Yes, I’m Self-Centered. What’s It to You?

How autistic orientation reveals a different kind of love, empathy, and wholeness.

"Self, are you in here somewhere under the chlorinated existential dread?"

Centered in Self

This morning my partner asked me, gently:
“Are you centered in self right now?”

Not as a jab. Not as an insult. Just a noticing. A mirror.

He could tell I was beginning to spiral—that subtle disorientation, when I start reaching outward before I’ve landed inward. When I begin to lose the thread of myself.

In our home, we don’t use self-centered as a critique. It’s not a judgment, it’s an orientation. A compass. A reminder to come home before we try to meet each other in relationship.

But outside our home?
The world loves to throw “self-centered” at autistic people like it’s a diagnosis in itself.
A quick flattening: selfish, arrogant, cold, lacking empathy—case closed.

Never mind that many of us are drowning in too much empathy, if anything.

So I want to tell a different story—
about what it really means to be centered in self.

A story that might turn the insult into something else.

Something closer to medicine.

Selfishness vs. Self-Centering

Here’s the first misunderstanding we need to unravel:
Selfishness and self-centeredness are not the same thing.
Not even cousins, really—more like strangers wearing similar jackets who get mistaken for each other at the airport.

Selfishness is extractive. It’s about taking from others to feed a hunger that never feels full.
My needs at your expense.

Self-centering is grounding. It’s about returning to the axis of your own being, so you don’t collapse or blur into someone else.
My center, before I can meet you at yours.

One consumes.
The other orients.

When someone says, “You’re so self-centered,” what they often really mean is:
“You’re not centering me.”

(Which is kind of ironic, right? They want their center to be your center—and then you’re the selfish one?)

But here’s the truth:
Being centered in self doesn’t block connection.
It’s what makes connection possible without distortion.

Without it, I’m not really with you—I’m just an echo of what you expect me to be.

Developmental Roots

Developmental psychology actually backs this up.
(Though, to be fair, I don’t always trust psychology—too much colonizing, too much pathologizing. But sometimes it accidentally tells the truth.)

Before a child can authentically connect with others, they first have to anchor in themselves.
They have to discover:
I exist.
I have needs.
I have feelings.
There’s a boundary between me and not-me.

This isn’t selfish.
It’s basic architecture.
Roots before branches.

And here’s where it gets interesting:

Autistic people often stay rooted in this orientation.
Not because we’re “stuck” (as the story goes), but because our roots are deeper.
We don’t abandon them so easily.

Meanwhile, allistic development tends to reward early branching outward—pleasing, socializing, mimicking the group.

(And if you’ve ever seen a tree with long, overgrown branches and shallow roots, you know how fragile that structure really is.)

So when autistic people keep sinking deeper into the root system, society calls it “failure to thrive.”

But what if it’s not failure?
What if it’s a different growth pattern—one that prioritizes depth over surface-level belonging?

Roots that hold, even in the storm.

Trauma Healing

Here’s the other piece: trauma healing.

If you’ve ever done therapy
(or read the books, or slogged through the wellness-industrial complex),
you know the big theme is always:
Come back to yourself.

Return to your body.
Regulate your nervous system.
Reclaim your boundaries.
Don’t abandon yourself in order to survive someone else.

That’s the work, right?
Trauma scatters us.
Healing is learning how to re-collect.

But here’s the twist:

What therapy is busy teaching allistics to rebuild—
many autistic people already start with.

Our psyche comes pre-loaded with the drive to stay anchored in self.
Even if we don’t have the words for it.
Even if we’re punished for it.

Which means that what looks like a “lack” to others—
You’re so self-centered.
You’re not adapting.
You’re rigid.

—might actually be the very orientation therapists are trying to guide their clients toward.

We’re already practicing what healing points to.
The problem is: no one recognizes it as wisdom.
They only see it as a problem when it doesn’t follow their social script.

(And yes. The irony is thick.)

Allistic Norms & Self-Abandonment

Now, let’s flip the mirror.

If autistic orientation tends to stay rooted in self,
allistic orientation often gets rewarded for doing the opposite:
self-abandonment.

Think about it—so much of what passes for “social skills”
is really just training in how to contort yourself so other people feel comfortable.

Smile when you don’t mean it.
Say “I’m fine” when you’re not.
Agree politely when your whole body is screaming no.
Flatten your edges so the group doesn’t bristle.

That’s not connection.
It’s erasure with good manners.

And yet—society applauds it.
Self-abandonment gets mistaken for maturity.
For politeness.
For belonging.

Meanwhile, when autistic people don’t abandon self
(because we can’t, or won’t, or simply don’t see the point),
we get labeled as:
“Rigid.”
“Self-absorbed.”
“Lacking empathy.”

But look closer:
Is it really a lack of empathy—
or a refusal to perform false harmony?

Because sometimes, the most relational thing you can do
is not abandon yourself.

The Mislabeling

This is where the wires get crossed.

An autistic person refuses to abandon self—
refuses to say “yes” when it’s really “no,”
refuses to laugh when something isn’t funny,
refuses to smooth over tension with small talk—
and suddenly, the label arrives:

Self-centered. Cold. Arrogant. Unfeeling.

But let’s pause here.

What if that refusal
isn’t the absence of empathy at all—
but the protection of it?

Because empathy without boundaries isn’t empathy.
It’s enmeshment.
It’s collapse.
It’s losing yourself in someone else’s storm
until neither of you knows where the other begins.

And if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of performative empathy—
the kind where someone pretends to care,
but really just wants you to feel better so they can feel better—
you know it’s not actually kindness.
It’s emotional outsourcing.

Autistic refusal to abandon self may look like distance.
But more often, it’s integrity.
It’s relational honesty.
It’s saying:
I won’t lie to you, and I won’t lie to myself, just to keep the peace.

That’s not coldness.
It’s the fiercest form of care.

Masking as Double-Holding

I don’t want to oversimplify.
Because masking isn’t always just betrayal-of-self
(though it often feels like that).

Sometimes, masking is more like:
Let me hold myself—and you—at the same time.

It’s a survival skill we learn
because the world is often too fragile for our truth.
Some people, some spaces, some families, some workplaces—
they just can’t hold the whole of us without cracking.

So we split the difference.
We hold both.

We tuck parts of ourselves away—
not because we don’t care,
but because we care too much.
Because we know what would happen if we didn’t.

Masking can look like self-erasure.
But often, it’s a kind of caretaking.
(Though one that comes at a great personal cost.)

It’s saying:
I’ll carry the weight of my truth in silence,
so you don’t have to face what you’re not ready for.

That’s not selfishness.
That’s a kind of double-burden love.

But here’s the catch:

When we do that long enough,
we start disappearing from ourselves.
And the longer we disappear—
the harder it is to come back.

Which is why being centered in self
isn’t just some poetic idea for autistic people—
it’s survival.

What Autistic Connection Really Looks Like

Here’s the paradox:
We get called “self-centered” as if it means we can’t connect.
But in reality, when we are centered in self—
that’s exactly when connection becomes possible.

Because here’s the thing:
When I bring my whole self—unmasked and uncollapsed—
what you get is real.

No forced laughter.
No “I’m fine” when I’m not.
No nodding along while secretly dissociating.

When I say yes, it’s yes.
When I say no, it’s no.
When I care, it’s not performance.
It’s presence.

And yes, that makes autistic love, friendship, and community look different.
It’s slower, sometimes.
Sharper, other times.
But it’s honest.

It’s built on depth, not convenience.

We don’t always do “harmony.”
But when we do connection—
it’s whole.

No masks.
No collapse.
No false peace.

The Gift of Self-Centering

This is where the so-called “deficit” flips.

Because when self-centering is supported—
when we’re given tools for flexibility,
when the environment isn’t hostile,
when relationship doesn’t demand our erasure—
it becomes one of our greatest strengths.

Self-centering means:

Empathy without self-erasure.
I can feel with you without dissolving into you.

Compassion with clarity.
I can care for your pain without lying about my own limits.

Connection with boundaries.
I can reach toward you without abandoning myself along the way.

This is not the brittle self-interest people imagine when they say “self-centered.”
It’s the opposite.
It’s an orientation that makes wholeness possible.

And honestly?
This is what autistic love, friendship, and community look like.
Not shallow harmony.
Not performance.
But bonds built on presence and truth.

It may not always be easy.
But it’s real.

The Reframing

So let’s be clear:

“Self-centered” is not a flaw.
It’s not arrogance.
It’s not lack of empathy.

It’s orientation.
It’s survival.
It’s wholeness.

When autistic people refuse to abandon self, it’s not because we don’t care—it’s because we do. It’s because we know that any connection built on collapse isn’t connection at all.

What looks like rigidity is often integrity.
What looks like distance is often protection.
What looks like coldness is often a deeper kind of warmth—the kind that won’t lie to make you comfortable.

Closing Vision

Maybe the autistic difference isn’t less empathy.
Maybe it’s the courage to remain centered in self
while still reaching toward others.

And maybe—
that’s the medicine the wider world needs most right now.

Because look around:
So much of our culture rewards self-abandonment.
Perform the role. Numb the truth. Say yes when you mean no.
Collapse into the crowd.

But what if the real crisis isn’t too much self-centeredness—
what if it’s not enough?

What if the future depends on people who refuse to abandon themselves?
Who can hold their own center and still extend a hand?
Who can say:
“I am here, as me.
And I will meet you—as you.”

That’s not selfish.
That’s the root of every authentic relationship.
Every movement worth building.
Every world worth living in.

And autistic people—
well, we’ve been practicing it all along.

© 2025 Sher Griffin. All rights reserved.
The Cognitive Ecology Model, Synpraxis, and Exclusion Feedback Synpraxis are original works developed through years of research, writing, and lived experience. Please cite appropriately when referencing.
For permissions, collaborations, or questions, contact: sher@thecompassioncollective.earth

https://shergriffin.substack.com/about