I thought I found a friend.
Connection as an autistic can feel unsafe, and sometimes understanding comes too late. I am learning to find clarity and trust myself even in the midst of social erosion.
Not just someone to talk to, but someone I could meet—mind to mind, idea to idea—without the quiet undercurrent of being evaluated, corrected, or misunderstood. Someone who might understand the way I move through the world, or at least respect it.
I have spent years learning how to recognize when something feels “off.” Not because I was naturally good at it—but because I had to be.
For most of my life, I didn’t realize that the subtle discomfort I felt in conversations had meaning. I assumed confusion meant I was missing something. That if I just listened harder, thought more carefully, tried to understand better, I would eventually arrive at the same place as everyone else.
But I wasn’t missing anything. I was feeling the shape of something that wasn’t being said.
Autistic people are often described as lacking social awareness. But I don’t think that’s entirely true.
I think many of us are aware—deeply aware—but we are taught not to trust what we notice unless it can be explained in the same language everyone else uses. And when the language is built on subtext, hierarchy, and implication, that leaves us at a disadvantage.
Because what do you do when something feels wrong, but no one will name it?
What do you do when someone is kind—but also condescending? Friendly—but also dismissive? Engaged—but only as long as they remain the authority in the room?
You learn to doubt yourself.
I have had friendships that lasted years—decades, even—where I later realized I was not being treated as an equal.
I was pressured into a sexual situation with a friend and her husband, only to be told later that they felt it was a form of assault. Assault against me! I was flabbergasted and all the more confused by the situation when that detail came out years later. Why did they feel as if they assaulted me? Were they manipulating me that whole night? The whole friendship?
I was manipulated in my marriage, where pick-up-artist techniques were tested on me, and even after I fell in love, I endured verbal and emotional abuse. My children were taken during separation and divorce, leaving me to navigate loss and grief while still trying to understand who I could trust.
I have had a friend from school who, looking back, had been subtly mocking me for years. I didn’t realize it at the time. I didn’t understand why certain interactions left me feeling off. Only after self-identifying as autistic in my late twenties did the memories rush back and make sense. It wasn’t me. It was them.
There is a particular kind of grief that comes with this. Not just the loss of a person, but the loss of what you thought the relationship was.
The conversations you believed were mutual.
The connection you thought was real.
The safety you assumed was there.
And when that illusion breaks, it doesn’t just change how you see that one person. It changes how you see yourself.
You start to ask questions like: How did I not see this? How many other times has this happened? Can I trust my perception at all?
And slowly, without meaning to, the world becomes less safe. Not because everyone is unsafe—but because you no longer know how to tell the difference.
This is how social isolation begins. Not always through rejection, but through erosion.
Through repeated experiences of being misread, talked down to, or subtly positioned as “less than.” Through realizing that what feels like connection on your end is not always mirrored on theirs.
So you pull back. You share less. You test more. You stay quiet where you once would have spoken freely.
Not because you don’t want connection—but because connection has come with a cost.
And yet, there is something else happening, too. Something quieter. Steadier.
A kind of recalibration.
Because over time, I have started to notice something: every single time I later realized a dynamic was unequal, I had already felt it.
Not clearly. Not confidently. But it was there.
A pause.
A flicker of confusion.
A moment where something didn’t quite land right.
I didn’t lack awareness. I lacked permission to trust it.
So this is what I am learning now:
I am no longer interested in friendships where I have to prove I understand my own mind.
I am no longer interested in conversations where curiosity is replaced with correction, or where disagreement becomes hierarchy.
I am no longer willing to override my internal sense of “off” just because I cannot immediately explain it.
This does not mean I trust no one. It means I am learning to trust myself first. To let understanding come in its own time. To let patterns reveal themselves without forcing clarity too soon. To accept that not every connection is meant to deepen.
And maybe most importantly— To believe that there are people who will meet me as an equal.
Not as a problem.
Not as a project.
Not as someone to interpret or fix.
But as someone to know. I still want friendship. I still believe in it. But I am no longer willing to lose myself in the process of trying to keep it.
And if that means my circle becomes smaller, quieter, more intentional, then maybe that isn’t isolation.
Maybe it’s the beginning of something safer.