There are many ways to clear a room. Shouting “fire,” for example. Or announcing you’ve brought quiche to a barbecue. But perhaps the most effective—yet tragically underrated—method is this: tell people you’re autistic.

It’s magical, really. You can watch in real time as a person rearranges their entire facial expression into something they hope says “totally fine and supportive” but accidentally screams “how do I escape without looking like a monster?”

They’ll smile too hard, nod like they’ve just remembered how human heads work, and then, without quite making it obvious, begin to back away from your life like Homer into the hedge.

The Art of the Casual Sidestep

To the untrained eye, these people appear to be going about their day. To the autistic person who dared to share their diagnosis, it’s like watching an oddly choreographed escape plan unfold. I’ve catalogued a few classic moves:

• The “Let’s Definitely Catch Up Soon!” Vanish
  No time frame given. No intention of following up. Just a promise floating in the social ether like a balloon slowly deflating.
• The Email-Only Pivot
  They used to chat in the corridor. Now everything’s formal, bullet-pointed, and emotionally neutered. You’re a LinkedIn connection now.
• The Strategic Ghost
  They reply in Teams chats… eventually. Seen-zoning as an Olympic sport.
• The Surprise Calendar Clash
  “Oh, I meant to invite you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d feel comfortable around noise/people/oxygen.”

What you’re witnessing is benevolent exclusion: the art of pretending to be inclusive while meticulously leaving you out. It’s not about malice. It’s about fear, awkwardness, and the neurotypical urge to handle difference like an unexploded bomb.

Things I Apparently Do That Scare Neurotypicals

Let’s be real: it’s not that I’ve changed. I’ve simply labelled what was already there. And that, it seems, is what people find uncomfortable.

1. I ask questions that go “too deep” for small talk

Small talk: “Busy week?”
Me: “Do you ever worry that productivity culture is just late-capitalist self-harm?”
Them: [sips drink nervously]

2. I pause before answering

Processing isn’t stalling. It’s thinking. But in a world obsessed with rapid-fire chatter, silence apparently triggers alarms. I’m not buffering—I’m just not wasting your time with knee-jerk nonsense.

3. I don’t pretend not to be autistic

The horror! I stim. I correct things that are factually wrong. I communicate directly. I don’t do the neurotypical charade of pretending everything’s “fine” when it’s clearly on fire. This makes some people… uneasy. That’s not on me.

4. I hold eye contact like it’s radioactive

Let’s be honest—eye contact is a bizarre social ritual. Too little and I’m “shifty.” Too much and I’m “intense.” It’s a no-win game. So I’ve opted out. If that makes you nervous, perhaps you should reflect on why you need constant ocular affirmation.

5. I notice things I’m “not meant to”

Apparently pointing out when someone changes tone mid-sentence or suddenly gets passive-aggressive is “reading too much into it.” No, I’m just not ignoring the weird energy shift like everyone else agreed to do at birth.

And no, before you ask — being autistic doesn’t mean I’m rude, abrupt, or incapable of self-awareness. That’s just Gregg Wallace, and he’s got his own PR team for that.

Field Guide to Avoiders: Social Taxonomy of the Well-Meaningly Useless

Since I’ve had time (and now, lots of space), I’ve developed a helpful taxonomy of those who suddenly vanish after you disclose you’re autistic. These are not enemies. Just highly flappable mammals.

• The Comfort-Manager:
  Panics at the idea of saying the wrong thing. So says nothing. Forever.
• The Oversharer:
  Immediately confesses to knowing someone else autistic. Usually a cousin. Who liked trains. Somehow this is supposed to count as bonding.
• The Amateur Diagnostician:
  “Oh yeah, I’m probably a bit autistic too. I’m like so bad with eye contact.” (Congratulations. That’s not how it works.)
• The Hyper-Friendly Fader:
  Goes out of their way to greet you in passing but never invites you to anything again. Ever. But you will get a birthday LinkedIn notification.
• The Disability Mystic:
  “I just think neurodivergent people are so special and wise, like they can see things the rest of us can’t…”
  Ma’am, I’m not a wizard. I just hate small talk and overanalyse bus timetables.

The Great Projection: It’s Not Me, It’s You

Here’s the kicker: I haven’t become colder, ruder, or more difficult. You’ve just found out I’m autistic, and now you’re projecting your discomfort onto my existence. You’re trying so hard not to offend me that you’ve ended up excluding me entirely.

You think you’re being kind. In reality, you’ve turned me into a social inconvenience to be managed.

Let’s be clear: your unease is not my responsibility. Your lack of understanding is not my burden to fix. I don’t need rescuing, tiptoeing, or covert distancing. I need you to sit in your own discomfort for long enough to realise it’s yours to deal with.

Silver Linings and Selective Extinction

There is, I admit, an upside. The sudden absence of vague acquaintances frees up time for more interesting pursuits—like reading about train signalling systems, or mentally ranking the fonts used in supermarket signage.

I now have fewer surprise interruptions, fewer guilt-laden group invites, and far fewer awkward chats about someone’s dog’s Instagram account.

The people who stick around tend to be the ones who already saw me—really saw me—before I put a label on it. Those people? Gold. Keepers. The rest? Enjoy your unnecessarily loud pub socials and insincere WhatsApp chats.

I’m Not the Awkward One…

If you act weird around me after I tell you I’m autistic, you’re not protecting my feelings—you’re dodging your own. I didn’t become less of a person. You just became less able to handle me being a whole one.

I don’t need tiptoeing. I need space. Not exclusion, but inclusion without conditions.

So next time someone tells you they’re autistic, don’t back away like they sneezed on your soul. Maybe ask a question. Maybe don’t. But at the very least, stay where you were—because I promise, I didn’t move.

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AJ Wright

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.

untypicable.co.uk

The post The Neurotypical Vanishing Act: Or, How to Become Socially Radioactive in One Diagnosis appeared first on untypicable..

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.

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AJ Wright

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.

untypicable.co.uk

The post The Tyranny of Eye Contact: A Neurodivergent Field Guide appeared first on untypicable..

Some people have a superhuman ability to remember names. They meet you once at a networking event, and three years later, they greet you with a warm, “Hey, AJ! How’s your dog, Merlin?” Meanwhile, you’re standing there in a cold sweat, frantically searching the dark corners of your brain for anything—anything—about this person beyond vague familiarity. You know the face… your really do, but the name just won’t come.

For me, names are my personal kryptonite. I can remember the entire backstory of a Breaking Bad character, the exact coffee order of a friend I haven’t seen since 2016, and why that one scene in a random TV show perfectly represents late-stage capitalism—but a human name? Gone. Evaporated. Erased from my brain as quickly as an email about “exciting new workplace policies.”

If you, too, suffer from this affliction, fear not! This article is both a mourning of our useless brains and a strategic survival guide to dodging, deflecting, and (on rare occasions) actually remembering names.

1. The Sudden Realisation of Doom

The worst moment isn’t when you forget someone’s name—it’s when you realise you’ve forgotten their name.

This often happens mid-conversation, right after they greet you enthusiastically by name, with a tone that suggests you should 100% know theirs too. This is panic territory. You now have seconds to react, and your options are:

1. Fake confidence. (“Heeeyy… you!”)
2. Stall for time. (“Wow, it’s been ages! What’s new?”)
3. Create a diversion. (“LOOK! A DISTRACTED PIGEON!”)
4. Accept your fate. (Smile, nod, pray they bring up their own name.)

Unfortunately, none of these guarantee success. If you’re unlucky, the conversation escalates into an even worse scenario: introductions.

2. The Hell That is Introducing People Without Names

The moment you’re in a group and need to introduce someone whose name you’ve forgotten is a true test of character.

Tactic 1: The Fake-Out Introduction

You introduce the person you do remember and hope the mystery guest fills in their own name.

“Oh, you two should meet! This is Sarah, and… well, I’ll let you introduce yourself!”
This sometimes works, but only if they’re not also a name-forgetter. Otherwise, you end up standing in awkward silence, both waiting for the other person to speak.

Tactic 2: The Vague Gesture

You sort of gesture toward them, hoping they say something first.

“And this is… uh, an absolute legend, by the way.”
Congratulations, you have now created a social situation so awkward it might be studied by anthropologists in the future.

Tactic 3: The Sudden Overuse of “Mate” or “Dude”

If you’re British, “mate” will save you 70% of the time.

“Oh yeah, me and this legend go way back, don’t we, mate?”
Other variations include:

• “Champ!” (A terrible choice unless you’re a 1950s boxing coach.)
• “Boss!” (If you work in sales, this might actually get you promoted.)
• “Big guy/little guy!” (Use with caution unless you want to get punched.)

3. The Worst Case Scenario: Being Called Out

Sometimes, people realise you don’t remember their name and—worst of all—call you out on it.

Them: “You don’t remember my name, do you?”
Me: I would rather fall into a volcano than answer this question honestly.

At this moment, you have two choices:

1. Admit defeat. (“I am so sorry, my brain is made of soup.”)
2. Deflect with unnecessary enthusiasm. (“Oh my god, of COURSE I do! It’s… you!”)

Some people will kindly reintroduce themselves. Others will let you suffer for dramatic effect. You deserve this.

4. Strategies for Long-Term Name Avoidance

If you consistently forget names, you need systems in place to avoid total social catastrophe. Here are some elite-level avoidance tactics:

The “Saved by Social Media” Strategy

Before meeting someone, do a stealth check on LinkedIn, Instagram, or Facebook. Scroll until their name lodges itself into your brain. Caution: If you go too deep, you risk accidentally mentioning their holiday from 2014, exposing yourself as a certified stalker.

The “Nickname Everything” Approach

You assign people vague but memorable nicknames in your head:

• Beard Guy (self-explanatory).
• Talks Too Much Steve (not even sure if he’s a Steve).
• Mysterious Hat Woman (the hat is now more important than her name).

The problem? If they change their look, you’re screwed.

The “Let Someone Else Go First” Trick

If you’re in a conversation and someone new joins, pray that introductions happen naturally before you have to say their name. If that doesn’t happen, you are trapped.

“Hey… you! Have you met… my friend here?” (Prays they introduce themselves to each other.)

5. The Tragic Reality: You Actually Can Remember Names, But Only Too Late

The final insult? Your brain does remember their name… just 20 minutes after they’ve left the conversation.

You’ll be walking home, sitting at your desk, or in the shower when suddenly—BOOM!

“Oh my god. It was JASON.”

Too late. Jason is gone. He probably already thinks you hate him. The damage is done.

Embrace the Chaos

At some point, you have to accept that you’re bad with names and lean into it. Own it. Make it part of your brand.

Next time someone says, “Do you remember my name?” just confidently reply:

“Listen, I barely remember my own name some days, so let’s just reintroduce ourselves like it’s the first time. Clean slate.”

They’ll either appreciate the honesty—or back away slowly, assuming you have amnesia.

Either way, problem solved.

Final Thought: A Radical Solution

What if we all just agreed to wear name tags, all the time?

• No more awkward moments.
• No more name-based shame.
• Just a society where everyone is labelled like they’re at a work conference, forever.

Until that glorious day, may your stalling techniques be strong, your fake confidence unshakable, and your vague “mate” usage convincing.

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AJ Wright

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.

untypicable.co.uk

The post The Agonising Art of Forgetting Names: A Survival Guide appeared first on untypicable..

(Or, How to Survive Society’s Never-Ending Performance Without Actually Knowing Your Lines)

Erving Goffman’s dramaturgical theory suggests that all of social life is just one giant performance. At some point, most of us have had that creeping suspicion that everyone else got the manual on how to be a functional adult, while we were left clutching an incomplete set of IKEA instructions. That feeling, dear reader, is not paranoia—it is sociology.

Whether it’s a job interview, a first date, or awkward small talk in the office kitchen about someone’s latest doomed diet, we are constantly playing roles, switching between different versions of ourselves, and hoping no one notices the occasional awkward stage direction. For most people, this performance is so deeply ingrained that they barely register they’re doing it. But for those of us who need to consciously decode social scripts—do we shake hands? Do we hug? Why is this person laughing, and should I join in? Goffman’s work is both a revelation and a tragic confirmation that, yes, it really is all a bit of a farce. As someone who is neurodivergent I find Goffman’s particular brand of thinking particularly useful.

The Front Stage and Back Stage of Everyday Life

Goffman’s dramaturgical model is based on the idea that, in social situations, we all present ourselves in ways that best suit the role we want to play. Think of it as being like a BBC drama: polished on the surface but filled with subtext, awkward pauses, and at least one character on the brink of an existential crisis. He breaks this down into two key concepts: front stage and back stage.

The front stage is the you that you show the world—professional, composed, probably making acceptable eye contact and nodding at the right moments. The back stage is the real you—slumped on the sofa at 11pm, binge-watching a detective show you don’t even like, whilst Googling “is there such a thing as too much toast?”

The problem is that in many aspects of life, especially for those of us who struggle with social performance, the backstage barely exists. The constant need to perform can be exhausting, particularly in environments that demand a polished version of yourself at all times. Anyone who has worked in customer service knows this well—smiling through gritted teeth while Karen from accounts asks to speak to the manager again.

For Marx, this constant performance would be yet another symptom of capitalist alienation. Much like how workers become estranged from the fruits of their labour, social actors become detached from their authentic selves, playing roles dictated by economic and cultural expectations rather than genuine identity. Meanwhile, Max Weber might step in to point out that modern society’s obsession with efficiency and rationalisation means we’ve built social structures that actively discourage people from ever stepping out of character. The bureaucratic machine does not reward those who deviate from the script.

The High-Stakes Game of Impression Management

One of Goffman’s greatest insights is the concept of impression management: the ways we control (or attempt to control) how others perceive us. It starts early.

Children learn quickly that throwing a tantrum in a supermarket is bad optics (unless you’re two years old, in which case, go off, king). Later in life, we refine the art of managing impressions. Social media is a carefully curated highlight reel because nothing says “well-balanced adult” like a strategically lit avocado toast post. Emails to your boss become a torturous tightrope walk between being professional, not sounding robotic, and not accidentally signing off with “Love you.”

Workplace small talk becomes a moment of existential dread when someone asks, “How was your weekend?” and you realise you did nothing remotely interesting. Pierre Bourdieu would argue that much of this is tied to social capital—those who instinctively know the unspoken rules of impression management tend to rise through social and professional ranks. The rest of us are left frantically Googling “what to say in an email when you don’t want to sound passive-aggressive.”

At university, I once sat through a tutorial where I had done precisely none of the reading, but through the sheer force of vague statements like “it’s really interesting how the author challenges the dominant paradigm,” I managed to sound intelligent enough that my tutor nodded approvingly. That, my friends, is impression management in action.

Facework: The Art of Avoiding Public Humiliation

Goffman also introduces the concept of facework, which describes the efforts we make to maintain a socially acceptable “face” (or persona). Life, it turns out, is a series of social blunders that must be swiftly covered up. Some classics include waving at someone who wasn’t waving at you, then pretending you were just fixing your hair, which is great if you are like me and have longer hair, but not so great an idea if you are bald.

Loudly agreeing to something you didn’t hear, only to realise you’ve just committed to a five-mile charity run, or accidentally calling a teacher “Mum” and then considering leaving the country. For neurodivergent individuals, facework can be particularly challenging. Social interactions often feel like they come with an extra layer of unspoken rules, and the effort to keep up can be extremely exhausting. But here’s the secret: everyone is faking it to some degree.

In my undergraduate days I once attempted to make a joke in a seminar that landed so poorly that there was a silence so profound I could hear the fluorescent lights humming. In that moment, I understood the concept of facework on a deeply personal level. I laughed a little too loudly, nodded as if I’d made a profound point, and carried on. The tutor, mercifully, let it slide.

Durkheim, ever the functionalist, would likely argue that our collective obsession with maintaining face is what holds society together. It is the unspoken rules and rituals of daily life that prevent total social chaos. Without them, we would be little more than slightly evolved apes screaming at one another in Tesco.

The Perils of Breaking Character

Goffman argues that when our social performance falters, it leads to embarrassment, awkwardness, and, occasionally, the desire to relocate to a remote island and live as a hermit. Some examples of when the performance collapses include being so focused on appearing interested in a conversation that you forget to actually listen. Laughing at a joke you didn’t understand, then being asked to explain why it was funny. Calling someone by the wrong name multiple times and realising there is no way out of it. It’s at these moments that you realise the entire system is held together by collective pretending. We are all part of an unspoken social agreement to overlook each other’s blunders in exchange for the same courtesy.

Public transport, particularly in Britain, is a great example of collective pretending. A bus driver once misheard my destination, and instead of correcting him, I just accepted my fate and took an unplanned detour. Correcting him would have broken the unspoken rule that we must avoid unnecessary social confrontation. Goffman would be proud.

The Great Social Hoax: No One Actually Knows What They’re Doing

The greatest takeaway from Goffman is that everyone is improvising. Even the most seemingly confident, well-adjusted people are just better at sticking to the script. If they deviate, they recover quickly. That’s it. That’s the trick.

So, what do we do with this information? Accept that social awkwardness is universal. The next time you overanalyse a conversation from five years ago, remember: the other person probably forgot about it five minutes later. Learn to lean into the absurdity. Once you realise social norms are just made-up performance guidelines, they become far less intimidating. Find spaces where you don’t have to act. True backstage spaces—where you can just exist, without performance expectations—are essential for maintaining sanity.

Goffman was right: life is a performance, but that doesn’t mean you have to be on all the time. Understanding the theatrical nature of social life is freeing—it reminds us that we’re all just actors in a sometimes-ridiculous, often-exhausting play. But knowing when to step off stage, when to drop the mask, and when to stop worrying about whether you nailed your lines? That’s the real trick.

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AJ Wright

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.

untypicable.co.uk

The post Erving Goffman’s Guide to Faking Your Way Through Life appeared first on untypicable..