact, facial variation, vocal modulation. When someone shows up differently—especially online, where presence is already flattened—it sets off an alarm.
But what they’re reading as uncanny is often just a natural neurodivergent presentation. That feeling of “off-ness” often happens when masking is dropped, or isn’t “successful” enough to meet neurotypical norms.
Why We Engage in Neurodivergent Masking
Masking is when autistics and ADHDers attempt to reflect back whatever makes others feel comfortable. For a lot of us, that reflection becomes second nature. We adjust our volume, rehearse our expressions, and carefully monitor our body language, always anticipating how we’ll be read.
Over the years, I’ve fine-tuned everything from my posture to my pauses. I’ve taken classes and coaching. All of this because I wanted to be heard and seen without being dismissed or discarded.
Masking becomes survival. But the longer you wear it, the more invisible your real self becomes, even to you. And when you finally take it off, you’re often met with silence, discomfort, or suspicion.
When Even Safe Spaces Feel Conditional
There’s a lot of talk about how the internet offers freedom for neurodivergent expression. In some ways, it does. But even online, there’s pressure to show up in a way that looks emotionally fluent, relatable, and effortless.
I’ve found that if I don’t smile enough, it’s unsettling. If I do smile at the wrong time, it’s “creepy.” If I speak clearly, it’s “too perfect.” There’s no winning when people are looking for confirmation that you’re not quite human.
Even in spaces that claim to center neurodivergent voices, these same standards can sneak in. Authenticity becomes a brand, and difference still gets trimmed down for comfort. Masking is still expected, just dressed up in more inclusive language.
It’s not enough to be honest. You also have to be emotionally legible to others. And if your presentation doesn’t pass the vibe check, people check out.
The Emotional Labor of Being Misread
There’s a weight that builds up when your natural way of being keeps getting flagged as a problem. Even when you try to shrug it off, it sticks. A comment here, a correction there. None of them seem major on their own, but over time, they chip away at your sense of ease.
You start pre-screening everything before you say it. You think about how your face might be read. You tighten your gestures. You modulate your tone.
This kind of perfectionism is a form of risk management. A defense against a pattern many of us have come to expect: if we don’t smooth out our differences through constant masking we get punished for them.
The Five S’s: How Bias Plays Out
The Five Ableist S’s is a term I’ve coined to describe five core behaviors through which ableism often expresses itself, especially toward neurodivergent people. These behaviors might seem subtle or even well-intentioned on the surface, but they carry lasting impact.
Here’s how they tend to show up in online interactions, particularly when someone like me shows up in a visibly neurodivergent way:
- Silencing happens when people dismiss my voice outright. They write off my content before engaging, assuming that my communication style means I have nothing worth listening to.
- Shunning shows up as people making vague comments about something feeling “weird” or me looking like AI, then disappearing, or encouraging others not to engage with my content.
- Stigmatizing appears again in comparisons to AI. The implication is that something about me is inherently unnatural or even threatening.
- Shaming often comes in the form of unsolicited advice: “Maybe try to alternate your tone more.” “Why are you smiling when talking about something serious?” These comments frame neurotypical standards as the only valid ones.
- Subjugating is the demand to conform. People telling me I’d be more successful if I changed how I talk, move, or express emotion. The message is: “You’d be more acceptable if you were less you.”
These judgments aren’t always conscious. But they’re learned, and they reinforce a system where only certain kinds of communication are seen as legitimate.
Letting Go of the Mask
After years of shaping myself to fit others’ comfort zones, I reached a point where I had to ask: what’s left of me when I’m done editing?
I still care about being clear. I still want my work to resonate. But I’ve stopped trying to sanitize myself into someone I’m not. Because no matter how many adjustments I make, someone will still find a reason to say I’m too strange.
That realization was freeing. I could stop contorting. I could speak plainly, even if that made some people uncomfortable. I could pause without performing. I could express emotion without translating it into someone else’s dialect.
The people who get it? They stay. And the ones who don’t? Maybe they were never really listening to begin with.
Final Thoughts
If you’ve ever felt like your neurodivergent presentation made people question your legitimacy, I want you to know that you’re not alone.
The world might read your communication style as unusual. It might treat your unmasked presence like an error to be corrected. But that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means the framework was never built to include you.
We don’t need more polish. We need more space to be human in all the ways that word can look and sound and feel.
How has the pressure to change your neurodivergent presentation (or the way you express yourself) shaped how you communicate—just to be seen, heard, or taken seriously?
Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.
