What We Carry When We’re Missed Again and Again

By Michelle Labine

May 2025

When people talk about trauma the conversation often focuses on the large and unmistakable ruptures in life. We think about major losses, shocking events, or experiences that divide life into a before and an after. Yet there is another kind of trauma that moves more subtly through a person’s life. It unfolds slowly, often without a clear name, and for many Autistic women, particularly those diagnosed later in life, it becomes one of the most powerful forces shaping how we come to see ourselves. These are the microtraumas, the repeated moments of being misunderstood, misread, or corrected in ways that teach us to question our own instincts.

These moments are rarely dramatic on their own. They can appear small, almost forgettable, and yet their impact accumulates over time. They are the tiny signals that something about us does not quite fit the expectations around us. They are the adjustments we learn to make in order to stay connected and avoid criticism. Each moment on its own might seem insignificant, but together they leave an imprint that shapes how we move through the world.

For many Autistic women, microtraumas can look like the teacher who tells you to stop being dramatic when you are overwhelmed by noise or sensory input, or the friend who calls you intense and quietly distances themselves. It appears in the eye rolls when you share something you are passionate about or in the repeated comments that you are too sensitive, too serious, or simply too much. It can show up in the moments when you laugh even though nothing feels funny, simply to smooth over an awkward interaction or protect a connection. It is present in the social gatherings you leave feeling unsettled and confused, replaying conversations in your mind and wondering what you did wrong without ever quite understanding the answer.

The pain of these experiences is about what happened and also about what was missing. Many Autistic women grow up without the kind of reflection that allows them to feel accurately seen. When sensory needs, emotional depth, or communication differences are not recognized or supported, something begins to shift internally. Without realizing it, we begin to distrust our own perceptions. We learn to watch others carefully before responding, editing ourselves in real time to match the moment. Over time this skill becomes so practiced that it can feel natural, even though it requires a constant effort to maintain.

For a while this strategy appears to work. It helps us move through social environments with fewer visible disruptions and allows us to maintain relationships that might otherwise become strained. Yet the cost of this adaptation gradually becomes clear. When we spend years adjusting ourselves in response to external cues, we can begin to lose touch with our own internal signals. We know how to maintain harmony with others, but we struggle to feel grounded within ourselves. We become fluent in performance while feeling increasingly distant from our own needs.

For many women, the experience of receiving an autism diagnosis later in life changes how these patterns are understood. The diagnosis provides clarity about present experiences and it acts as a mirror reflecting years of interactions that once felt confusing or painful. Through that mirror we begin to recognize the emotional labour of masking and the cumulative weight of repeatedly being told that our reactions were wrong. We see how often we abandoned our own needs to maintain connection or avoid judgment.

This perspective invites a different interpretation of our past experiences. What once looked like oversensitivity can be understood as living within a state of chronic misattunement. It reflects the experience of existing in environments where the expectations placed upon us rarely aligned with the ways our nervous systems processed the world. Again and again, we were asked to respond in ways that did not match our internal rhythms and over time those repeated mismatches left a mark.

With this awareness comes the opportunity to approach ourselves differently. We can begin noticing the moments when we still override our instincts or soften our reactions to make others comfortable. Many people recognize the familiar impulse to laugh when something is not funny, to explain themselves excessively, or to apologize simply for existing with different needs. Rather than judging these responses we can begin to meet them with curiosity and care.

Healing begins with small interruptions to these long practiced patterns. It might mean pausing instead of immediately performing a response or asking ourselves what we truly need in a given moment. It might involve allowing a feeling to exist without rushing to explain or justify it. Most importantly, it involves naming what was never named in the past. We can acknowledge that these experiences mattered, that the hurt they created was real, and that the responsibility for those misunderstandings did not belong solely to us.

Many Autistic women describe their past as feeling like a series of small paper cuts that accumulated over time. Each moment alone may have seemed manageable, yet together they created a sensitivity that can linger long after the events themselves have passed. When emotions feel unexpectedly raw or reactions feel larger than expected, it is often because those earlier experiences still live within the body.

Now there is an opportunity to move differently through the world. Instead of continuing the patterns that taught us to disappear, we can begin offering ourselves the things that were missing for so long. We can cultivate safety within our own lives, seek understanding rather than self- criticism, and allow ourselves the permission to simply exist without constant adjustment.

This process is about meeting ourselves in the places where we were once unseen. It is a way of slowly tending to the parts of us that learned to hide and creating space for those parts to exist as they are.

What small moments from my past still linger in my body or memory?

What patterns of self-editing or performance am I beginning to notice in my daily life?

What forms of understanding or support did I need but did not receive?

What would it look like to begin offering those forms of care to myself now?