The Persistent Need for Autonomy:

When Lack of Structure Feels Like Chaos

By Michelle Labine, PhD

October 2025

I recently went on a trip that should have been relaxing a break from work, a change of scenery, time to recharge. I had looked forward to it for weeks. But instead of rest, I found myself caught in a storm of internal chaos that no one else could see.

There was no clear plan. No daily schedule. No predictable rhythm to the days. Everyone else seemed perfectly fine “going with the flow,” laughing, lounging, making spontaneous decisions about what to do next. But for me, the absence of structure felt like falling into a void.

Every morning began with the same uneasy question: What’s happening today? And every time the answer was “We’ll figure it out later,” my body tensed. My heart rate climbed. My thoughts spun in loops, trying to prepare for every possible scenario meals, travel routes, social dynamics, noise levels, timing, downtime. My brain craved order, but none existed.

I tried to hide it. I smiled. I followed along. I nodded when people made last-minute changes. Inside, though, I was bracing for impact. My mind was flooded, my nervous system on high alert. I barely slept my body simply couldn’t power down. Each night, I lay awake replaying every unpredictable moment, dreading the next day’s uncertainty.

By the third day, I was running on adrenaline. My jaw hurt from clenching. My digestion shut down. I was quieter, more withdrawn, and tearful for no apparent reason. I felt ashamed why couldn’t I just relax like everyone else? Why did my body respond like this to something as simple as a trip?

It took me years of self-understanding — and my autism diagnosis — to finally make sense of experiences like this one. What happened on that trip wasn’t about being controlling or anxious for no reason. It was about autonomy a deep, neurological need that sits at the core of many Autistic experiences.

The Autistic Need for Autonomy

Autonomy is often misunderstood. It’s not simply about wanting things our way or refusing to compromise. For Autistic people, autonomy is a regulatory need as fundamental as sleep or food.

It’s the sense of being in charge of our own actions, our time, and our environment. It’s the ability to make decisions that help us stay grounded and safe. Without autonomy, our nervous systems lose their anchor.

When structure disappears or decisions are made for us without consultation, our sense of control erodes and the brain interprets that as danger. The result is a flood of physiological stress: muscle tension, insomnia, irritability, hypervigilance, and dysregulation.

Being Misunderstood

In my younger years, I was often described as “needing my own way” or “being too independent.” Later, as an adult, those same traits were reframed as “controlling.” The language changed, but the message stayed the same: that my deep need for autonomy was a problem to be corrected, not a part of who I was.

Looking back, I can see how much I internalized that misunderstanding. I learned to shrink parts of myself to seem “easygoing,” to override my intuition, and to silence the voice that said, this doesn’t feel safe. I tried to be adaptable in environments that were disorganized, unpredictable, or chaotic but inside, I was in survival mode.

Each time my need for structure or clarity was dismissed, a quiet erosion took place. I started doubting my perceptions. I learned to mask, to smile when I was falling apart inside and to appear flexible when I was flooded with anxiety. Over time, this created a chronic undercurrent of stress in my body. My sleep suffered. My energy was constantly depleted. My nervous system was working overtime to manage the external chaos and the internal conflict of suppressing my true needs.

Being misunderstood in this way left me with layers of self-doubt and shame. I came to see my need for autonomy as something I had to hide or justify. It took years, and my late autism diagnosis, to finally understand that what others called “controlling” was actually self-regulation. That what looked like “independence” was a nervous system protecting itself from overwhelm.

Now I see that my autonomy isn’t about resisting others, it’s about preserving myself. It’s about creating the structure that allows me to feel grounded, to connect, and to rest.

Why Structure Equals Safety

Structure is about safety and predictability. My brain organizes the world through patterns, sequencing, and forethought. When those are stripped away I lose my sense of orientation.

• Predictability calms the nervous system. Knowing what’s coming helps my brain conserve energy rather than constantly scanning for threats or surprises.
• Preparation allows for regulation. Having time to plan, even for small things, reduces the number of rapid-fire decisions I have to make in the moment.
• Control over pace and environment preserves energy. Without autonomy, sensory and emotional inputs pile up faster than I can process them, leading to overwhelm or shutdown.

When the external world becomes unpredictable, autonomy is the internal anchor that helps us feel safe enough to engage.

The Hidden Cost of Masking

On that trip, I masked the entire time. I told myself I didn’t want to ruin the vibe. I didn’t want to seem rigid or demanding. So, I smiled through my discomfort, laughed at the jokes, and pretended to enjoy the spontaneity.

But inside, I was exhausted. Masking and suppressing my authentic needs to fit into the social rhythm of the group came at a high cost. My sleep disappeared. My digestion revolted. I felt emotionally raw, overstimulated, and profoundly disconnected from myself.

It’s a pattern I recognize from other parts of my life, too like the professional settings where I “just adapt,” the social events where I ignore my sensory limits, the relationships where I suppress my need for structure because I fear being “too much.”

That’s the hidden cost of masking for many Autistic adults: we appear fine while our internal systems are screaming.

Reclaiming Autonomy as Self-Compassion

In the days after that trip, I noticed something shift. I wasn’t angry at myself anymore. I was sad that I had suffered silently rather than honouring what my body needed. Sad that I’d internalized the message that needing structure was something to be ashamed of.

Autonomy is simply saying “I deserve to feel safe in my own skin.”

For me, that means creating predictability wherever I can; researching ahead, setting expectations, clarifying plans, and allowing myself the right to say no when something feels chaotic. It means remembering that my need for structure is a truth to honour.

Closing Reflection

That trip reminded me of something I keep relearning: autonomy is the quiet foundation of my wellbeing. It’s what allows me to rest, connect, and think clearly.

For those of us on the spectrum, autonomy is how we make sense of the world. When it’s supported, we thrive. When it’s denied, we suffer — often silently.

If you’ve found yourself falling apart in the face of unpredictability, know this: you’re responding exactly as your nervous system was designed to. You’re seeking safety through autonomy.