On unmasking and discernment
For most of my life, explaining myself felt like responsibility.
If someone reacted strongly to something I said, I assumed I had missed something. If a conversation turned tense, I searched for the mistake. If someone seemed offended, I backtracked, clarified, softened, apologized. I explained my tone. I explained my intent. I explained my limits.
I thought explanation would protect me.
It took a long time to notice that it often did the opposite.
Explanation as habit
I am autistic, and for years I did not know that. What I did know was that I felt misunderstood more often than not. My motives, my needs, my reactions, even my silence were frequently misread. So I learned to explain.
I explained to prevent conflict.
I explained to restore calm.
I explained to be fair.
Sometimes I explained because I believed I had caused harm. Other times, I explained because someone else’s tone suggested I had. I learned to apologize quickly, even when I was not sure what I was apologizing for. I learned to defend myself when apologies did not work. Both took energy.
Only later did I start paying attention to what explanation actually produced.
When explanation stops helping
What I noticed was simple and uncomfortable.
Explaining rarely led to understanding. More often, it led to more accusation.
My words were reframed. My motives were questioned. My reactions were labeled as taking things personally. My needs were minimized. Sometimes my explanations became evidence against me, used to justify why I was the problem in the first place.
I realized that explanation was giving people more material, not more clarity.
I wrote more about why my capacity for explanation changed after loss, especially in an autistic nervous system.
This was not about saying things poorly. It was about explaining to people who were not interested in understanding. Some were committed to their interpretation. Some needed me to be wrong. Some felt more comfortable correcting me than hearing me.
Once I saw that pattern, it became harder to ignore.
This grew out of what masking cost me.
Unmasking is not silence
I still explain myself sometimes.
I explain when it feels safe. I explain when it is mutual. I explain when I believe the other person is actually listening.
What I no longer do is explain automatically.
Unmasking, for me, has not meant saying everything I think or feel. It has meant noticing when explanation is being demanded as proof of legitimacy. It has meant learning the difference between communication and justification.
I am more careful now with what I offer. I am more direct with my limits. Instead of explaining them, I say, “I can’t,” or “I don’t feel up to it.” If I choose to explain, I do so honestly, not strategically.
I no longer explain my autism. Not because it is shameful, but because it is not owed. Most people already have an idea of what autism is, and few are willing to reconsider it. I have learned that educating others rarely protects me, and often costs me more than it gives. I explain my discovery of having autism here.
What not explaining gives me
At first, not explaining felt uncomfortable. I could feel the misunderstanding sitting in the space between me and the other person. I wanted to fix it.
But when I didn’t, something else happened.
The conversation ended sooner.
The emotional spiral stopped earlier.
My energy stayed with me.
There was frustration at first, then distance, then a kind of quiet clarity. I began to trust myself more than the urge to be understood. I stopped assuming that misunderstanding meant failure. I stopped treating other people’s reactions as problems I needed to solve.
Not explaining gave me control, not over others, but over myself.
Choosing discernment
I am still learning where unmasking is safe and where it is not. This is not an arrival point. It is a practice.
What I know now is this. Explaining is not a moral obligation. Understanding is not something you can force. And clarity does not always come from saying more.
Sometimes clarity comes from knowing when to stop.
