Why Movement Has Always Felt Like Home

Welcome to my Unmasking Autism series. This is where I share what I’m learning as I begin to understand my autistic experience and gently come home to myself. These posts are personal, honest, and written with tenderness for the parts of me that have spent years surviving.

One of the sweetest parts of unmasking has been realizing that some of the things I’ve loved most in life were never random. They weren’t “just hobbies.” They weren’t phases. They weren’t me being dramatic or extra or attention seeking. They were clues. They were regulation. They were my nervous system finding its way toward safety and release long before I had language for why I needed it.

For me, one of the biggest clues has always been dance.

I’ve been a dancer all of my life.

Ballet. Jazz. Hip hop. Baton twirling. Line dancing. If there was music and a reason to move, I was in. I loved the structure of choreography and the freedom of just letting my body go with the beat. I loved practicing. I loved performing. I loved the way movement could say things my mouth didn’t always know how to say.

Even as an adult, that love never went away. If there’s a dance floor and a two step, three step, or waltz happening, you can pretty much count me in. Sometimes a salsa or merengue sneaks in too. And there’s something about country dancing especially that feels like both play and grounding at the same time. You’re moving with someone, following a rhythm, repeating steps, staying connected, staying present.

I’ve always had such a huge love for it.

And for most of my life, I thought it was just personality. I thought I was just “a dancer.” I thought it was simply something I was good at and something that made me feel alive.

Now that I’m learning more about my autistic brain and nervous system, I see it so differently.

Now I know why.

The music is a stim. The movement is a stim.

The beat gives my brain something predictable to hold onto. The rhythm organizes me. It pulls my attention out of spiraling thoughts and puts it into the moment. It gives me a lane to release energy that would otherwise stay trapped in my body as restlessness, anxiety, or overwhelm.

When I dance, my body feels organized. When I dance, my mind gets quieter. When I dance, I feel present.

And I don’t mean “present” like I’m forcing mindfulness. I mean present like my nervous system naturally settles because it finally has the input it wants. Music plus movement equals regulation for me.

And twirling is its own kind of thrill.

There is something about spinning, about turning in circles, about letting the world blur just enough to feel free. Twirling feels like joy and adrenaline and release all at once. It’s not polite. It’s not subtle. It’s a full body yes. It’s like my system says, finally, thank you.

For a long time, I didn’t connect the dots. I just knew that when music started, something in me woke up. I knew I felt lighter. I knew I could breathe easier. I knew my energy had somewhere to go.

Now I understand that dancing and twirling around are thrilling stims for me.

Unmasking autism has been teaching me that stimming isn’t always small.

Sometimes it is tapping or fidgeting or rocking. But sometimes it’s the dance floor. Sometimes it’s a twirl in the kitchen. Sometimes it’s moving your body until the stress loosens its grip.

Dancing has been more than a hobby for me.

It’s been a nervous system reset. It’s been an emotional release. It’s been connection to my body when my brain feels crowded. It’s been one of the safest places for me to express myself without needing the perfect words.

And honestly, it’s also just been delight.

I used to think being an adult meant growing out of that kind of joy. Like I needed to be calmer, quieter, less expressive, less “much.” But the more I unmask, the more I realize the things that bring me joy often bring me regulation too.

So I’m choosing to honor that. I’m choosing to keep dancing. I’m choosing to let movement be medicine. I’m choosing to let my body have what it has always reached for.

Because maybe I was never “too much” on the dance floor.

Maybe I was finally just enough.

I think it’s worth saying out loud that regulation doesn’t always look like stillness. Sometimes the most regulating thing you can do is move. Sometimes peace comes through rhythm. Sometimes your nervous system needs expression, not restraint.

If you’ve always loved dancing, swaying, rocking, spinning, or moving to music, I hope you feel validated here. It doesn’t have to be professional or impressive to be meaningful. Your body might be wise. Your body might be asking for what it needs.

And if dancing feels inaccessible right now, that’s okay too. Even a small song in the kitchen counts. Even a gentle sway counts. Even one moment of letting your body move without judgment counts.

xo,

jd

Thank you for being here. If any part of this resonated, I hope you feel a little less alone. I’m still learning, still unmasking, and still choosing compassion over shame one moment at a time.

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