Unlayering and Coming Home to Ourselves
By Michelle Labine, PhD
May 2025
Whether we receive a diagnosis in childhood, later in life, or never formally at all, many Autistic adults eventually find ourselves grappling with the question of identity. Who am I underneath the layers of adaptation, self-protection, and social performance? What parts of me are truly mine, and what parts have been shaped in response to the expectations around me?
For those of us diagnosed in adulthood, the journey often begins with a process of unlayering. It can be slow and sometimes disorienting. We begin to shed the versions of ourselves we learned to present to the world so that we can reconnect with what has always existed beneath them. For those who self-identify, the path is no less meaningful or transformative. Diagnosis is not the gatekeeper of identity. Lived experience carries its own authority.
In my own life, and in the lives of many clients I have walked alongside, Autism was never something that appeared the moment a label was applied. It was already present in how we process, connect, sense, feel, and move through the world. Recognition, whether it comes from within or from a formal assessment, is simply naming something that has always been there.
The difficulty is that the line between adaptation and authenticity can become very hard to see. When you have spent years adjusting to fit the expectations of others, the adjustments themselves begin to feel natural. You may modulate your tone, rehearse conversations, mimic body language, or suppress your instinctive responses in order to avoid judgment or misunderstanding. These adaptations are signs of survival strategies. Over time they can become so automatic that even when you are alone it can be difficult to tell what is truly yours.
Unlayering is about becoming curious in a genter way; we begin to ask questions that we may never have allowed ourselves to consider. Was that laugh automatic or genuine? Do I actually enjoy group settings, or have I simply trained myself to tolerate them? Is this sensory input soothing, overwhelming, or something I have been pushing myself to ignore?
In my own life I began to notice these questions in small moments. For years I told myself that I loved busy cafés. I believed they were my ideal place for writing and reflection. It fit the image I had created of myself as someone capable, creative, and comfortable blending into the world around me. Yet those environments often left me dysregulated and exhausted. I did not fully recognize this until I began writing in quieter spaces. At home. In my backyard. In softly lit rooms where the world felt slower and calmer. In those places my nervous system softened. My thinking became clearer. I realized that I had confused endurance with enjoyment. I realized that I wrote in cafés because I could manage them, not because they truly nourished me.
Learning to distinguish between adaptation and genuine preference takes time. It asks for patience, curiosity, and a sense of safety that allows exploration without judgment. Sometimes what we uncover is joy. Sometimes what we encounter is grief. There can be sadness for the parts of ourselves that were muted or hidden in order to survive. There can be joy in reconnecting with the parts of ourselves that feel most true. Both experiences are part of the process.
Identity is something that continues to unfold over time, it is normal to still be discovering who you are. Wherever you find yourself in this process of wondering, emerging, grieving, or becoming, you are not behind. You are not broken. You are simply finding your way home to yourself.