Unmasking Autism: How I'm Learning That My Mind Can Be Awake While My Body Isn't

One of the most confusing parts of discovering I'm autistic has been realizing there were experiences I lived through for decades that I couldn't explain.

I wasn't anxious.

I wasn't lazy.

I wasn't ignoring anyone.

I wasn't refusing to participate.

My mind was fully awake... but my body simply wouldn't move.

For years, I didn't have language for what was happening. I just knew that sometimes it felt like someone had unplugged the connection between my brain and my body. I could hear people talking. I understood what they were saying. I knew exactly what I wanted to do or say in response.

But my body wouldn't cooperate.

It wasn't that I didn't want to move.

It was that I couldn't.

Learning about autistic shutdowns changed everything.

When an autistic nervous system reaches its limit from sensory input, stress, emotional processing, decision fatigue, masking, or simply too much happening at once, it doesn't always respond with a meltdown. Sometimes it responds by pulling the emergency brake.

The body goes into survival mode.

The outside world may see someone sitting quietly, staring into space, or not responding. But inside, there's often an entire conversation happening.

"Move your hand."

"Stand up."

"Answer them."

"Just say something."

Nothing.

It's like my brain is sending the message, but somewhere along the journey, the signal never reaches its destination.

That disconnect used to fill me with shame.

I wondered why simple things felt impossible. I questioned my motivation. I thought I just needed to try harder.

Now I know this isn't a character flaw.

It's my nervous system protecting itself.

The human body has incredible ways of responding to overwhelm. We often hear about fight or flight, but there's another response that doesn't get talked about enough: freeze.

For many autistic people, that freeze can look like a shutdown.

The mind remains clear, but the body's ability to initiate movement, speech, or action temporarily goes offline.

The beautiful part of understanding this is that I've stopped trying to force my way through it.

Instead of demanding more from myself, I now ask, What does my nervous system need right now?

Usually, the answer isn't pressure.

It's less.

Less noise.

Less expectation.

Less sensory input.

Less urgency.

I've learned that recovery doesn't come from pushing harder. It comes from creating enough safety for my nervous system to realize the danger has passed.

One of the greatest gifts of my autism journey has been replacing self-judgment with self-understanding.

What I once called weakness, God gently revealed as a nervous system asking for compassion.

Maybe you've experienced this too.

Maybe you've sat in a room, fully aware of everything happening around you, desperately wanting to participate, yet feeling completely stuck.

If so, I hope you know this:

You're not lazy.

You're not broken.

You're not making it up.

Your mind and your body are simply having a conversation that the rest of the world can't see.

And sometimes, healing begins the moment we finally have words for what we've been living all along.

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:28

Sometimes rest isn't just for our bodies.

Sometimes our nervous systems have been longing for it, too.

xo,

jd