The text came in on a Thursday afternoon: “Would you like to grab dinner sometime?” My stomach flipped. There it was, the question that ignites hope and panic in equal measure. I stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity, my brain cycling through possibilities. Was this casual? Serious? Would I even survive a night out?
After a few deep breaths, I replied, “Sure, sounds fun! When and where?” and immediately began overanalyzing.
The Setup
We settled on a rooftop bar downtown. Fancy, but not too fancy—a place I’d never been before but had Googled relentlessly since the invite. Photos of couples sipping cocktails under string lights suggested an intimate, romantic vibe. But the sensory nightmare lurking behind the curated Instagram aesthetic didn’t hit me until I stepped out of the elevator and into the chaos.
The music hit me first—a relentless bassline that seemed to pulse through my skull. Voices layered over one another, conversations bouncing off glass walls. The scent of expensive cologne, citrusy cocktails, and grilled something-or-other blended into a nauseating haze.
He was waiting near the bar, grinning when he saw me. His smile was easy, his body language open. Meanwhile, I was already scanning the room for an escape route.
Reading Signals (Or Trying To)
He leaned in for a hug—a friendly gesture, I assumed—but the proximity made my skin prickle. I returned the hug quickly, pulling back before the contact could overwhelm me. Was he annoyed? Did I come across as cold? These questions ran laps in my head as he led me to a table near the edge of the rooftop.
The view was stunning, I’ll give it that. Twinkling city lights stretched out like a constellation, a perfect backdrop for a romantic evening. But it was hard to appreciate beauty when my senses were screaming for relief.
Small Talk and Big Struggles
“So,” he began, leaning forward, “what do you do for fun?”
It’s a normal question, right? The kind of icebreaker every first date should have. But my brain froze. What do I do for fun? Do I say something cool, like rock climbing, even though I’ve only tried it once? Do I mention my hyperfixation on vintage maps, or will that seem weird?
“I, uh…read a lot,” I finally offered, cursing myself for sounding boring.
“That’s great! What kind of books?”
Oh, thank God, he’s interested. I launched into a mini-rant about gothic fiction and obscure historical biographies, watching his expression carefully. Was he engaged? Bored? Tolerating me? It’s exhausting, this constant analysis of someone else’s every microexpression.
The Breaking Point
About halfway through the date, things started to unravel. The music seemed to get louder, the lights brighter. Every clink of a glass felt like a hammer to my skull. I could feel the pressure building in my chest—a prelude to a full-blown meltdown.
I excused myself and hurried to the bathroom, locking myself in a stall. The tears came almost instantly, not from sadness but from sheer sensory overload. I rocked slightly, breathing deeply to calm myself down. I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection.
“You’ve got this,” I whispered to myself, though I didn’t fully believe it.
The Aftermath
When I returned to the table, I felt raw, like an exposed nerve. I apologized for taking so long, but he waved it off. “No problem,” he said, his tone warm.
By the end of the night, I was convinced I’d ruined the date. I left feeling drained and defeated. But the next morning, my phone buzzed with a message: “That place was a lot—next time, let’s do something quieter.”
The relief was overwhelming. For the first time, I realized that the right person wouldn’t see my needs as a burden—they’d see them as part of what makes me, me.
What I’ve Learned About Dating
1. Honesty Is Key
These days, I’m upfront about my autism early on. It’s not a dramatic reveal—just a casual mention that helps set the tone. If they’re not okay with it, they’re not my person.
2. Choose the Right Settings
I’ve learned to suggest first dates in places where I feel comfortable: coffee shops, museums, or even just a walk in the park. Anything that avoids the sensory overload of loud music and crowded spaces.
3. Embrace My Quirks
I’ve stopped suppressing my stimming or pretending I don’t have special interests. If someone finds my excitement about 19th-century maps charming, great. If not, their loss.
Why This Matters
Dating as an autistic woman isn’t just about finding a partner—it’s about finding someone who sees and values your whole self. Someone who understands that your quirks aren’t flaws to be “fixed” but unique aspects of who you are.
A Cultural Parallel
I think about Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, refusing to settle for less than a love that saw her as an equal. That’s what I want, too—a connection that’s built on authenticity, not performance.
Final Thoughts
Dating with autism can feel like navigating a labyrinth blindfolded, but it’s not impossible. The right person won’t just tolerate your differences—they’ll celebrate them.
If you’re on this journey, remember: you don’t have to play by anyone else’s rules. Write your own. Find someone who fits into your world, not someone who demands you shrink to fit into theirs.
Resources for Autistic Women Navigating Dating:
Have your own dating stories or tips? Share them below—I’d love to hear how you’re rewriting the rules.
