When we think of trauma, we often picture a single catastrophic event. For many neurodivergent people, however, trauma is often quieter and more cumulative – built over time through repeated experiences of not being seen, not being heard, and not being allowed to show up fully as oneself.

Rather than stemming from one defining moment, trauma for autistic and other neurodivergent individuals often takes the form of chronic invalidation, misattunement, and the emotional cost of having to mask one’s natural way of being to survive in a capitalist, productivity-driven, and predominantly neurotypical world. This includes everything from being told we’re “too much” or “too sensitive,” to being routinely misunderstood or overlooked by the systems meant to support us.

In my PhD research with autistic women, almost every participant described long histories of relational trauma, emotional neglect, and a deep sense of systemic disempowerment, including within the medical establishment and even therapeutic settings. Many shared that they’d spent years adapting to the needs and expectations of others before they’d ever been invited to ask what they truly needed themselves.

One participant reflected:

“I had no sense of identity. At the time, I was very much a chameleon… I would find out subconsciously what a person wanted from me, and I would then take on that role. If you'd asked me what my favourite food, flowers, music, anything was, I wouldn't have been able to tell you.”

This experience of shapeshifting to gain acceptance and avoid conflict is often referred to as fawning, a trauma response that sits alongside fight, flight, and freeze. For many neurodivergent people, especially women and AFAB individuals who are often conditioned to prioritise others’ needs, this form of self-abandonment becomes second nature.

Another participant described it this way:

“I adapt to other people before knowing what I want. I pick up on so many cues… intonation, body language… I just feel like I adjust myself to others—people-pleasing, masking… behaviour where I shrink.”

At the heart of these stories is a common thread: the pain of feeling unknown and unprotected. This isn’t just a matter of low self-esteem, it’s about the psychological pain of being denied the right to be oneself. When this experience repeats over many years, it can have profound effects on identity, psychological safety, and the ability to connect with others safely and authentically.

Understanding trauma through this lens, especially in neurodivergent lives, requires us to widen our definition. Trauma isn't always what happens to us, it can also be what’s missing: safety, authenticity, validation, and a felt sense of belonging.

For many neurodivergent people, therapy can be a space not just for symptom management, but for rediscovery. Neurodiversity-affirming therapy differs profoundly from traditional approaches that locate the 'problem' within the individual. Rather than focusing on what's "wrong," affirming therapy centres each person's experiences and values their way of being in the world. It recognises that healing isn’t about fixing the self to fit a neurotypical mould, but unlearning shame and coming home to who we are.

Core to this approach is validation, autonomy, transparency, and flexibility. Therapy must adapt to the client, not the other way around. This might mean offering different communication formats, honouring shutdowns or silences, or gently exploring internalised ableism together. Strengths-based practice is key: therapy becomes a space for rediscovering passions, reclaiming agency, and fostering self-trust.

In my PhD research, participants shared that therapy helped them reconnect with parts of themselves they thought were lost. One person described it as a process of rediscovering and "coming home to" herself. Others spoke about recognising that masking had shaped their identity, and therapy was where they began to ask, "Who am I beneath the mask?" With the right therapeutic support, they began to challenge deeply-rooted shame and rebuild a sense of wholeness.

So many participants described receiving their autism diagnosis or identifying as autistic as a profound turning point. Not because it explained everything, but because it gave them permission to stop striving to be someone else. It offered a framework that made sense of their differences and opened up the possibility of self-compassion.

Connecting with the wider autistic community played a huge role in this process. As one participant put it: "it suddenly made so much sense… I just thought I was bad at being human, and then I realised I wasn’t bad at being human, I was just not the kind of human I thought I was meant to be." Being in community meant access to shared language, resonance, and stories that mirrored their own. In this context, identity confusion and self-blame began to shift. What emerged instead was a growing sense of pride, clarity, and connection.

This echoes wider research, which shows that identity coherence and belonging are protective factors against mental health difficulties. For neurodivergent people who have spent years feeling out of place or "too much," finding their community can be life-affirming. Belonging doesn’t erase pain, but it provides a foundation for healing.

Therapeutic groups can offer something profoundly different for neurodivergent people: a space where you don’t have to explain yourself. Where eye contact isn’t expected, silences are honoured, and shared experiences speak louder than clinical language. In my experience, groups offer both psychological and social empowerment.

Participants often tell me that group work is the first place they’ve felt truly understood by others. There is less pressure to mask, and more space to explore how their traits show up in a range of relational contexts. From a trauma-informed lens, this is hugely reparative. Where relational trauma once taught them they weren’t safe to be themselves, group therapy offers a gentle corrective experience: "I can be all of me here and still be accepted."

Group support can also counteract internalized shame. As members witness each other’s growth, struggles, and self-discoveries, they often begin to extend the same compassion to themselves. Shared reflections become mirrors. It’s not about sameness, but resonance—and in that resonance, a deep sense of support takes root.

At its heart, this work is about helping people return to themselves. Healing happens when we are seen, valued, and given space to understand our own experience.

Whether it’s through one-to-one therapy, group support, or connecting with neurodivergent communities, your story deserves to be heard. Your needs are not too much. Your way of being in the world is valid.

If you are on a journey of unmasking, of finding language for your experience, of rebuilding trust in yourself, I want you to know that you are not alone. Healing, connection, and self-understanding are all possible when we stop trying to fix ourselves and instead begin to listen to our natural rhythm—the quiet truths that have always been there, waiting to be heard, honoured, and expressed.

Dr. Cloie Parfitt is a psychotherapist, researcher, and educator specialising in neurodivergence and trauma. Her work is grounded in a neurodiversity-affirming, relational approach that honours each person’s unique way of being in the world. In addition to her doctoral research on autistic women’s experiences of trauma and therapy, Cloie continues to explore how neurodivergent people experience identity, healing, and connection within therapeutic relationships. Through her practice, Diverse Minds Therapy, she offers therapy, consultancy, and training that support neurodivergent adults to move beyond masking, reconnect with themselves, and find healing in community.