You agree to stay a little longer, even though the restaurant noise is making it hard to think. Your friend wants to tell you something, and you don’t want them to feel brushed off. So you keep listening and hope they finish soon.
Later, you’re exhausted and irritated. You wanted to spend time with them, but you also wanted to leave half an hour ago.
This is one way neurodivergent self-silencing can show up: you hold back what you need because someone else’s possible disappointment feels more urgent. Sometimes you agree so quickly that you only recognize your discomfort afterward.
Asking for quiet becomes an apology, while leaving a gathering requires reassurance that you had a good time. You might even stay somewhere uncomfortable because saying nothing seems easier than convincing someone you aren’t rejecting them.
This can overlap with masking, particularly when you’re concealing discomfort or managing your expression to meet social expectations. Those adjustments may help you get through an interaction, which is part of what makes them difficult to reconsider.
Other people’s responses can reinforce the habit. Someone may describe you as easygoing without realizing how often you’re agreeing to things you don’t want.
After a while, you can find yourself wondering whether they would still enjoy your company if you asked for more.
Caring can take effort without being fake
Some autistic and ADHD adults need time to work out what they feel or how they want to respond. If a friend shares something painful while you’re overwhelmed, you may care about them and still struggle to find words.
Choosing a thoughtful response doesn’t make your concern artificial. Nor does needing a moment mean you lack empathy.
The pressure comes when you believe you must respond immediately, regardless of your capacity. You start worrying about whether your face looks sympathetic enough instead of listening to what the person is saying. Meanwhile, your own need for a pause goes unspoken.
A flat voice or quiet expression doesn’t necessarily reveal how much you care. You might be concentrating or tired; it may simply be how you communicate.
Saying, “I’m listening; I just need a moment to take that in,” gives the other person some context without requiring you to conceal what’s happening for you.
The difficult part is allowing disappointment
When you’re accustomed to holding back, another person’s disappointment can feel like evidence that you should have kept quiet.
But a friend can wish you’d stayed longer and still respect your decision to leave. You can care about that disappointment without changing your answer.
Waiting until nobody minds your boundary may mean never setting it. Even considerate people won’t always want the same thing you do.
What tells you more is how they respond. Do they accept your answer, even reluctantly? Or do they keep pressing until you give in?
You can explain your needs clearly. The other person’s willingness to respect them remains their responsibility.
Give yourself time before agreeing
A useful place to begin is with the moment before your automatic yes.
“I’ll check and get back to you” gives you time to consider whether you actually want to go and what it would require. You don’t have to decide while watching someone’s face for signs of disappointment.
For plans you do want, try stating a limit early: “I’d love to come. I can stay for about an hour.” That may feel easier than waiting until you’re overwhelmed and trying to explain why you suddenly need to leave.
If you notice your discomfort only afterward, that information still helps. You might realize that dinner works better somewhere quieter, or that you need a shorter visit next time. You can use what you learned without criticizing yourself for not speaking up sooner.
Start with someone who has shown they can respect a request. You don’t need to disclose more or drop protective habits around someone who repeatedly punishes you for expressing needs.
When a person accepts your limit, give yourself a chance to notice. You asked for something, and the relationship continued. You don’t have to follow that with an apology.
Wrap Up
Neurodivergent self-silencing can be difficult to notice when you’ve become used to checking what everyone else wants first. Making room for your own needs starts with considering them before you commit.
The next time you feel yourself saying yes automatically, give yourself a moment. You may still choose yes, but you’ll have had a chance to include yourself in the decision.
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.
Someone leans in and asks, “Can I give you a hug?” It’s meant to be comforting, maybe even healing.
But instead of warmth, your nervous system responds with alarm.
Do I have to? Will I seem rude if I say no? What if they think I don’t care about them?
For many autistic and ADHD people, seemingly simple gestures like hugs, handshakes, and pats on the back come with sensory discomfort, social expectations, and a lifetime of pressure to respond the “right” way.
When Touch Comes With an Invisible Social Script
Hugs and handshakes carry meaning.
A hug might communicate affection, reassurance, or connection. A handshake might signal politeness or respect.
Because these gestures are so normalized, declining them can feel surprisingly difficult.
You may not actually want the hug—but you also don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings. Which is why you might want to say yes.
You tense your body, endure the contact, smile afterward, and hope nobody notices how uncomfortable you were.
For some neurodivergent people, this becomes another form of masking: suppressing your natural response so other people remain comfortable.
Touch Can Feel Very Different in a Neurodivergent Body
Sensory experiences vary enormously from person to person.
A hug that feels soothing to someone else might feel irritating, invasive, or overwhelming to you. A handshake introduces all kinds of unpredictable and uncomfortable sensations, such as pressure or moisture.
Even an unexpected pat on the shoulder can leave some people feeling unsettled long after the other person has forgotten it happened.
At the same time, being touch-sensitive doesn’t necessarily mean disliking all touch.
You might dislike light touch but enjoy firm pressure. You might love hugs from someone you trust but dislike being hugged unexpectedly. Or you might enjoy touch one day and find the exact same gesture unbearable when you’re already overstimulated.
The important distinction is choice.
Touch tends to feel very different when you want it, expect it, and have some control over how it happens.
The Cost of Always Saying Yes
Many neurodivergent people learn early that their boundaries will not always be understood.
We hear messages like: “It’s only a hug.” “Don’t be so sensitive.” “They’re just trying to be nice.”
Eventually, those messages can become internal ones. You may start telling yourself that refusing physical affection makes you difficult, cold, or ungrateful.
So instead of asking, What does my body actually want? you ask, What response will make everyone else comfortable?
Repeatedly overriding yourself can make it harder to recognize your own preferences at all.
That’s one of the hidden costs of masking: you can become so practiced at performing comfort that you lose touch with whether you actually feel comfortable.
Try Modulating Instead of Masking
There is another option. I call it modulating.
Masking means suppressing yourself to meet someone else’s expectations. Modulating means finding a way to participate in connection while still respecting your own needs.
Instead of enduring a hug you don’t want, you might say: “I’m not much of a hug person, but I’m really happy to see you.”
You might offer a fist bump instead of a handshake. You might prefer a side hug. Or, with someone you trust, you might explain that firm pressure feels much better than a light embrace.
Modulation gives you permission to move away from an all-or-nothing choice between complete compliance and complete withdrawal.
You can still connect. You just get to have some say in how that connection happens.
Consent Means the Answer Can Be No
Asking “Would you like a hug?” is only meaningful if saying no is genuinely acceptable.
Consent isn’t just about asking the question. It’s about respecting the answer without sulking, demanding an explanation, or treating someone’s boundary as rejection.
“No thanks.” “Not today.” “I’d rather fist bump.” Those should all be complete answers.
For neurodivergent people, creating this kind of consent culture can make relationships feel far safer.
It communicates something important: You don’t have to override your nervous system to prove that you care about me.
And that can create much more genuine intimacy than automatically performing a social ritual ever could.
Wrap Up
There is nothing inherently more loving about a hug than a wave, fist bump, smile, or heartfelt conversation.
The most meaningful form of connection is one both people can actually participate in comfortably.
Learning to identify your neurodivergent touch sensitivity—and communicate what does and doesn’t work for you—can take practice, especially after years of automatically putting other people’s comfort first.
But the people who care about you may appreciate being shown how to connect with you in a way that actually feels good.
What kind of touch feels comfortable to you—and which social gestures do you wish you felt more able to decline?
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.
Many autistic and ADHD people are highly sensitive to changes in patterns, including tone, communication, and emotional availability.
If you’ve also experienced rejection, exclusion, or relationships where someone slowly disappeared, subtle distancing may feel like a warning sign.
So you try to fix things.
You delay your replies so you don’t seem too eager, share less, and ask for less. You become more agreeable.
Slowly, the focus shifts from: “Is this relationship working for me?” to: “How do I stop this person from leaving?”
That’s where anxious attachment can lead you toward self-abandonment.
Signs of an anxious–avoidant dynamic
Avoidant attachment doesn’t always look like someone obviously running away from intimacy.
Sometimes it looks like inconsistency.
They may be very engaged one day and emotionally distant the next. When you ask what changed, they tell you that you’re overthinking.
You try to address a problem, and they shut down or say they “don’t want to fight.”
You share something vulnerable, and they change the subject, intellectualize your feelings, or offer a response that sounds empathetic without actually feeling emotionally present.
As a result, you may begin doubting your own perceptions.
You can notice a pattern without blaming yourself
Anxiety can sometimes cause us to interpret uncertainty negatively. But that doesn’t mean every concern is imagined.
The key is separating observation from interpretation.
For example: “They’ve initiated fewer conversations this week” is an observation.
“They’re losing interest because I ruined everything” is an interpretation.
You can take what you’re noticing seriously without automatically deciding it means there is something wrong with you.
Fast intimacy isn’t always secure intimacy
Another confusing pattern can be intense closeness early in dating.
Someone might tell you: “I’ve never connected with anyone like this.” “You understand me better than anyone.”
For neurodivergent people who have spent years feeling misunderstood, that kind of recognition can be incredibly powerful.
But intensity isn’t the same thing as safety.
Emotional security develops through consistency, honesty, repair, and the willingness to stay present when things become uncomfortable.
Stop trying to earn emotional availability
Anxious attachment, in the absence of reflection, can turn dating into an audition.
You may try to become less sensitive, or eager, or demanding, or visibly neurodivergent.
And yet, emotional safety shouldn’t require you to continually shrink yourself.
Healthy relationships still involve misunderstandings, frustration, and occasional distance. The difference is that both people are willing to communicate, reconnect, and repair.
So when you notice yourself obsessing over how to keep someone interested, try asking a different question: Do I feel emotionally safe, valued, and able to be myself with this person?
That question may tell you far more than analyzing another text message ever will.
Wrap Up
If you have anxious attachment, someone pulling away can trigger much more than disappointment. It can also activate old experiences of rejection and leave you scrambling to figure out what you did wrong.
But someone else’s emotional distance is not automatically evidence that you need to change yourself.
Pay attention to patterns. Pay attention to how the relationship makes you feel. And remember that your needs matter too.
Have you ever found yourself becoming smaller or less authentic when someone started pulling away?
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.
When I lived in LA, I frequently encountered something I called “California nice.”
Strangers would chat with me at ice cream shops, supermarkets, beaches—almost anywhere. They were often warm, open, casual, and easygoing. They talked as though we already knew each other.
And honestly? It was lovely.
But as a neurodivergent, I learned quickly that friendliness didn’t always mean openness to friendship.
Someone might say, “We should totally hang out sometime,” and I would think, Ah. So we are absolutely not going to hang out.
Maybe they meant it, and maybe they didn’t. But I had no reliable way of knowing, so I treated it as social decoration: pleasant, but not necessarily meaningful.
The Confusion of Social Grooming
Many neurodivergents encounter some version of “California nice,” whether or not they live anywhere near California.
People smile, ask questions, say kind things, and perform warmth.
Often, it’s hard to know whether these social cues reflect genuine interest or simply ritualistic responses. Sometimes it’s just the social currency of the moment.
For autistic and ADHD people, this can be incredibly confusing. We may wonder: Is this person actually interested in me? Are they inviting closeness, or just being polite? Can I be myself here, or will that be “too much”?
The stakes can feel high because opening up to the wrong person can be painful.
Maybe we share too much too soon, start talking passionately about a special interest, or be direct, intense, blunt, darkly funny, or emotionally honest before the other person is ready.
And suddenly, what felt like connection becomes distance.
Try the Relay Race Approach
One helpful strategy is to treat conversation like a relay race.
In a relay race, you don’t hold onto the baton forever. You run your stretch, then pass it on.
Conversation can work the same way.
You share a little. They share a little. You ask something. They respond.
You offer one small piece of yourself. Then you pause and see what they do with it.
Think teaspoons, not tablespoons.
Instead of pouring out your whole inner world at once, you offer small amounts and watch for reciprocity. Do they ask follow-up questions? Do they share something personal too? Do they seem curious, comfortable, and engaged?
The key here is to pace revealing who you are so you can gather information and protect your nervous system.
Pacing Can Create Safety
For many neurodivergents, social success is about finding ways to connect that don’t require abandoning ourselves.
Pacing gives us room to notice whether someone is capable of meeting us with curiosity, respect, and care. It helps us avoid the painful experience of offering vulnerability to people who only meant to exchange politeness.
And when someone does respond warmly—when they pick up the baton and pass it back—that’s useful information.
That may be someone worth getting to know.
Wrap Up
Navigating neurotypical social niceties can feel like trying to decode a language where half the words are implied and the rules keep changing.
But with social pacing, we can move more gently, protect ourselves from unnecessary hurt, and still leave space for real connection.
Have you ever struggled to tell the difference between friendliness and genuine friendship?
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.
For many people, birthdays are about celebration. But for many autistics and ADHDers, they can also become reminders of how fragile connection can sometimes feel.
A birthday is rarely just about getting older. It’s about belonging. About having people to mark the occasion with. And when your relationships have often been transitory, inconsistent, or shaped by years of masking and social exhaustion, birthdays can bring complicated emotions to the surface.
Many neurodivergent people grow up feeling like outsiders. Some prefer solitude because social interaction is draining. Others want connection deeply, but struggle with social anxiety, fear of rejection, or the exhausting pressure to perform neurotypical social norms.
Then there’s friendship drift—the phenomenon where relationships fade once the shared environment that held them together disappears. School ends. Jobs change. People move away. Communication slowly becomes less frequent until one day you realize someone important is no longer part of your life.
This experience isn’t exclusive to neurodivergent people, but it can feel especially intense for those of us who already struggle to find a sense of community or social ease.
Birthdays can become reminders of the people who used to be there. The friendships that faded. The community you wish you had. Or the version of yourself that believed connection would someday become easier.
At the same time, many neurodivergent people genuinely need solitude to recharge. That tension—wanting connection while also feeling overwhelmed by it—can create a confusing emotional push-pull that others may not fully understand.
But birthdays don’t have to look conventional to be meaningful.
Sometimes celebration is quiet. For example: a favorite comfort meal, a walk in nature, time spent with one safe person, or a peaceful evening without demands or masking.
That still counts as celebrating your life.
If birthdays feel emotionally complicated for you, you’re far from alone. Neurodivergent loneliness is real and shaped by experiences that often go unseen by others.
What has your experience with birthdays been like? Have they felt joyful, lonely, overwhelming, or all three at once? Share your thoughts in the comments.
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.
A lot of relationships slowly break down because crucial conversations never happen.
Needs go unspoken. Expectations remain unclear. Hurt feelings are sensed but never addressed, while frustration and emotional distance build beneath the surface.
This can be especially true in neurodivergent relationships, where communication styles may differ significantly. One person may communicate directly and literally, while the other relies more on tone, implication, or indirect emotional cues.
As a result, both people may believe they’re being clear while still misunderstanding each other completely.
This dynamic is often linked to what’s known as the double empathy problem: the idea that communication breakdowns happen both ways between neurodivergent and neurotypical people, rather than one person simply “failing” socially.
For many neurodivergent people, conflict itself can feel overwhelming. Fear of rejection, criticism, or emotional invalidation may lead us to avoid difficult conversations altogether. We might people-please, withdraw, or hope the tension simply disappears on its own.
But unspoken problems rarely stay small.
This is where explicit communication becomes so important. Saying things clearly and openly can reduce confusion and prevent resentment from growing in the background.
Sometimes that means saying:
“When you went quiet earlier, I started worrying you were upset with me. Was that the case?”
“I’m sensing tension between us, and I’d rather talk about it than make assumptions.”
“I need clearer communication right now because I’m struggling to read between the lines.”
“When plans change suddenly, I feel anxious and disconnected. Can you give me more warning next time?”
“I know you may not have intended it this way, but I felt hurt by what happened.”
“I’m feeling emotionally overwhelmed and need reassurance that we’re okay.”
“Can we talk about what each of us expects here instead of assuming we’re on the same page?”
“I’m avoiding this conversation because I’m scared of conflict, but I still think it’s important we have it.”
These conversations may feel vulnerable, especially if past experiences taught us that honesty leads to conflict or shame. That said, vulnerability also creates the possibility for understanding and repair.
Through explicit communication, we can create enough clarity and safety that both people feel seen, heard, and emotionally understood.
Healthy relationships likewise often depend less on mind-reading and more on the willingness to communicate openly and compassionately. The conversations we avoid are sometimes the very ones that could bring us closer together.
Have you experienced communication mismatches in relationships?
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.
For many neurodivergent people, relationships can feel confusing, intense, or emotionally exhausting. We may crave closeness while also fearing rejection, criticism, abandonment, or emotional overwhelm.
Often, this begins early in life.
Growing up autistic or ADHD in a world that doesn’t always understand neurodivergence can leave lasting emotional impacts. Repeated experiences of invalidation, exclusion, bullying, or inconsistency can shape the way we connect with other people. Over time, this may contribute to insecure attachment patterns.
Some people become anxiously attached, constantly seeking reassurance and closeness. Others become avoidant, learning to rely only on themselves because connection no longer feels emotionally safe. Some experience a mixture of both.
This can create painful relationship dynamics. For example, an anxiously attached person may repeatedly pursue emotionally unavailable partners, mistaking the emotional highs and lows for genuine love or connection.
But emotional intensity is not the same thing as emotional safety.
The encouraging reality is that attachment can change. Healing is possible through what psychologists sometimes call “earned secure attachment,” developing a stronger sense of trust and safety through positive, consistent relationships over time.
And those relationships don’t always have to be romantic.
For many neurodivergent people, healing starts with a therapist, a close friend, a family member, or even a pet. Animals especially can offer a form of connection that feels steady, accepting, and emotionally grounding.
Consistent care matters. Safe relationships slowly teach the nervous system that connection does not always lead to shame, abandonment, or rejection.
Those experiences cumulatively can reshape how we relate to ourselves and to others.
Healing neurodivergent attachment wounds doesn’t happen overnight. But with enough safe, supportive experiences, it is possible to feel more secure, connected, and emotionally grounded in relationships.
Have you had a person—or even a pet—who helped you feel safer and more secure over time?
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.
There’s something gutting about seeing friends gather without you, even when you know you would’ve struggled to be there.
Maybe you were already drained. Maybe the setting would’ve been too loud, too bright, too unpredictable. Maybe you knew it would take days to recover. And still, when no one asks if you want to come, it stings.
That sting isn’t about the party itself. It’s about not being seen. Not being remembered.
Sometimes, when an invitation does arrive, a different kind of discomfort shows up. You feel dread creeping in. You start bargaining with yourself: could you go for just an hour? Could you make it work somehow?
The guilt of wanting to decline battles the fear of missing out. You want to be part of things. You want to say yes. But you also know what it’s going to cost.
This kind of tension wears you down. Invitations start to feel more like pressure than possibility. You wonder if saying no too often means people will eventually stop asking.
And when they do, you tell yourself you saw it coming. But it still hurts.
This is a core feature of neurodivergent social fatigue: the emotional conflict between desire for connection and the protective pull of solitude.
When Socializing Costs More Than It Gives
For many autistic and ADHD folks, socializing isn’t just showing up and having fun. It’s navigating complex terrain: planning, scripting, adjusting, and recovering. It’s effortful. Sometimes deeply draining.
Days in advance, the mental logistics begin. What’s the lighting like? Who’ll be there? What will I say? Will I have to explain why I’m not eating what everyone else is?
Once you arrive, sensory input starts to pile up. Bright lights, background chatter, music layered over conversation. You feel your nervous system go into high alert.
You smile. You laugh. You nod at the right moments. But internally, you’re juggling a dozen tasks at once. This is the side of neurodivergent social fatigue that others often don’t see.
And then comes the crash. The mask comes off. You lie still. You cancel plans. You fall into a loop of analyzing every word you said.
This is the hidden cost of connection. One that builds over time. And one that leaves you feeling like the “you” people see isn’t the whole you at all.
Feeling Left Out of Things We Didn’t Want to Attend
You see the photos: dinners, parties, spontaneous hangouts. Everyone smiling, shoulder to shoulder. And it hits—hard. This is what makes social comparison so dangerous.
You likely wouldn’t have gone. But no one asked. And that absence feels loud.
You try to reason with yourself. You remember all the events you turned down. All the times you needed space more than company. And yet, your heart still aches with loneliness.
That ache is familiar to anyone who’s lived with neurodivergent social fatigue. The pain that you weren’t thought of. That you don’t belong in the same way others do.
The Middle Place of Half-Belonging
There’s a quiet, hard-to-name place where many autistic and ADHD people live; a space between isolation and inclusion. You’re not totally alone. But you’re not fully held, either.
You have friends. You care about people. Some care deeply about you. But you still feel slightly out of orbit, like you’re never quite central in anyone’s world.
You’re rarely the first person someone calls. You don’t get added to the spontaneous group chat. If you don’t initiate, things often just… don’t happen.
So you become the one who plans. Who checks in. Who coordinates based on your bandwidth. It gives you a measure of control, and also reminds you of how little comes your way unless you ask.
When you stop reaching out, the quiet that follows feels unmistakable.
That quiet feeds into the sense that your social needs are inconvenient. That your boundaries are too high-maintenance. That others are happy to include you, but only if it’s easy.
This is a subtle, but deeply felt part of neurodivergent social fatigue: the slow accumulation of near-invisible reminders that your presence is optional. That people enjoy you, but don’t depend on you. That you’re liked, but not always remembered.
And somehow, almost-belonging can feel more painful than being entirely on your own.
Making Peace with the Contradiction
Some days, connection feels worth chasing. Other days, the idea of texting back or being “on” for anyone feels impossible.
Your needs shift. Your energy changes. And your ability to tolerate discomfort doesn’t always line up with your desire for closeness.
There’s nothing wrong with you for needing space. There’s nothing wrong with you for wanting closeness, either. These aren’t failures. They’re just your reality.
For those living with neurodivergent social fatigue, one of the most healing practices can be this: letting both truths exist. “I’m sad I wasn’t there.” And also, “I needed to stay home.” Both are real. Both matter.
Sometimes peace comes through small, manageable bridges: quiet hangouts with one trusted person, short calls with a friend who doesn’t need small talk, messages exchanged at your own pace.
You begin to build a rhythm that honors your nervous system, without giving up on connection entirely.
And slowly, maybe, you stop chasing the idea of a perfectly fitting social life. You start noticing what feels good, even if it doesn’t look like everyone else’s version of “normal.”
Final Thoughts
Living with neurodivergent social fatigue means constantly balancing between craving connection and preserving your energy. That’s a heavy emotional lift—especially when the world moves faster, louder, and more casually than you do.
If you’ve felt like you’re always the one adapting, adjusting, bracing, you’re not alone.
You’re doing the best you can to meet your needs while still showing up. That deserves recognition. That deserves care.
Imagine how much gentler life would feel if people understood this. If “no” didn’t mean goodbye. If solitude wasn’t taken personally. If invitations came with room for nuance.
We’re not fully there yet, but by talking about this contradiction, by honoring our limits and longings side by side, we inch closer to the world we need.
So if you’re navigating neurodivergent social fatigue—if you’re walking that thin line between connection and protection—I see you. And your way of being in the world makes complete sense.
Have you wrestled with the challenge of neurodivergent social fatigue in your own life?
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.
Achieving social success as a neurodiverse (ND) person isn’t necessarily about mastering certain skills. At its essence, it’s about bridging the neurodiverse-neurotypical (NT) communication divide.
This divide stems from the fact that NTs often demand that NDs observe and conform to social norms. Some even demonstrate ableist privilege by painting ND approaches to communication as somehow lacking or inferior.
Rather than treating difference as a source of enrichment, they reject and punish NDs. This attitude stems from a deficit-based approach, which involves focusing on the apparent shortcomings of NDs rather than our strengths.
A strengths-based approach acknowledges that many NDs are endowed with unique qualities that can actually help us shine in many social contexts.
Autistic social strengths
Here’s one example of unique ND strengths. Autistics are widely recognized to be hyper-systemizers, interested in learning and mastering the complexities of our world. Marrying this thinking with one of our “special interests” can actually make us super interesting conversation partners.
Autistics can challenge social conventions in other positive ways. For example, we prefer not to speak in subtext. We don’t infuse our communication with secret meanings, so as to avoid confusion or misunderstanding.
We also inherently trust others, taking them at face value and believing their stated intentions rather than ascribing hidden motives.
Social challenges
But there are some downsides to operating outside of the bounds of social convention.
Many NDs know what it’s like to unwittingly say something that is insensitive, inappropriate—or outright offensive—only to receive a swift rebuke from an NT.
In such instances, many NTs will condemn our behavior and even shun our company. These reactions can leave NDs feeling misunderstood, attacked, excluded, and abandoned.
Realizing that we may not always be treated with grace, we remain perpetually on guard, ears pricked in anticipation of criticism.
In some cases, we may even go on the defensive, thus deepening the relational rupture.
In others, we shut down and withdraw. When a world of pain can be just one interaction away, it is easier to absent oneself, internalize others’ criticisms, and self-stigmatize.
An overprotective reaction makes sense—at least initially. But what starts as adaptive quickly becomes maladaptive, at least when it comes to achieving autistic social success.
Socially shapeshifting, or “masking” in order to present a version of ourselves that is more acceptable to NTs means stymying spontaneity, swallowing our emotions, and stuffing our authentic selves out of view.
Worse still, when we withdraw, we deprive ourselves of opportunities to build and refine our social skills. And it prevents others from getting to know our true selves.
Ruptures happen
What’s important to recognize here is that misunderstanding and conflict play out in all relationships, whether NTs or NDs are involved.
Years ago, a friend offered to make some tea for me. As he didn’t have a kettle or a stovetop, he proposed microwaving my water instead.
While my friend saw this as a convenient solution, something about the idea of blasting water with microwave particles rubbed me the wrong way. So I expressed my discomfort, suggesting we skip making the tea altogether.
Rather than listening and respecting my request, my friend decided he would try to persuade me to agree. Drawing upon his background in physics, he explained in great detail the mechanics behind the microwave.
When I again declined his offer, however, my friend grew angry, telling me I was just “choosing to be stupid”. But what he failed to understand was that my initial refusal was rooted in fear and anxiety.
The breakdown in our communication began when my friend decided the remedy for this fear and anxiety was logic. When logic didn’t work, he concluded that I was stubborn and illogical.
But what strikes me most about this story now is that while I was hurt by my friend’s allegation, I understood where he was coming from. As our minds functioned in similar ways, I inferred (correctly, I believe) the source of his frustration, but also his ultimately good intentions.
Had I been NT however, the case might have been quite different. Rather than absorbing my friend’s words in thoughtful silence, I might have lashed out at him or stormed out of his apartment.
Researchers believed “mindblindness” impaired autistics’ social cognition, resulting in behaviors that are potentially inappropriate, insensitive, or offensive to NTs, and inhibiting autistic social success.
They now acknowledge however that the reality is much more complex; that mindblindness may in fact be a mutual phenomenon, what is referred to as the double empathy problem.
This concept acknowledges that both autistics and neurotypicals experience mindblindness when it comes to reading one another correctly. It goes a long way to explaining the source of the struggle many autistics—and ADHDers—face in social contexts.
And it demonstrates that the difficulty people experience communicating across the NT/ND divide is mutual. Neither NDs nor NTs bear full responsibility for misunderstandings.
It follows, therefore, that the onus is on both parties to do what they can to bridge this divide.
Modulating, not masking to create ND social success
In a series of subsequent posts, I will discuss a range of ND behaviors I myself have exhibited.
I acknowledge these behaviors have on occasion been a source of misunderstanding and conflict during social interactions with NTs. But I want to stress that my focus here is not problematizing ND behaviors, but rather problem-solving the resultingcommunication breakdowns.
For this reason, I will refer to these behaviors as “challenges”, while presenting some “alternatives” that fellow autistics may consider engaging in, as they see fit.
These alternatives represent hard-won lessons from many years of personal struggle. They are not concerned with “masking” one’s autistic identity or interests; their focus instead is “modulating” one’s conduct.
Modulation—that is, selective and strategic presentation of the self—is a practice all individuals engage in during everyday interactions. Modulating helps to win the acceptance of others while bolstering an atmosphere of mutual understanding and respect and preserving social order.
In my experience, NTs have an easier time modulating than we do as NDs, given our unique neurology. But I’m a firm believer that with enough observation and practice, we can match—and even exceed—our NT peers in this regard.
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.
Neurodivergent (ND) hypervigilance—that is, always being on the lookout for danger—involves the careful observation of neurotypicals (NTs) in an attempt to appease or minimize their negative reactions.
It’s a common response to having to navigate social interactions with NTs; interactions governed by complex and unspoken rules.
Should we fail to follow these rules—inevitable, given they’re never directly explained to NDs—we’re often punished.
NTs may label our remarks and behavior as odd, tangential, patronizing, confusing, incomprehensible, inappropriate, or excessive.
They’ll tell us we came off harsh or insensitive or that we’re being too critical. They may even accuse us of playing dumb or showing off.
Misunderstandings such as these however are not solely the responsibility of the ND. NTs also play a part, as has been argued by researchers who support the double empathy problem theory.
And yet the blame more often than not gets laid at the ND’s door. Blame however does not teach skills. Rather, it imbues NDs with an unhealthy paranoia.
So much so that we end up spending our days watching every little thing we say and do, for fear we might unwittingly offend someone.
Living in shame-prone cultures
This paranoia is a direct product of the fact we live in what author Brené Brown calls a “shame-prone” culture.
In “shame-resilient” cultures, Brown argues, self-worth is unconditional, thereby enabling us “to be vulnerable, share openly, and persevere”.1
In shame-prone cultures, however, leaders and other authority figures “consciously or unconsciously encourage people to connect their self-worth to what they produce”.
This link between self-worth and productivity stems largely from capitalism, and drives people to behave in ways that are “small, resentful, and afraid”.
A classic example of this is the NT preemptively defending themselves or their position, retaliating against a perceived assault with an accusation or criticism, or cutting off communication with the ND.
The legacy of living in shame-prone culture is that we all carry around with us some measure of internalized shame that is automatically triggered when we feel our worthiness has been called into question.
The NT’s hostile response to the ND serves not only to fend off a perceived attack but to deny the implication that they were somehow deserving of this attack in the first place.
In such instances, the NT has failed to give the ND grace; to entertain the possibility of a misunderstanding, ask clarifying questions, and work to repair the social rupture.
The shame of ableism
When NTs respond this way, they may in turn trigger the ND’s own hoard of internalized shame.
What follows often is a descent down a spiral of self-guilt-tripping. We tell ourselves that we’re “stupid”, “inferior”, “unlikeable”, “terrible company”, and “always messing things up” because that is the message we are routinely sent by NTs.
But unless we are provided constructive opportunities to build and hone our social skills, free of criticism and judgment, we’re likely to continue making mistakes and spiraling ever deeper into shame.
When fight-or-flight goes awry
When our shame is triggered, the ND may similarly marshall their own defenses, launch a counterattack or flee.
NTs and NDs who react in such a fashion are experiencing a “fight-or-flight” response. As The Happiness Trap author Russ Harris explains:
The fight-or-flight response is a primitive survival reflex that originates in the midbrain. It has evolved on the basis that if something is threatening you, your best chance of survival is either to run away (flight) or to stand your ground and defend yourself (fight)… So whenever we perceive a threat, the fight-or-flight response immediately activates. In prehistoric times, this response was lifesaving.2
Fight-or-flight may be an ingrained evolutionary response, but it is also exacerbated by shame-prone cultures, which provide narratives justifying our reactions.
Given the comparatively safe conditions in which many modern humans now live, the fight-or-flight response today is more maladaptive than adaptive.
Why? Because when it is engaged, it can lead to us developing unpleasant feelings. It results in the negative reactions detailed above, usually with destructive results.
Neurodivergent social challenges
Misunderstandings between NDs and NTs largely occur because of inherent differences in cognitive and social styles.
Autistics as a population for example have been found to exhibit egocentric (self) bias, as opposed to altercentric (other) bias when it comes to social interactions.3
That is, we tend to ascribe our feelings, thoughts, or needs to others, rather than intuiting, reading, or asking.
This tendency may result in part from developmental prosopagnosia, which is more common among autistic individuals.4
Developmental prosopagnosia refers to impaired face identity and facial expressions recognition, a skill that is essential for correctly gauging others’ emotions and intentions.5
These differences leave autistics less capable of realizing we have made a social blunder, which can in turn make the task of overcoming them appear almost impossible.
The downside of ND hypervigilance
Accidents and misunderstandings are par for the course when interacting with NTs, and the most we can ever do as NDs is to proceed with caution.
Taken to its extreme, caution can become ND hypervigilance, as we work to compensate for perceived threats with strategies such as masking.6 Hypervigilance and compensatory strategies are common resorts for the overly-conscientious NDs.
For years, I myself employed hypervigilance, scanning strangers during social interactions for friend/foe signals, subjecting every conversation to extensive analysis.
Hours were spent trying to decipher the meaning behind a particular facial expression or a specific choice of word as if doing so might protect me against future mistakes.
And yet for all this effort, I continued to put my foot wrong, with NTs often distancing themselves from me despite my attempts to explain myself or apologize.
ND hypervigilance is what happens when fear monopolizes our psyche. It leaves us frozen; incapable of feeling and expressing our emotions; unable to engage in spontaneity, jokes, and laughter.
Such expressions can’t happen without vulnerability, and to be vulnerable in a hostile social environment is to open oneself to attack.
To remain in a hypervigilant state, however, constitutes a complete betrayal of both ourselves and our needs. It puts the onus on us to do whatever possible to ensure our social interactions are successful—an expectation no one can reasonably meet.
And it deprives others of the opportunity to get to know our authentic ND selves.
Empathy as an alternative to ND hypervigilance
As discussed in a previous post, modulation—selective and strategic presentation of the self—is a practice all individuals engage in during everyday interactions. It is key to generating social harmony and cohesion.
Modulation as a practice is highly advantageous to NDs. It is not a compensatory behavior, not an attempt at appeasement, but rather concerned with meeting the other person where they’re at.
Social interactions, whether they involve Nds or NTs, are a dance that must be navigated carefully, patiently, and kindly. Both partners must regularly check in with each other to ensure the other party is doing okay.
Ruptures in these relationships happen when:
We don’t ask our partner’s permission before initiating the dance
We insist on not following the tempo of the music
We fail to match our partner’s pace or to coordinate our steps with theirs
We step on our partner’s toes—and don’t apologize
The good news is that these ruptures can be repaired through acts of consideration, kindness, and empathy.
Openness and vulnerability: the way forward
NDs need not live in a perpetual crouch, terrified of negative consequences when we commit a social mistake.
Rather, we can approach these ruptures with an attitude of openness. When others offer complaints or requests, we have the option to listen without immediately reacting.
If someone shares that they have been genuinely hurt or harmed by something we’ve said or done, we can create a space for their feelings, without taking them on, while braving any discomfort that might result.
We can lean into our mistakes by acknowledging, apologizing, and pledging to do better—while also asking the other person’s advice, when appropriate, on how we might do so.
As someone who is both autistic and ADHD, I have found that interpersonal conflict rarely continues if I admit my errors soon after they are brought to my attention.
For those of us with a history of being criticized during past social interactions with NTs, such an admission might not come easy. But if we are to triumph over our internalized shame, we must be willing to reach for self-compassion.
Practicing self-compassion means choosing to accept our fallibility and to love ourselves regardless. It means embracing our vulnerability and having “the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome”.7
Steps to overcome ND hypervigilance
Vulnerability is a key ingredient for empathy, an approach that forms the basis of all solutions I will propose to common ND social challenges.
These solutions typically involve one or more of the following actions:
Assessing needs
Asking permission
Seeking clarification
Listening reflectively
Admitting mistakes
Sharing intentions
Adjusting behaviors
I share my approach here with the caveat that these actions are not exclusively for ND folks.
NTs are equally capable of making mistakes and equally responsible for taking action when it is brought to their attention. The fact that many choose not to, instead of pinning blame exclusively on the ND for a misunderstanding, is a reflection of neurotypical privilege.
It’s perfectly fair to expect NTs to practice the actions I’ve listed above. Arguably, ND hypervigilance wouldn’t be necessary at all, if NTs indeed did so.
But, as in any social interaction, we should strive to focus on only that which is within our control. Namely: whether or not we choose to take the high road, and the rigor with which we apply ourselves to this effort.
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.
