Neurodivergent Self-Governance

Autistic Autonomy and the Right to Refuse

I woke from a dream steeped in helpless inadequacy. The sort that demands immediate attention, such was its discomfort.

I was sitting an exam, unable to get past writing my name while others handed in completed work. Lost and annoyed by my own lacking.

Classic performance anxiety, rooted in self‑identity.

The culprit was immediately obvious. I’d been out the night before.

My partner had bought us tickets for an Afro‑fusion concert. Ghana’s finest on stage, an impressive performance of drumming and melody sending a trance‑like pulse through the room.

It was wildly interactive with follow‑along dances and the crowd urged to join in. The Africans in the audience moved beautifully, like flowing water, while most local folk writhed uncontrollably off‑beat. It was surreal to watch, like a village spoof of weird and wonderful characters.

And there I sat. Quietly tapping my feet. Refusing to dance.

I was blocked. The higher the pressure to perform, the more I resisted. Despite having rhythm. Despite growing up in a dancing family.

I didn’t want to prove myself. I didn’t want to be evaluated. I watched the moves most people struggled with, knowing I could perform them, yet holding to the illusion that if it wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t worth doing.

The social script was clear. And I wouldn’t read my lines. Instead, I studied the group dynamics, fascinated, observing the organised chaos while avoiding the performative nature of expected fun.

The compulsion to hold back pushed itself to the front of my mind. Everyone else was having a great time while I wondered why I resisted showing them how it was done. I was happy to watch, to study the texture of the moment, but unable to dissolve into it. I felt both inadequate and frustrated.

Not dancing was the living embodiment of a question that has followed me since my breakdown and late autism diagnosis: Who am I when I’m not performing?

It made me see the lifelong pattern of opting out. Resisting the pull of social norms and resulting disapproval that ignoring them generates.

In work meetings, I would always be the last to speak, if at all, ensuring I understood any ambiguity before offering anything. My contributions were measured, deliberate.

In social settings, my nervous system safeguards me by hanging back, sensing the scene before stepping in. People often read this as aloof. In truth, they were glimpsing authenticity.

I’ve come to realise my instinctive avoidance is not about disliking music and spectacle, or even the chaos and noise. It’s the discomfort with situations where participation is seen as proof of belonging, and the friction of being the odd one out.

It’s actually self‑governance. The same quality that allows me to hike solo. The same quality that lets me break unspoken rules.

And it is not a weakness. It is self‑possession. While I envied those able to throw themselves into the moment, I had the quiet authority to choose when and whether to act, owning my decisions where others might let fear or discomfort decide for them.

I sit in the discomfort, steadfast in my reasoning.

That is why, in the face of ridicule and concern, I could vanish into the mountains for a month, accountable only to myself.