This I Believe About Autism: I Was Never Just Shy

An essay by Julie

Every autistic person has a unique way of experiencing and making sense of the world. Through our This I Believe series, members of the Embrace Autism community share the beliefs, experiences, and moments that have shaped their lives.

In this essay, Julie reflects on growing up believing she was simply shy, only to discover decades later that she was autistic. Through memories of masking, observation, and self-discovery, she explores what it means to move beyond shame and finally feel safe enough to emerge from the shell she built to survive.

I Was Never Just Shy

Don’t mind her, she’s just shy. Time and again, people urged me to “come out of my shell,” as though I was not a girl but a mollusk. So, I learned to make myself small. If I didn’t take up too much space, they wouldn’t notice me, and if they didn’t notice me, maybe they wouldn’t pick up on my differences.

I was wrong. Such self-effacement did nothing to alleviate my shyness, though, because I was never just shy—I was autistic. Like many girls who grew up in the ‘80s and ‘90s, my neurodivergence was mistaken for shyness and hypersensitivity. I was 44 before I knew the truth.

Early on I learned the art of quiet observation and mimicry. I became a kind of Diane Fossey, studying the human animals around me in order to blend in and be accepted into their kingdom. I devoured TV shows and books like Sweet Valley High, not for pleasure but for clues on how to act.

As an only child, I got lost in my own world: reading, drawing, and my favourite pastime—eavesdropping on adult gossip. Everything was fine until I was expected to hang out with kids my own age. Being sent to the playground felt like being sent to the frontline. My survival tactic then and now? Retreat and watch from the periphery.

Eventually, desperate for friends, I became a shapeshifter. I played whatever the girls in my class wanted to play, deferred to their tastes in everything from music and movies, to games and boys, even when those tastes ran contrary to my own. Sure, I’ll watch Dirty Dancing for the hundredth time. I’ll even pretend to find Patrick Swayze attractive rather than sleazy. I laughed at jokes I didn’t understand, much less found funny. Once, I crunched my way through a bag of raw macaroni because my friend was doing it. The hard pasta stuck in my molars for hours.

In groups, I fell mute. Since I had no idea what to say that wouldn’t come across as weird, awkward, or insensitive (I still don’t), the safest bet was often to say nothing at all.

From the outside, my autistic traits looked like shyness. Not surprising since both involve a degree of social awkwardness, a preference for solitary activities, and distress in certain environments. Both may avoid eye contact. But there are fundamental differences. Shyness is a personality trait that is usually temporary and context-dependent. Autism, on the other hand, is a lifelong developmental condition affecting social interaction, communication, and behaviour.

Where an autistic person may struggle to recognize and understand emotions (a condition known as alexithymia), a shy person may simply take longer to warm up to new people and situations. And then there is the gender bias. Shyness in girls is more socially acceptable, even endearing, than in boys.

Shyness is thought to stem from self-consciousness, low self-esteem, and a fear of rejection. The autistic person isn’t self-conscious so much as oblivious or confused when faced with verbal and nonverbal cues we don’t understand. We tend to avoid small talk, only to go off on conversational tangents, “infodumping” about our interests without regard to how our monologues are received.

Often the distress I experienced as a girl was due to certain noises, smells, and textures. I refused to eat the foods or wear the clothes I was given and threw tantrums. Sometimes I pushed through my sensory and social overwhelm, only to fall ill. My frequent migraine attacks “ruined” countless celebrations I looked forward to, like Christmas, even my own birthday parties.

My behaviour mustn’t have made me an easy child to parent. The older I got, the better I became at masking to save face at school and later, at work. I rehearsed conversations, made eye contact even when it felt uncomfortable, and suppressed tics and stims lest I look strange.

Masking helped me cope, yet in the long run it did me considerable harm. I masked for so long, I became depressed and burned out. No wonder autistic females have higher rates of chronic physical and mental health conditions and are 13 times more likely to die by suicide than non-autistic women.

When I was young, people treated my shyness like a curse. It was something I would grow out of, if I was lucky. Something I could overcome, if only I tried hard enough. Growing up undiagnosed, I always wondered what was wrong with me. There had to be more to it than shyness. I internalized a lot of shame.

It’s been five years since my diagnosis. I’m in my late forties, and I still have my shell—only, it goes by a different name now: autism. I am slowly getting to know who I am underneath the false exterior. I want to tell that girl she is not too sensitive, weird or shy. She is exactly who she is supposed to be. I want to tell that soft, vulnerable mollusk that it’s okay, she can come out now. She no longer needs to hide.

About

This essay was awarded Third Place in the Embrace Autism This I Believe Essay Competition. Congratulations, Julie!

Julie M Green is the author of the memoir, Motherness (ECW Press). Her work has been published in the Washington Post, HuffPost, Parents, Globe and Mail, Today’s Parent, and more. She has appeared on various shows, including CTV, BBC Radio, Global News, and Sirius XM. She writes about her experiences as a late-diagnosed autistic woman raising an autistic child at The Autistic Mom.