Look, But Don’t Touch

Let’s talk about touch. Or rather, let’s talk about why I might bolt across the room like a startled gazelle when you try to hug me.

It’s Not You, It’s My Nervous System

This isn’t personal. I don’t despise you. I don’t think you’re gross. Unless you’re wearing Axe body spray, in which case, we’ll need to have a different conversation. It’s just that for me and many other autistic people, touch isn’t the cozy, heartwarming “love language” that you experience. The physical sensation is cranked up to eleven, drowning out any comfort or good intentions behind it. And once you strip away the emotional filter, a hug is basically two primates mashing their meat sacks together. Honestly? It's not that great.

I live on the physically hypersensitive end of the spectrum, where a clothing tag feels like a wasp sting and a scented candle hits me like pepper spray. Touch is no exception.

Even when I feel semi-okay about it, I’m never sure I’m doing it right. How long is this hug supposed to last? How much pressure is too much before it’s considered assault? And if I just follow their lead, am I missing some crucial subtext—like that this is a come-on, or that they’re saying goodbye because I look like I won’t make it to Christmas?

When Kindness Feels Like an Attack Hug

I was once invited to dinner at a professor’s house. His wife, a woman of formidable enthusiasm and proportions, greeted us with a hug so sudden and powerful it felt like being tackled by a memory foam mattress. As I was slowly smothered to death by a stranger’s upper torso, my social anxiety decided to join in. Was it inappropriate that my face was now a guest of honor in my professor’s wife’s chest? Should I say something? Do I leave a tip?

The Ambush Hug (and Other Crimes of Affection)

There’s also the problem of surprise contact—those moments when someone swoops in with a hug or drops a hand on my shoulder from behind. My nervous system doesn’t read that as spontaneous affection; it registers a violation. The closest comparison I can offer is being groped on a train. The level of violation is not remotely equivalent, of course, but the reaction is similar: the shock, the lack of consent, the scramble to process what just happened. So instead of basking in a moment of closeness, I’m now mentally reporting your well-meaning but wildly presumptuous hand to the police.

When Touch Turns to Trauma

Speaking of police, when I was arrested in ninth grade, they made sure I understood that my body was no longer mine. They shoved me, twisted my arms, slammed me into hard surfaces, and finally ended the lesson with a full cavity search. That kind of experience teaches anyone that touch can be profoundly humiliating. And for an autistic person, those memories don’t just linger in your mind—they take up residence in your skin.

Terms of Engagement: A Peace Treaty for Touch

If all of this sounds like a lot—the sensory overload, the social confusion, the trauma triggers, the accidental boob smothering—that’s because it is a lot. But there’s a middle ground. We don’t have to live on opposite sides of the touch/no- touch divide. With a little effort on both sides, we can build bridges that don’t involve surprise shoulder grabs.

For those of us on the neurodivergent side, the most helpful thing we can do is communicate our boundaries before the awkward moment happens. A simple, “I’m not a big hugger, but I’m happy to hang out,” goes a long way toward setting expectations without killing the vibe. And when we do want to physically connect, we can offer alternatives that feel safe: a fist bump, a high-five, or just choosing to sit next to someone instead of across the room.

Explaining why touch is difficult can make a huge difference. Most people aren’t trying to make us uncomfortable; they just don’t know the rules are different. You can start playfully: “I’m fine with hugs, but I didn’t dress for them today.” If that doesn’t register, try something more honest: “Touch can feel overwhelming to me.” And if they still don’t get it, there’s always the nuclear option: “I'm sorry, my leprosy is acting up.”

For the normlings, a little thoughtfulness goes a long way, too. Always ask first. “Can I hug you?” is fine, but “Would you like a hug?” is better—it removes the social pressure to say yes. And if the answer is no, take it gracefully and move on. Remember, it’s not rejection; it’s self-preservation.

Affection doesn’t have to involve skin. And if we can agree on that, we’ll get along just fine—from a mutually satisfactory distance.