Microaggressions That Erase Our Neurodivergent Identity
Bridgette Hamstead
For late-diagnosed and masked autistic adults, disclosing our neurodivergent identity often comes with an invisible cost. While receiving a diagnosis or coming to self-identification can be a profoundly validating and even life-saving experience, sharing this identity with others can quickly become fraught. We are not only met with skepticism or disbelief, but with a barrage of subtle, dismissive, and invalidating remarks, or microaggressions, that chip away at our sense of self. These comments, often framed as compliments or well-intentioned observations, reveal the pervasive ableism that undergirds our society’s understanding of autism and other forms of neurodivergence. They force us into an exhausting pattern of emotional labor in which we must constantly defend our reality, explain our needs, and assert our right to exist as we are.
One of the most common and insidious microaggressions autistic people hear is the phrase, "You don't seem autistic." This statement is often delivered with a tone of surprise, as if our very presence contradicts the listener's internalized stereotype. The underlying message is clear: autism is assumed to be visibly different, something that can be easily identified based on deficit-based stereotypes rooted in outdated medical models. Autistic people are presumed to be emotionless, unempathetic, intellectually disabled, male-presenting, and socially detached. If we do not present this way, if we make eye contact, speak fluently, or achieve in professional settings, we are considered exceptions, anomalies, or worse, liars. The reality is that these stereotypes are not only incorrect but deeply harmful. Autistic people exist across all genders, races, ages, and communication styles. Many of us are highly expressive, relational, and empathic. We also mask extensively, often from childhood, learning to suppress our natural behaviors to survive in a world that punishes our differences.
Masking is a well-documented phenomenon in the autistic community. It involves consciously or unconsciously camouflaging autistic traits to appear neurotypical. This can include mimicking social behaviors, forcing eye contact, suppressing stimming, rehearsing conversations, and pushing through sensory distress. Research has shown that masking is especially common among autistic women and gender-diverse individuals, who are frequently overlooked in diagnostic criteria shaped by male-centric studies. A 2020 study in Autism in Adulthood found that 100 percent of late-diagnosed autistic women in the sample reported camouflaging in social situations, and many described it as habitual and compulsive, even when alone. Masking is both a survival strategy and a response to chronic invalidation. It protects us from bullying, exclusion, and punishment, but it comes at a steep cost to our mental and physical health. Long-term masking is associated with increased rates of anxiety, depression, identity confusion, and autistic burnout. Still, when we finally unmask and disclose, we are told we must be faking because we are "too high functioning" or "seem normal."
Another common microaggression is the suggestion that we must be "a little bit autistic" or that "everyone is on the spectrum somewhere." These comments may be framed as attempts at empathy, but they are profoundly minimizing. They erase the very real and disabling aspects of being autistic in a world not built for us. These remarks imply that autism is just a quirky personality trait rather than a neurodevelopmental difference with serious sensory, cognitive, and emotional implications. They undermine our lived experience and reinforce the idea that we are exaggerating or seeking attention. Research supports that these dismissive attitudes contribute to lower self-esteem, increased internalized stigma, and reluctance to seek accommodations. In fact, a 2022 study in Frontiers in Psychology found that internalized ableism and the invalidation of autistic identity were significantly associated with worse mental health outcomes in late-diagnosed autistic adults.
The emotional labor required to navigate these daily invalidations is immense. Each time we are disbelieved, questioned, or erased, we are forced to choose between silence and self-advocacy. Do we challenge the comment and risk being labeled overly sensitive or difficult, or do we let it pass and internalize the erasure? Neither option is without consequence. Autistic people, especially those socialized as female, are often expected to be agreeable and accommodating. Advocating for ourselves can feel dangerous, particularly for those of us who have experienced gaslighting, workplace retaliation, or family rejection after disclosing our identity. Yet staying silent comes at the cost of our authenticity and mental health. Over time, this double bind leads to hypervigilance, isolation, and profound exhaustion.
These microaggressions do not exist in a vacuum. They are the product of systemic ableism that positions neurotypical ways of thinking, feeling, and communicating as the default. They are shaped by media portrayals that present autism as either a tragedy or a savant condition. They are reinforced by clinical systems that deny or delay diagnosis to those who do not fit the narrow mold, particularly women, people of color, and queer or trans individuals. And they are perpetuated by workplaces, schools, and institutions that continue to operate from deficit-based models. For example, the average age of autism diagnosis for females is significantly later than for males, with many not being identified until their thirties or beyond. Studies estimate that at least 80 percent of autistic women are misdiagnosed with mental health conditions before receiving an accurate autism diagnosis. This diagnostic delay contributes to a lifelong sense of confusion, alienation, and self-doubt.
To dismantle the harm of these microaggressions, we must first name them and validate the impact they have on our lives. We must shift the conversation away from questioning autistic identities toward affirming them. Believing someone when they disclose their neurodivergence should be the baseline, not the exception. The burden of proof should not rest on the autistic person to justify their identity, particularly when masking has been a survival strategy for decades. This shift requires more than individual allyship. It demands systemic change in how we define, identify, and respond to neurodivergence. It also requires platforms that center lived experience and community knowledge over institutional authority.
As autistic people, especially those who are late-diagnosed, we deserve the right to be believed without having to perform our pain. We deserve relationships where we can unmask safely, workplaces that accommodate our needs without judgment, and communities that celebrate our ways of being. We deserve rest from the constant labor of proving we are real. Until that is possible, we will continue speaking up, naming the harm, and building spaces where our truths are seen and honored.
Because our existence is not a question. It is a fact. And we are tired of explaining ourselves to people who have already decided not to see us.
Scripts for Speaking Up: Neurodivergent Responses to Everyday Microaggressions
Here’s a list of neurodiversity-affirming response scripts for common microaggressions autistic and otherwise neurodivergent people frequently face. These responses are designed to affirm your identity, educate others if you choose to, and prioritize your boundaries. You do not owe anyone an explanation, but these options offer a range of approaches depending on your energy, relationship to the person, and context.
Microaggression: “You don’t look autistic.”
Response Options:
“There’s no one way autism looks. It’s a neurodevelopmental difference, not something you can see.”
“That’s a stereotype. Many autistic people look like me.”
“That comment actually erases a lot of people’s lived experience, including mine.”
“Autism isn’t always visible. Most of us spend a lifetime learning to hide it to survive.”
Microaggression: “Everyone’s a little autistic.”
Response Options:
“No, they’re not. Saying that diminishes what autistic people actually go through.”
“Traits aren’t the same as being autistic. Autism is a lifelong neurotype that affects how we experience the world.”
“That’s a common myth, but it makes it harder for autistic people to be taken seriously when we need support.”
“It might seem like a way to relate, but it actually minimizes a disability that impacts every part of my life.”
Microaggression: “You’re too high-functioning to be autistic.”
Response Options:
“Functioning labels are outdated and harmful. I have real struggles even if they’re not always visible.”
“Masking well doesn’t mean I’m not autistic. It just means I’ve learned how to hide it.”
“That’s a misunderstanding of autism. Many of us appear capable while still struggling intensely.”
“Being able to do something sometimes doesn’t mean it’s easy or sustainable.”
Microaggression: “Are you sure you’re autistic? You’re so [social/smart/funny].”
Response Options:
“Yes, I’m sure. Autism doesn’t mean I lack those traits. It just means my brain works differently.”
“I can be autistic and also be [insert trait]. They’re not mutually exclusive.”
“This is a common stereotype, and it keeps people like me from being diagnosed or believed.”
“Autism doesn’t look one way. We’re a very diverse group of people.”
Microaggression: “You’re not like my [child/client/student] with autism.”
Response Options:
“That’s because autism presents differently in everyone.”
“Comparing autistic people erases our individual experiences. We’re all unique.”
“That’s part of the reason many people go undiagnosed. The public image of autism is very narrow.”
“Your experience with one autistic person doesn’t define what autism is for everyone.”
Microaggression: “You’re using autism as an excuse.”
Response Options:
“I’m explaining my access needs, not making excuses.”
“Autism isn’t an excuse, it’s a disability. And I’m asking for support, not permission.”
“That’s a dismissive thing to say. I have legitimate challenges that deserve to be accommodated.”
“Would you say that to someone with a mobility aid or another visible disability?”
Microaggression: “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
Response Options:
“Because disclosing often results in being disbelieved or treated differently. Like right now.”
“It’s hard to share something personal when there’s a risk of being dismissed or misunderstood.”
“Autistic people are often told not to talk about it. I’m unlearning that.”
“I’m sharing now because I finally feel ready. That should be enough.”
Microaggression: “You must have been misdiagnosed.”
Response Options:
“That’s not your call to make. My diagnosis is valid.”
“Autism looks different in different people. I know myself better than you do.”
“That’s a really harmful thing to say. Late-diagnosed people already struggle with self-doubt.”
“I spent years wondering the same thing. But the more I learned, the more it made sense.”
Microaggression: “You’re so brave for telling people.”
Response Options:
“It shouldn’t have to be brave to exist as who I am.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather live in a world where I didn’t have to ‘come out’ to be understood.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m just being honest about who I am.”
“I wish it didn’t require bravery. That says a lot about how society treats neurodivergent people.”