Finding Balance: Therapy, Autism, and Personal Growth

I’m a big advocate of therapy. For over a decade, I’ve been in and out of various therapists’ offices, and I still attend at least monthly. Lately, though, I’ve dreaded my sessions for two clear reasons: first, I struggle with ongoing motivation connected to my autism and the social challenges it brings; second, discussing painful topics in therapy often triggers obsessive thinking. I don’t dislike my therapist—she’s one of the most likable practitioners I’ve worked with, and we’ve been meeting for years. Initially, I wondered if this dread meant I didn’t need therapy anymore, or if I should reduce the frequency of my sessions. Before making a decision, I started sitting in silence, allowing myself to feel that dread. These days, instead of immediately turning to an audiobook or podcast when I get uncomfortable with silence, I sit with it a bit longer before putting on my headphones.

I dread my monthly sessions mainly due to internal motivation. My most severe mental issues are resolved, but my reason for going remains: autism leaves me at a social disadvantage in both private and professional life. I need someone to help me consider others’ feelings and guide healthy progress. Yet each session reminds me that autism is lifelong. I always knew this, but never fully accepted it. I thought enough therapy and practice would solve my struggles. I set a goal with my therapist: to feel comfortable at work and avoid disclosing my disability. I am getting closer, but didn’t expect it to take so much effort. I’ve attended events with my partner for social practice, sometimes needing hours to recuperate afterward. Still, I get exposure and gradually feel more comfortable.

Some of the recent social outings I’ve attended include a baseball game, a fundraising gala, and a social day at an arcade. The main goal of these outings is to manage my anxiety in loud surroundings, practice talking to new people, and see if I enjoy new environments now that I understand my disability. While I still don’t enjoy loud environments, what I have found that I do enjoy is meeting new people and hearing about their lives. I often learn something new or apply a new insight to my life. I was surprised at the baseball game when I enjoyed walking around the stadium and throwing some bean bags into a cornhole board. I hadn’t tried cornhole since a driveway party when I lived at home. Attending these events also provides an opportunity to practice finding calm in stressful social situations, which I will need to do again and again in the future, I’m sure.

My second reason is asking my therapist about painful issues. Once I grieve a loss, I try to think about it as little as possible, or my OCD takes over. Thoughts become all-consuming. Revisiting tough topics in therapy isn’t always desirable, though I do it. My recent Bible study has me thinking about discipline during hardship. We discussed whether the Israelites’ military defeats were part of God’s plan or merely a matter of circumstance. These conversations made me reflect on how formative my mental health crisis was and how I still use those lessons.

The lure of sitting still is strong. The numbness feels good, but I can’t allow it. This applies to cleaning and socializing. I make an effort to do both because stopping felt impossible to restart. That’s why I keep my therapy sessions. If I stop, returning might become harder, especially during a crisis. The main lesson: don’t sit still too long, or it becomes too comfortable.

Fear of being unhelpable or unfixable often kept me from seeking help. It surfaced before every counseling or therapy visit, even now. Despite years of improving social and coping skills, I worry I’ve harmed others or won’t reach my goals due to anxiety or disability. I’ve hoped therapy would fix me. Anxiety and depression are treatable; medication helps. But there’s no medication for non-verbal cues. Sometimes I wonder what more I can do. After my crisis, I chose not to have children, fearing any child would be ashamed of me and I wouldn’t parent well. I continue researching workplace social dynamics because I routinely feel I do the wrong thing. I admit progress, but still feel it may never be enough.

Therapy sometimes feels like atonement, ensuring I don’t harm others or become a burden. The problem is I can’t separate myself from my disability, nor do I know what’s autism versus what’s not. Sometimes I wonder if some people use my disability as an excuse to point out my flaws and deflect their own. I trust my inner voice, developed through therapy. Extended silence helps me sift anxious thoughts, think logically, and balance emotion with truth. More time with people increases my need for reflective silence—to process their behavior and my reactions. Not every reaction means someone did wrong. To control my emotions, I must understand why I feel and react as I do.

When something feels like it’s going sideways, I rely even more on routine. Recently, I’ve adopted new habits to maintain balance. Meditating on the story of the Israelites has included weekly Bible study, even though growing up in a literalist church was sometimes traumatic. I’ve experienced anxiety before these meetings, but I value my relationship with God and connection to people, so I persist. The diverse perspectives and relationships I’ve developed have been rewarding. Alongside attending spiritual meetings, I’ve also kept a regular sleep schedule, joined exercise classes at a local gym, and built a weekend routine.

Despite my fears, I’m committed to continuing. Every step, comfortable or hard, brings more self-understanding. Therapy doesn’t have all the answers, but it teaches me to keep showing up and moving forward, even amid uncertainty. I often feel torn between self-improvement and the fear that my effort is pointless. But the thought of giving up is more depressing than pushing on and trying to be my best. I know this journey will have challenges, but I trust that with time, patience, and support, I can continue to grow and find meaning. For now, I choose to keep moving forward, believing each effort brings me closer to the life I want to live.