The Table

I often wonder where this deep seed of shame inside me came from.

No one ever sat me down and told me that the natural version of me was something to be ashamed of.

They did not have to.

Somewhere along the way, I learned that the way I moved through the world made other people uncomfortable—and that their discomfort was my responsibility.

I learned to soften my voice. To ask fewer questions. To hold my reactions inside. To make myself smaller, quieter and easier to understand.

But shame this deep is rarely planted in one moment.

It is planted in thousands of small ones.

And when I first began to wonder whether I might be autistic, I watched the seed being planted again.

I went to an autism support group.

At the time, I was only beginning to look at my life through this new lens. I was carrying decades of shame without yet understanding where it had come from.

Some part of me hoped I might find people who could help me see that the things I had spent my life hiding were never something I needed to hide.

Instead, the leaders began offering advice about masking at work.

They told us that we could ask for accommodations.

One example was a table.

A table positioned so that neurotypical coworkers would not feel uncomfortable seeing an autistic employee stim.

I have not been able to stop thinking about it.

They called it an accommodation for the autistic person.

But who, exactly, was being accommodated?

The person whose body needed movement to regulate itself?

Or the people who might be uncomfortable watching it?

The person stimming was still expected to manage the fluorescent lights, the noise, the interruptions, the social rules and the strain of trying to remain regulated in an environment built for someone else.

The table changed none of that.

It simply made the autism less visible.

I had gone there hoping to understand whether I could finally put down some of the shame I had carried.

Instead, I was shown another reason to carry it.

Even there, inside a room created to support autistic people, the message was the same:

You may be autistic.

But please do not make anyone else see it.

Perhaps this is how shame first found me.

Not through cruelty obvious enough to recognize, but through guidance that sounded reasonable.

We are only trying to help you.

People will respond better if you say it this way.

Try not to take things so seriously.

You do not need to ask so many questions.

Could you be a little less direct?

Each correction appeared to be about one small behavior.

But together they became something much larger.

They taught me that there was a version of me the world might accept and another version it would not.

So I began studying the difference.

I watched people’s faces. I measured the warmth in their voices. I noticed the moment a conversation shifted and searched myself for whatever I had done to change it.

I rehearsed what I was going to say.

I replayed what I had already said.

I learned to add warmth when I was already being kind. To add uncertainty when I was already unsure. To smile when I was overwhelmed and remain pleasant while I was hurting.

I became very good at making other people comfortable.

So good that they rarely had to see what it cost me.

That may be why the table unsettled me so deeply.

It was not simply a piece of furniture.

It was every accommodation I had made for the world without realizing I was the one being asked to disappear.

It was every question I swallowed because someone might hear it as a challenge.

Every boundary I abandoned because someone might think I was selfish.

Every truth I softened until I could barely find myself inside it.

Every moment I was told I could belong, provided I remained hidden carefully enough behind the table.

And now the same lesson was being offered as support.

Not permission to move without shame.

Not reassurance that regulation does not become wrong simply because someone else can see it.

Not the expectation that neurotypical people might learn to sit beside a body that moves differently from theirs.

Just a better hiding place.

The table was not intended to make the autistic person more comfortable in the world.

It was intended to make the world more comfortable with the autistic person.

Those are not the same thing.

One asks what we need in order to participate.

The other asks how well we can disappear while doing it.

For most of my life, I believed acceptance was something I could earn if I worked hard enough at becoming acceptable.

I did not understand that what I was earning was permission to remain in the room as long as I did not disturb it.

As long as I did not move too visibly.

Speak too directly.

Ask too much.

Feel too deeply.

See too far ahead.

As long as the parts of me that made others uncomfortable remained safely out of sight.

Behind the table.

I often wonder where this deep seed of shame inside me came from.

I think I am beginning to understand.

It was planted each time the world told me that I was welcome—but only after showing me which parts of myself I would have to hide.

One correction.

One accommodation.

One table at a time.