There’s a very specific kind of eye contact that says: “I read somewhere this is what humans do.” It’s intense. It’s slightly off. It’s me, in most work meetings, accidentally fixing my gaze on someone’s left eyebrow for so long they start to visibly sweat.
I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to look “normal.” The irony, of course, is that in trying to pass as socially competent, I’ve somehow ended up looking like a cross between a malfunctioning android and a suspicious owl.
Welcome to the eye contact paradox: expected, enforced, and deeply uncomfortable—especially if you’re neurodivergent and your brain didn’t come with the same firmware for face-based conversation.
Look at Me When I’m Speaking to You (And Other Childhood Threats)
From an early age, we’re taught that eye contact = good. It signals attentiveness, honesty, confidence. It also, apparently, prevents us from turning into delinquents, sociopaths, or mid-tier management.
Teachers wield it like a moral barometer. “He doesn’t make eye contact” appears on report cards as if it were a gateway behaviour to arson. I distinctly remember trying to maintain eye contact with a headteacher during a detention explanation and accidentally staring so hard I forgot how to blink.
I was twelve. I think I traumatised us both.
The Gaze Economy of Adulthood
As adults, the pressure doesn’t lift—it intensifies. Now we’re in interviews, performance reviews, networking events, and weekly meetings with biscuits that make your mouth feel like a dusty cupboard. And through all of it, the same expectation hums beneath the surface: make eye contact or risk being perceived as weird, rude, or dangerously incompetent.
Managers notice if you look at the table too much. Colleagues misinterpret a glance to the side as disinterest. Even on Zoom, people monitor where your gaze lands, as if your soul should be GPS-tracked via webcam.
It doesn’t matter what you say. It matters where your eyes go while you’re saying it.
The Accidental Boob Glance: Masking Gone Rogue
To survive this gaze-obsessed landscape, many neurodivergent people develop tricks. Masking, essentially. We simulate eye contact by looking at noses, eyebrows, the space between the eyes, or, in extreme cases, just above someone’s left ear.
Sometimes, it goes wrong. Spectacularly wrong.
Take the classic teen-to-young-adult miscalculation: in a panicked effort to avoid direct eye contact, your gaze drifts downward. Too far downward. And suddenly, you’re staring squarely at someone’s chest.
Not with intent. Not with malice. Simply because in trying to avoid one form of discomfort, you’ve stumbled headlong into another.
And here’s the worst part: you often don’t realise it—not until the other person shifts awkwardly, covers themselves slightly, or looks at you like you’ve just been uninvited from feminism.
Once, during a tutorial, I thought I was holding safe, polite, side-of-face level gaze. Turns out I’d been gently but unwaveringly fixated on a particularly low neckline for the better part of a group discussion. I was simply trying to avoid a panic spiral. I left with a profound sense of shame and a new hyper-awareness of collars.
This is the neurodivergent tightrope: appear normal, but not too intense. Avoid staring, but also avoid looking like you’re undressing someone with your eyes while internally disassociating over whether you remembered to lock the front door.
The Guilt of Looking Away
Then there’s the aftermath. You look away to collect your thoughts, or because your eyes need a break, and suddenly you’re avoiding them. Disengaged. Aloof. Maybe even dishonest.
People will ask if you’re upset. Or distracted. Or bored. Sometimes they won’t say anything at all—they’ll just file it away, silently judging you as not quite “present” enough.
Meanwhile, you were simply trying not to disassociate.
Alternatives to Eye Contact (Yes, We Have Those)
Here’s the thing: eye contact is not the only measure of engagement. Neurodivergent folks might:
- Look at mouths, to better understand speech
- Focus on shoulder movement, to track intent
- Listen more deeply because they’re not distracted by visual overwhelm
- Or simply focus their gaze on a neutral object—a coffee cup, a corner of the desk, a slightly judgemental spider in the corner of the ceiling
The Myth of Sincerity Through Staring
We’ve built entire cultures around the idea that looking someone in the eye means telling the truth. But the reality is more nuanced. Some of the kindest, most present people I know avoid eye contact because it’s overwhelming. And some of the most manipulative people I’ve ever met stare like they’re trying to hypnotise you into a direct debit.
It’s time to stop equating stillness with disinterest, and eye contact with authenticity.
Final Thoughts (And Where I’m Looking Now)
I’m still learning. Still unlearning, really. That pressure to perform eye contact never really disappears, but I’m starting to let myself off the hook.
Sometimes I look at noses. Sometimes at the floor. Sometimes, bravely, for a few seconds at someone’s eyes. But only if it feels okay.
The real connection, it turns out, doesn’t live in the staring. It lives in the listening.
So if you ever catch me glancing at your elbow mid-conversation, just know I’m doing my best—and it probably means I like you.
AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.
As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.
AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.
For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in. Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.
Discover more from untypicable
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.