A Conversation with Autistic Ang on Recognition, Unmasking, and Returning to the Body
Conversations Behind the veil 003
In the third edition of Conversations Behind the veil, I sat down with Autistic Ang—writer, podcaster, and creator of Adulthood…with a chance of autism, a Substack that blends vulnerability and razor-sharp clarity to illuminate the late-discovered autistic experience.
We talk about the long road to self-recognition, the exhaustion of masking, and the grief and beauty of rewriting your life story through a new lens. Ang speaks with disarming honesty and tenderness, inviting us into the body’s truth, the mind’s defenses, and the deep desire to feel safe enough to be known.
This series is a space for honest, unguarded dialogue with fellow artists and writers. We explore the unseen: chronic illness, creativity, queerness, neurodivergence, and the quiet work of staying whole in a fractured world.
Before we begin, I briefly wanted to share a guest post I had the honor of writing for
! You can check that out here:
Content Note: This conversation includes discussion of autistic masking, meltdowns, medical gaslighting, and the emotional aftermath of being misunderstood or misdiagnosed.
vōx: Hi Ang! Thank you so much for sitting down with me and letting me explore your brain. I’ve been getting to know you this year through your beautiful Substack writing. I love that so many of your pieces feel like poetry. Poetry where I feel so seen and welcome as an autistic person! Your writing allows the autistic experience to be as complex and messy as it needs to be.
How did you get started in writing? What initially drew you to this outlet?
Ang: I really appreciate what you shared, especially how the writing feels like a welcome space. That tells me I’m reaching who I mean to.
Writing is the most consistent way I know to offer presence—not performance, not persuasion, just presence—to people who’ve gone too long without it. Especially other autistic adults who, like me, found out later in life and have had to rebuild our entire sense of reality with almost no scaffolding.
I write to say: You’re not imagining things. That pain had a shape. That pattern had a name. That story was real.
Substack became the space where I could do that regularly without dilution. It’s not an algorithmic hallway or a scrolling blur. It’s a room where people choose to arrive, and I take that seriously. There’s a kind of mutual nervous system that forms between a writer and their readers over time. For autistic folks who’ve been misattuned for most of their lives, that rhythm of consistent, emotionally regulated presence can be incredibly healing.
So I don’t write about myself. I write from a place that recognizes what it’s like to be unrecognized. And I try to make that space feel steady, clear, and humane—kind of like the letter we needed twenty years ago but didn’t get.
vōx: I love that you write to validate the later-in-life diagnosed autistic person. The gaslighting and denial of my experience from everyone around me for 35 years was so, so damaging. It left me unable to validate myself, unable to witness myself, unable to even see clearly what I was suffering through. It led me to put myself in dangerous situations. It led me to extreme burnout.
My family was the first place I learned to mask1 and to shutdown2. My sensory sensitivities were called complaining. My emotions were ignored, and I never learned how to manage my overwhelm in a healthy way.
It’s led to quite a strained and sparse relationship with my family over the years. Most of my life, I’ve felt misunderstood by them, and so I shut them out from ever really knowing me.
I had a turning point a few years ago when I was seeing a therapist who was also autistic. After we discussed that both my parents are also likely autistic, she told me it could help to think about where their limitations lie, and to adjust my expectations accordingly. For example, my mom, as an autistic person, cannot recognize most emotions in others. She’s even told me this! And yet, I’ve still been out here expecting her to just know what I’m feeling.
It took a while for this idea to really settle in (a few years!). But more recently, I feel like I’ve been able to hold her reactions more lightly. Like when she asks me on the phone how Cam’s (my partner, who’s currently undergoing a bone marrow transplant) parents are doing, and I say, “Yeah, not well.” And she replies, “Oh, is everything ok? Is their dog ok?”
Instead of jumping to disappointment–my mom is dismissing me, my mom doesn’t love me, my mom doesn’t understand me–I can just say to myself: It’s ok. My mom needs me to spell things out clearly or she doesn’t know what’s up. So I remind her that my partner is in the hospital undergoing a life-threatening procedure, and she immediately gets it and tells me how hard that must be.
Unfortunately, my relationship with my mom is the only one I’ve really found any real repair in. It’s a slow process–trudging through a lifetime of hurt and misunderstanding to find softness on the other side. And sometimes, we’re just too tired.
You allude to your dynamic with your family in some of your pieces. Among my autistic friends, strained family relationships seem so common. At least, many of us I know experience that. Are you open to speaking more about your relationship with your family and how it connects to being autistic?
Ang: First, thank you for sharing all of that so openly. I read your words slowly, especially that moment on the phone with your mom, and felt the layers in it. There’s something so heartbreakingly familiar about wanting to be understood in a crisis, only to be met with a response that seems entirely wonky. And then choosing not to spiral into disappointment but instead gently recalibrating your expectations in real time. That’s a radical, skillful form of compassion. For her. And for you.
I really want to underline the years it can take to metabolize those insights. I think people outside our experience sometimes assume that naming a dynamic means you’re instantly free of it. But you beautifully captured how long it can actually take to embody that knowledge—to stop expecting fluency from someone who speaks an entirely different emotional language and to stop blaming yourself for wanting it in the first place.
What you said about your mom not recognizing most emotions in others (and even telling you that) struck something in me. That kind of direct admission is rare. And the fact that you’re learning how to be in relationship with her as she is, instead of how you wish she could be, is an act of maturity and grief all at once. That’s excellent work. I hope you know that.
I also want to honor the part you shared about the rest of your family… the distance, the rare communication, the quiet truth that sometimes repair just doesn’t happen. Or doesn’t feel worth the energy it would take. For so many of us, there’s no tidy resolution. Just the slow, foggy work of figuring out what kind of contact, if any, allows us to remain intact. That’s a valid outcome too.
For me, my relationship with my family is best described as a system of survival strategies, not connection. I grew up in an environment that was emotionally unsafe and often outright abusive. My mother made it clear, in both words and actions, that I was unwanted. My brother was loved. I was not. That distinction shaped everything. My dad was physically present sometimes but emotionally inert—mostly sitting in front of the TV with a beer, detached from the dysfunction unraveling around him.
Looking back through the lens of autism, what I now understand is that I wasn’t just a “sensitive kid” or “too much.” I was neurodivergent in a house where no one had the capacity or willingness to notice, much less support that. I masked constantly, tried to intuit danger before it arrived, and became hypervigilant about tone, volume, silence. That level of scanning was the only way to feel even a little bit safe. And that scanning didn’t stop when I left the house; it became how I lived.
So much of my unrecognized autism was weaponized against me. My need for clarity was called disrespect. My sensory sensitivities were framed as drama. My shutdowns were seen as stonewalling. There was no room for difference, only punishment for deviation. And when you’re raised like that, it takes years to realize your coping mechanisms were actually intelligence. Adaptations. Survival.
Even now, any movement toward “repair” would require the other party to be rooted in reality. And they aren’t. So I protect myself with distance. And that isn’t bitterness. It’s alignment. I write, in part, because I know what it’s like to grow up unheard. I offer consistency because I didn’t have it. I write to other autistic adults not from a place of closure but from a commitment to stop reenacting the harm of being misunderstood.
vōx: I feel it right in my gut, reading about your childhood. Thank you so much for sharing. I see myself deeply in your experiences, and I know others will, too.
That state of hypervigilance is one I’ve spent my whole life trying to unravel–to be present in my body and relaxed, to be able to give my nervous system peace. That’s a lifelong journey for me.
I think back to my upbringing–those out-of-the-blue, big angry moments from my parents. In retrospect, I can now see these as autistic meltdowns3, but at the time, I was terrified. I would often hide in my closet when there was yelling. My body would be immobile in autistic shutdown for hours.
Until I first read about autistic meltdowns, I hid my own in shame. I thought I had huge anger issues. I never told a soul. Now that I know these moments weren’t a choice but a system overload, I can often prevent them before they happen. And when they do happen, I can meet myself with kindness and understanding.
I’ve been learning how to let my body know it’s safe now. I thank it for protecting me the only way it knew how at the time. I tell my inner child: I don’t judge you. All your feelings are valid. I will protect you.
My nephew is autistic, and that was probably the first time I ever thought about autism. I would have been in my 20s. But of course, a small boy and his characteristics stirred no sense of similarity in me–so I thought nothing of it.
It wasn’t until around 2020 that I had my first spark of wondering if I might be autistic. One of my close friends had gotten diagnosed and was sharing some content on socials. And I really saw myself in it! Like–WAIT A SECOND. So I went down a content rabbit hole. I had to make sure I was sure. I had to make it my special interest4.
Shortly after that, my mom visited and told me she suspected she was autistic. So this knowledge was inching me closer to the idea. By this point, through copious research, I knew autism ran in families.
I decided to try to get a diagnosis. It ended up being a two-year-long process involving forced therapy under my health insurance–with therapists who gaslit me and told me they didn’t think I was autistic. But in 2023, at 35, I was diagnosed.
Since then I’ve felt so much relief, forgiveness, and self-understanding–so many aha moments, so much reframing of past experiences through this new lens. It’s changed my life!
I’d love to know how you first heard of autism–what first sparked your suspicion? And where did your journey lead from there? What were some moments of reframing that really shifted things for you?
Ang: What stands out to me most in what you shared isn’t the moment of realization (though I know how seismic that can be) but how seriously you took it. That you didn’t just skim the surface but went all the way down the rabbit hole! That you let the possibility of being autistic change things. That you gave yourself time to know, not just intellectually, but in your bones.
So many late-identified autistic adults second-guess ourselves into oblivion. We gaslight ourselves before anyone else even gets the chance. Because we’ve been taught that knowing ourselves is somehow arrogant or delusional. And yet, you trusted the glimmers. The hunches. You did what many of us were told not to do: you believed yourself. That kind of self-trust is hard-won for sure.
For me, it started as a whisper. I was reading Hannah Gadsby’s memoir—someone I already deeply respected—and when she began to talk about her autism, something inside me went very still. But also very alert. That whisper grew louder over time, but I still didn’t know exactly what to do with it.
Then I had this massive breakdown during a rough chapter in my marriage. Everything felt cracked open, and in the middle of that storm, I got the thought to find a book on autism. Just to see. Just to rule it out. I found Autism in Adults by Dr. Luke Beardon and read the entire thing in one sitting. I was barely breathing by the end. It was like someone had been filming my internal world my entire life and only now handed me the footage.
After that, I couldn’t stop. I went to find podcasts since they’re my special interest. Meet My Autistic Brain was the first, then Oh, That’s Just My Autism, and Autistic Culture. I binged them. Every episode lit up some hidden room in me. I kept thinking, Why does this feel like eavesdropping on my own thoughts?
I didn’t pursue a formal diagnosis because I never doubted it. And practically, it didn’t make sense. I don’t live near an assessor, Zoom isn’t doable for me because of audio processing challenges, and I don’t need workplace accommodations because I work for myself. But mostly, I just knew. I knew like you know when you finally hear your name said the right way . . . not as a question, but as recognition.
The reframing began almost instantly. My entire childhood took on a new shape. Moments where I was punished for asking “too many questions” were suddenly clear: I was trying to understand a chaotic world. The shutdowns that got called mood swings were actually sensory overloads. The way I could never join in tiny talk or felt like I was performing a script at every family gathering—masking, start to finish. Even adulthood: how I burned out after social stuff and couldn’t explain why I felt like I’d been hit by a truck just from “hanging out.” The way conflict sent me into full freeze mode while others just kept talking. It all made sense.
Since naming it, I’ve been able to drop so much of the mask. Not all of it, not yet, but enough to feel my body exhale. It’s helped my wife understand me in a much deeper, more grounded way, which is already transforming how we communicate. But most astonishing (and this is the part I still struggle to put into words) is the way I no longer feel alone in the world. It’s not just about being understood. It’s the shock of being locatable. Of realizing there’s a whole constellation of others who’ve been living parallel lives, and now we can finally wave to each other across the dark.
vōx: I haven’t read Hannah Gadsby’s memoir yet, but I’m adding it to my library list immediately! A couple of memoirs I’ve read recently and really connected with are The Autists: Women on the Spectrum by Clara Törnvall and Strong Female Character by Fern Brady. I’m so grateful more of these stories are being told by people who aren’t men.
I really appreciate you sharing your reasons for not pursuing a formal diagnosis–because it’s so valid! The way many countries have set up their systems makes it nearly impossible for many people to access. Here in the U.S., it’s often prohibitively expensive, or there simply isn’t anyone nearby who has the experience diagnosing adults. Sometimes, the process is so intensive and time-consuming that many autistic people aren’t able to complete it.
I also know that for some, having a formal diagnosis in their medical records can be risky. It can change the way doctors treat them—leading to dismissal, infantilization, or misattributing all symptoms to their diagnosis. It can also affect mobility, as some countries have immigration policies that bar people with certain disabilities from obtaining visas or permanent residency.5 6
Ang: I’m also interested in talking more about masking. Not just in public, but in relationships. What happens when you drop the mask with someone who’s only ever known your masked self? What parts of yourself do you still feel like you protect, and why?
vōx: So far, I’ve mostly only started unmasking with my closest friends (and they all turned out to be autistic too!). I was already fairly unmasked with my partner Cam, even before diagnosis. He’s not autistic, but he is neurodivergent.
For me, unmasking has mostly looked like giving myself the accommodations I need to be comfortable. If I notice a place is causing sensory overwhelm, I’ll speak up to find a solution. If I need to stim, I do it more freely. If I’m feeling autistic joy, I let it show physically.
I’ve also tried unmasking around some people who aren’t autistic, but it hasn’t always gone well. I’ve been met with a roll of the eyes when I’ve tried to explain sensory overwhelm or expressed a need for accommodation. It’s disappointing, and it makes me more wary about opening up to neurotypical people in the future.
One part of myself I still tend to hide–sometimes even from my partner–is my meltdowns. I still have a lot of shame to work through. Growing up, meltdowns were a huge source of terror and overwhelm, and I think I still try to protect others from them. It’s something I’m actively working on–learning to let Cam in.
You mentioned how your communication with your wife has transformed. I relate to that with my partner, too! I’d love to hear more about that–any specific moments or new ways of understanding you’re open to sharing. Have you found you’re more able to unmask and be authentic now that you have the lens of autism? Are there still parts you protect?
Ang: I really felt what you said about only starting to unmask with your closest friends—and that they all turned out to be autistic too. That made me smile. It’s amazing how often we find each other, even before we know.
And I get what you’re saying about trying to unmask with neurotypical people and being met with confusion or dismissal. That roll of the eyes hits harder than they realize. It makes something in me retreat so fast I barely notice it happening. Even though I know it’s not personal—it still feels like rejection of something vulnerable and honest.
With my wife, unmasking has been slow, mostly because I didn’t realize how much of a mask I had on. It wasn’t a disguise, it was just how I learned to exist. I didn’t know there was an alternative. But after discovering I’m autistic, I started noticing all the little contortions—agreeing to plans I couldn’t tolerate, pretending I was “fine” when I was nearing shutdown, brushing off things that hurt because I didn’t want to seem “too sensitive.” And she’s been incredibly open—curious, patient—but that doesn’t mean it’s been simple. When someone’s only ever known your masked self, there’s a period of recalibration. They have to learn the real rhythms of you. And you have to trust they’ll still want to stay.
One thing that’s changed is how I communicate sensory distress. Before, I’d get really quiet and pull away, and she’d take it personally. Now I just say, “I’m nearing the edge.” That’s our shorthand. She gets it. No need for more. That kind of shared language has made it easier to stay connected while I care for my nervous system.
And like you, I’m still cautious about meltdowns. Not because I think they’re shameful, but because they’ve been treated that way for so long. I’ve only recently started letting myself acknowledge what’s happening when I melt. It’s still hard to narrate that experience to someone else in real time. I think it’s beautiful that you’re working on letting Cam in. That’s deep trust. And that’s love, too—the kind that doesn’t flinch.
What are the conditions that make you feel safe enough to be fully yourself? Not just unmasked, but undefended? And do you find those more often in people, places, or practices?
vōx: The conditions that help me feel safe are love and, most importantly, non-judgement. All of my favorite humans have this quality. It’s something I seek out in others and cherish deeply. It’s also something I’ve cultivated in myself–as a gift to my loved ones, and to myself.
I find that kind of safety in specific people, but I also find it in places and practices. That’s why I love spending time alone–where I can fully be myself. It's what drew me to meditation, too.
And likewise–what are the conditions that help you feel safe?
Ang: I really loved your answer to this. The way you talked about non-judgment—yes. There’s something about being with someone who just lets things be what they are, without rushing to fix or label it, that’s instantly calming. It’s like your nervous system gets to unclench.
For me, safety comes in slowness. In knowing I don’t have to perform clarity when I’m actually in a fog. In being allowed to pause mid-sentence without someone jumping in to finish my thought. I feel safest with people who can sit in silence and not fill it just because it’s there.
I find it in practices too—little rituals that tell my body it’s not in danger. Closing the door and putting my hand on the doorknob for a few seconds. Turning on the exact lamp I like in the exact corner I like. Making the same breakfast three days in a row. These aren’t just habits—they’re orientation points. They keep me tethered.
And honestly, like you, I find a lot of safety in solitude. There’s no translation cost. No need to decode facial expressions or pretend I’m following when I’m not. Just space to be unfiltered and unobserved. I don’t think that’s loneliness—I think that’s a kind of deep nervous system repair.
vōx: It’s been a huge pleasure getting to know you more deeply, Ang. Thank you so much for speaking with me and being so vulnerable. Are there any thoughts you’d like to leave our readers with? What’s been bringing you joy these days? Any projects in the works that you’d like to tease?
Ang: Thank you so much for the way you held this space, vōx. It’s rare to be asked questions that actually make me think from the inside, not just about the inside. You’ve created something really intentional here, and I don’t take that lightly.
Joy lately has been subtle: My cat stretching out beside me while I work. The taste of something exactly the way I wanted it. Going to sleep with clean sheets. Noticing that I’m starting to ask for things I used to just silently endure without.
I’m working on a couple of books that are moving slowly but mean a lot to me. They’re both rooted in the experience of autistic adulthood—not as something that needs explaining, but as something that deserves reflection and language. I don’t want to write books that translate us for neurotypical audiences. I want to write books that feel like home to the people who’ve always felt like strangers in their own stories. It’s taking a long time, but that feels right.
Masking means hiding or suppressing autistic traits to appear neurotypical.
Shutdown is when the nervous system becomes overwhelmed, often leading to temporary withdrawal, silence, or immobility. In autistic people, this response is neurobiological and is often involuntary.
Autistic meltdown is loss of control due to extreme sensory, emotional, or cognitive overload. It’s not a tantrum or choice—it’s a neurological response, often involving crying or yelling.
Autistic special interest is an intense, often all-consuming focus on a specific topic or activity, common among autistic people and typically experienced as a source of joy, comfort, or regulation.
Studies have shown that autistic people and those with other disabilities often face diagnostic overshadowing in healthcare, where physical symptoms are ignored or misattributed to their diagnosis. See: Nicolaidis et al. (2015), Healthcare Experiences of Autistic Adults, Autism Journal.
Some countries, including Canada, New Zealand, and Australia, have immigration rules that consider disability-related healthcare costs a potential "burden" and may deny visas or residency on that basis. See: Human Rights Watch, “Disability Discrimination in Immigration Policy.”
 | A guest post by
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This is a really wonderful conversation. Thank you both so much. I identified with a lot of what you said to sometimes to a lesser extent, sometimes to a greater extent. But it was really affirming. Thank you.
Thank you for sharing this beautiful conversation!