Note: What I describe in this post reflects a lived experience as someone on the autism spectrum. These are common traits of autism and Asperger’s Syndrome—often misunderstood in adult settings, especially among women and those who mask well.
People often wonder why I leave gatherings early. Why I skip the party. Why I say no to the group invite. Why I look so uncomfortable in meetings, friend circles, church settings, or even collaborative work spaces. It’s hard to explain—especially when I don’t have the words or energy to do so—but I’ll try here.
It’s not just that I don’t like group settings. It’s that I’m not made for them.
It doesn’t matter what the setting is—professional, spiritual, social, or casual. If it involves a group, especially one full of noise, forced energy, or surface-level interaction, I feel myself shutting down. My nervous system begins scanning for safety. My spirit begins looking for the nearest exit. And if I can’t leave right away, I begin mentally preparing for how long I can stay without losing myself in the process.
The Truth Is:
I don’t do well with:
- Parties
- Conferences
- Group projects
- Social gatherings
- Church fellowships
- Team-building exercises
- Even friendly hangouts, when the energy is off
It’s not because I’m anti-social or unfriendly. It’s because I’m deeply sensitive—to noise, to dissonance, to masked emotions, to surface-level interactions pretending to be connection. When I walk into a room and feel a disconnect between what people say and what they actually feel, it’s like nails on a chalkboard. That emotional dissonance isn’t just awkward for me—it’s exhausting.
I Pick Up on What’s Not Being Said
And sometimes what’s not being said is louder than anything in the room. Smiles that don’t reach the eyes. “Spiritual” talk that’s masking pride or insecurity. Small talk that feels like a performance. Encouragement laced with competition. All of it scrapes against my soul. And no, I can’t just “tune it out.” I don’t have an off-switch for this kind of sensing.
My System is Wired for Self-Preservation
In these settings, my instinct is almost always the same:
- Leave as soon as possible (sometimes after five minutes)
- Stay only as long as I can spiritually or emotionally bear it
- Go mute to conserve what little energy I have left
And when I say “mute,” I mean that literally. I experience selective mutism, especially in situations where the atmosphere is overwhelming, chaotic, or disingenuous. It’s not that I don’t want to talk—it’s that I can’t. Explaining that in the moment is almost impossible, because the very thing that would allow me to explain it—language—is the thing that shuts down.
When a Party Is Actually a Setup
This sensitivity to group settings isn’t just about discomfort. Sometimes, it’s about recognizing malice where others might see celebration.
One of the most painful examples of this happened when a narcissistic frenemy threw me a “surprise” party—something she knew I didn’t want. I thought I was arriving just to eat dinner with her and another coworker (the narcissistic frenemy’s flying monkey). The coworker showed up on time as well as a host of other coworkers who took me by surprise. I was really surprised!
The narcissistic frenemy arrived late on purpose, knowing that my discomfort would peak in her absence. The flying monkey she had present, kept their phone close the entire time—clearly reporting my reactions and awkward behaviors back to her, for entertainment. It wasn’t about celebration. It was a calculated humiliation.
She’d invited people who had previously smeared me, excluded me, stonewalled me, and in some cases—had participated in actions I believe were meant to harm me, including an incident I still suspect involved poisoning. I was even shown the list of invitees who reserved a spot but never came—almost as if to drive home the point of who was on “her side.” Two people I once considered friends were among them—turns out, they were narcissistic frenemies too.
Though it was supposed to be a “small” gathering, it felt ritualistic. Empty. Orchestrated. Designed to rattle my nervous system and push me into self-doubt and collapse. I stayed about 40 minutes—long enough to eat and thank the attendees, and long enough to feel the familiar internal death creeping across my chest—and then I left.
That day, I freed myself. I thanked them with grace, walked out, and blocked every last one of them from my phone. We were no longer coworkers. We were never truly friends. And I would no longer offer access to my presence, my silence, or my pain.
It’s Not Just Social Anxiety. It’s a Sacred Knowing.
Everything I’ve described here is not just personality—it’s a common lived experience of autistic individuals and people with Asperger’s Syndrome. The sensory overwhelm, the emotional dissonance, the shutdown, the need for retreat—these are not flaws. They’re traits. Deeply wired and constantly managed.
This isn’t just “being sensitive.” It’s part of how autism shows up in real life—not the stereotypes, but the quiet, invisible struggles so many of us live with every day.
So no—I don’t do parties.
I don’t do loud dinners.
I don’t do “show up just to show face.”
I don’t do social noise for the sake of appearances.
And I no longer feel guilty for that.
Because I’ve learned that protecting my peace, my nervous system, and my truth is far more important than conforming to the comfort of others. I don’t owe anyone access to my presence just because it makes them feel better.
I am not made for false settings.
I am not made for emotional noise.
I am made for depth, quiet, truth, and peace.
And I choose to honor that, even if no one else understands.
My Voice Unchained 