“I Don’t Know Where to Put My Face

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,080 words Some people seem to know, instinctively, how to arrange their face. Not just for photos—though that’s its own minefield—but in conversation, at the grocery store, on Zoom. They react before the other person finishes a sentence. A head tilt here. A soft nod. A knowing smile. A flicker of concern at the exact right second. I watch them sometimes. Their faces look like dance partners with the moment—always a step ahead, always on rhythm. Mine feels like it’s skipping the beat.

It’s not that I don’t feel things. It’s that my face doesn’t always know when or how to show it. Or worse—shows the wrong thing. Neutral face when I’m listening. Too intense when I’m passionate. Blank when I’m overwhelmed. Wrong. The number of times I’ve been told I’m intimidating, annoyed, checked out, or unbothered—when I was literally just thinking—is too high to count. But by far the worst was being told, “You looked bored.” Because that was the moment I realized something was off that I couldn’t see, fix, or even feel in real time.

Autistic people hear a lot about body language. That we don’t pick it up the same. But what gets less attention is how ours gets misread. I didn’t just miss the cues. I gave cues I didn’t mean to send. And nobody believed me when I explained after.

I remember trying to force my face to do things in school. Practicing smiles in the mirror. Trying to hold them in place for just the right amount of time. Watching other girls soften their features, raise their eyebrows at just the right angle. They looked like they belonged. I looked like I was trying too hard. Even when I wasn’t.

In theatre class, I loved being told what to do with my face. Raise your brows. Look left. Soften your mouth. Drop your jaw. Finally, instructions I could follow. I did well when the mask was scripted. It was real life that got me. Unscripted. Unsignaled. Unexpected.

When I got my autism diagnosis, the evaluator asked if I struggled with facial expression. I didn’t know how to answer. Because I thought I was just bad at socializing. I didn’t know there was a word for not knowing where to put your eyebrows when someone tells you they’re getting divorced.

I started noticing the microsecond delay in my own reactions. Someone says something shocking. My brain races through: —Is this sad? —Am I allowed to laugh? —Is a smile rude here? By the time I’ve picked a response, the moment’s gone. I either say nothing. Or I say too much. And my face still doesn’t get the memo.

I’ve been accused of being cold. Distant. Arrogant. Rude. I’ve been told I was “hard to read,” “intense,” “stone-faced,” “deadpan,” “stoic,” “off-putting.” I’ve also been told I’m “a lot,” “too much,” “so expressive,” “animated,” “dramatic.” Somehow, I’m both too much and not enough. Too flat and too loud. Too blank and too intense. Depends on the day. The mood. The room.

I wish I could explain what it feels like to not trust your own face. To know that your words might be right but your mouth, eyes, or forehead will betray you. To try to soften your presence while feeling the effort turn robotic. To watch someone pull away because your face didn’t mirror their pain fast enough. And to know it’s not because you don’t care— but because your processing speed and emotional regulation are waging a private war behind your skin.

I’ve tried to train it. Really, I have. But facial expressions aren’t just muscle control. They’re timing. Reflex. Pattern recognition. And if your brain doesn’t read patterns the way other people’s do, you fall out of sync. Even when your heart is in it.

Here’s what I wish people understood: I care deeply. But I might not show it the way you expect. I’m listening. Even if I’m not nodding fast enough. I’m engaged. Even if I’m staring into space while I think. I’m laughing inside. Even if my mouth doesn’t get there in time.

Sometimes, when I’m really overwhelmed, I lose track of what my face is doing at all. I might frown when I’m not upset. Smile when I’m uncomfortable. Look angry when I’m scared. It’s like my body’s trying to signal “help” but the wiring gets crossed. That’s not dishonesty. That’s neurology.

When you live like this long enough, you start apologizing for your face. You preface every conversation with “I’m tired, don’t mind my expression.” You reassure people mid-sentence: “I’m not mad, I’m just thinking.” You practice smiling on video calls even when your cheeks hurt. Because being misread feels like a risk. And eventually, it becomes your job to protect others from how they might misinterpret you.

But here’s the thing: I don’t owe anyone a perfect reaction. And neither does my face. I don’t need to match your mood in real-time to be a good friend. I don’t have to contort myself to fit someone else’s emotional expectations. I just need space. To process. To exist. To be read on my terms.

That’s what AWRYTE means to me. It’s the space between stimulus and response. Where I get to unmask without explanation. Where my face doesn’t have to perform understanding before it’s real. Where I can be present without being polished. If you don’t know where to put your face either— you’re not alone. And you don’t have to fix it. You just have to find a place where it’s safe to show up as you. This is one of those places.