Autistic Joy: Embracing Different Expressions of Happiness

I’ve always had a hard time expressing joy the way that others do.  I feel joy and happiness just like everyone else, I just show it in a different way.  While others are jumping up and down, screaming with hysteria, I’m sitting there with a smile in my heart, but a desolate look on my face.  My emotions rarely reach the surface.  It never explodes outward—just in. 

For a long time, I thought that something was wrong with me.  Why couldn’t I be as enthusiastic as other people?  I’d watch people get excited about something and think, oh, that’s how I’m supposed to react.  I’ve tried smiling from ear to ear with an extra octave in my voice, but let me tell you, it feels so unnatural.  Foreign almost. I’m just the type of person who sits there with a tiny internal spark, acting quiet, and composed.  

Growing up, birthdays and Christmas were especially hard because joy suddenly became a performance.  I’ve always felt bothered with eyes on me.  I don’t like being the center of attention, and opening gifts requires a lot of masking on my part.  I felt like if I didn’t act “big enough,” then people would worry I didn’t like it.  I presumed that people wanted a certain level of enthusiasm, but for me, my body just doesn’t know how to produce that. 

So, every year, I masked.  The “Oh my god, I just love it!”  The forced smile, the exaggerated tone I practiced.  But the only thing that felt natural, was a soft, thank you.

For me, the worst part about those gatherings were reading the cards out loud.  I can still feel it to this day.  The way that the room filled with silence, all eyes on me, waiting as I opened the envelope.  The pressure of that quiet felt suffocating.  My heart pounded through my ears, I was blushing like a tomato, and my voice shook as I tried to get through each word.  

The feeling of eyes piercing into me, made me want to disappear right into the couch.  And because the discomfort was so intense, tears would sometimes spill down my cheeks.  Not because I was sad, but because I was overwhelmed.  I was overstimulated by the attention, the silence, and the expectation. 

I believe that everyone just thought I was emotional.  In reality though, I just trying to survive the moment.  It took me years to understand that nothing was “wrong” with me.  I just showed up differently than others. 

For me, my joy doesn’t scream.  It shimmers.  It warms me quietly from the inside out.  It warms me quietly from the inside out.  It isn’t loud, but it’s real.  

Now, as an autistic adult, I finally understand that my joy never needed to look like anyone else’s.  The world might celebrate loud happiness, but there is something beautiful about the quiet kind.  It sits with you, you feel it deep in your bones, and that doesn’t require an audience. 

Autistic joy is not less.  It’s simply different.  And for the first time, I’m learning to accept that difference.  My joy might not sparkle for others, but it glows for me. 

“Some hearts celebrate softly—but that doesn’t make their happiness any smaller.”

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