How to Touch an Autistic Person: Pine Cones vs. Oranges

As the holidays wind down and we look forward to visiting family over New Years, I’m reflecting on my own childhood visits to family, and how it didn’t always go as desired, for various reasons. I’m especially thinking about some of the fundamental biological differences between neurodivergent (especially autistic) folks and neuro-normative people with respect to physical touch and affection. We know we react in ways that often confuse others! So, of course, because it’s the winter holidays, we’re going to demystify autistic relationships to human touch by talking about pine cones and oranges (bear with me).

In this metaphor, we’re the pine cones, and you’re the oranges — thick navel oranges to be precise. The obvious physical differences between pine cones and oranges represent the internal differences in wiring/neurological pathways and touch sensitivity settings, so keep that in mind as you read below.

Primarily, I’m going to talk about physical affection, and how different our needs are among one another and compared to all you navel oranges out there. One reason (out of so, so many) I previously assumed I could not possibly be autistic (and thought I was in fact the least autistic person on the planet, haha), is that I love/crave human interaction, physical affection, and close bodily contact in general with people I like, which actually turns out to be really common in folks with ADHD + autistic profiles! The varying kinds of touch (light/deep pressure, forced/genuine, etc.), however, and situational differences in my internal state and needs, have often led me to recoil from many kinds of touch/affection that are opposite in degree or situation from how I prefer — no, need — to experience human touch, and that’s pretty common among autistic people.

For instance, you might have assumed at some point that I’m “prickly” if you know me but don’t “get” me — the way a pine cone is prickly — because you’ll get “stung” by the pointy tips if you hold or touch me the wrong way, and my petals break if you’re too harsh with me; I can even fall apart entirely or be crushed if you’re doing it wrong (though I will keep that to myself and hide it when possible). All you navel oranges out there, on the other hand, can be bounced around, pet, rubbed every which way, dropped, thrown, rolled, or whatever without a scratch or even a bruise. Your very thick peel cushions you from most serious discomfort in physical contact, but the inverse is also true — your sense of touch is actually significantly dampened compared to ours. Given our internal neuro-morphology, each “pine cone petal,” when opened, is connected directly to our core, and so every little stroke or vibration is incredibly amplified inside compared to how oranges feel. That’s because our internal pathways have completely different, significantly enhanced settings for senses. We literally can and do feel orders of magnitude more intensely than you do, which is a blessing in the right contexts, but a curse most of the time in a world that doesn’t understand — or even recognize — that at all.

Take hugs, for example. I love hugs — the more the merrier! — but I am super particular about the kinds of hugs I prefer (though as an adult, I will almost always hide my distress when it doesn’t go the way I need it to). Bear hugs only, please! Well, not hard bear hugs, actually — those can hurt — just genuine moderate-pressure hugs. Hug me like you mean it, or please (please) don’t hug me at all. A light hug feels like such a pointless, icky, forced encounter that it literally makes my skin crawl; I actually hold my breath in those kinds of automatic, obligatory hugs, as if someone were hugging me while wearing a head-to-toe, cold and wet, plastic rainsuit. It’s gross, and so dysregulating to me, but I bury it, because — society. Whatevs, lots of people suck at hugs. Now you know. (Other autistic people may hate all hugs or only prefer light hugs! Pay attention and you can figure it out with everyone!)

Here’s an autistic kid who’s clearly a hugger with close family or friends (as long as they’re in a decent mood!). It’s obvious from that wide-open smile, the rushing over, the bear-hug response — no verbal consent needed because you’ve got clear nonverbal consent!

Notably, all of my immediate family members from growing up have been, at times, either visibly angry/annoyed at me recoiling from certain kids of touch as a child (and as an adult — though some gave up and assumed I was averse to “touch” in general), and some of them have even called me out over the years on seeming to wince at contact from them, which I totally get now but didn’t back then. They are all each entirely correct and totally wrong about me! I have always loved genuine, reciprocal physical affection from all of my family members and close friends. But forced, automated touch, or touch from a tense, inhibited, or dysregulated person? — GTF away from me.

You see, a defining trait for many autistic people is this incredibly strong instinctual need for complete bodily autonomy (in every situation). Any unwanted touch is almost (or actually) unbearable. For a normative comparison, it’s like how many courts and mainstream culture among younger generations have started to understand that sex acts should involve mutual, affirmative consent, and that unambiguous nonverbal body language, such as freezing or recoiling, counts as formally withdrawing consent. Well, to many autistic people, we kind of feel the same way about all physical contact, even platonic and familial contact, because of this heightened need for bodily autonomy that is completely hardwired. If we are freezing, recoiling, or stiffening at your touch, you are either doing it wrong — in which place you should notice and ask for feedback (“Was that too tight?” “Oh, sorry, did that rub you the wrong way?”) — or just accept that we are signaling we’re withdrawing consent from that action in that moment for whatever reason (doesn’t matter — maybe you stink! 😆). We’re like cats! — we aren’t ambiguous in what kind of pats we like. So if you keep doing the thing, and we keep recoiling, you’re just not paying attention. You can literally just ask — “does that bother you?” We like being direct and honest! Or try something different, or give us space and let us initiate. So many options!

One thing I could never abide (and still can’t), for example, is hardy pats on the back. They almost feel like my own personal (really bad) earthquake and heart attack all at once. It’s like a burst of nausea, a lightning headache, and feeling like soda being shaken in a bottle all at once. Am I dying? — no, someone’s just patting me heavily on the back again. 🙄

Bless my sweet dad and loving husband, but they both have done this from time to time, and I have physically, almost defensively recoiled. Now that I know I’m autistic, I finally felt free to just tell my husband when this happened recently — “Oh hey, I viscerally can’t physically stand hard pats on the back (especially when just waking up). I’m not shrinking from your touch! I just can’t tolerate hardly any touch in the first 30-45 minutes of waking up, and can’t tolerate hard pats on the back everrrrrrrr. Nothing personal, give me a kiss!” Whereas before, I would have just grunted/groaned and/or pulled away, and he’d probably have taken it personally. Honestly, I love plenty of jostling, rough play, wrestling, etc., but not hard pats on the back unless I’m choking on food, LOL (it doesn’t make sense to me either 🤷‍♀️). Some of us are pretty complicated!

You can tell from body language that this autistic kid isn’t much of a hugger, so why do I have my arm around them? Simple — I almost always ask this particular kid if they’re up for a hug in the moment or if it’s okay to put my arm around them — like for this pic — & pay attention to whether they mean it when they say “yes” (when they’re on the fence, I ask, “are you sure?” & listen to how they respond). They give the best hugs when they seek them out from me, like saying goodbye for school & saying goodnight, so I don’t often ask for hugs because I know I’ll get them when they want to give them!

Another thing I can’t stand: any sudden or grip-like touch anywhere near my neck — I have a fight-or-flight response akin to feeling like I’m being actually strangled or attacked, and not only will I recoil, but I may even strike a person’s hand away (or them in general). But as a child, even as a teen, I couldn’t articulate that (or even recognize that’s what was happening) when my very warm, well-meaning dad would occasionally put his hand on the back of my neck to watch while I practiced piano (which I also couldn’t stand), and he would understandably be annoyed (and baffled) when I recoiled. The poor man had no idea why I reacted that way (how could he? neuro-normative culture does not allow you to directly tell people you don’t like the way they’ve touched you), and he would usually double-down, totally oblivious to the fact that I was experiencing a kind of torture. I didn’t even consciously think, wow, I really hate someone’s hand on my neck like that; it was just shit shit shit shit shit shit shit, phew, it’s over! — every single time. I feel lucky that he didn’t interpret my recoiling in those moments to mean that I didn’t want to be touched in general, as others have, because he kept on hugging me and kissing my cheek in greeting or parting, putting an arm around my shoulder on the couch, rubbing my feet and my back at night — all of which I needed and loved (even with his mustache!), because it came naturally to him and was not forced — when most others would have given up entirely on engaging me affectionately because I’d rebuffed them in the past.

Another kind of touch that causes a fight-flight-or-freeze reaction in me may seem counterintuitive, but it involves light, limp, or “automated” touch (but intentionally “gentle” touch is good!). This is much harder to describe, but I am insanely empathic (like Deanna Troi levels of empathic) and can viscerally feel the internal state of someone near me (whether they’re touching me or not). Here’s the part that messes people up who are close to me and don’t know this about me (LOL, everyone but my husband): I cannot stand to be given automated/rote affection, like a token hug goodbye, if it’s not genuinely felt by the other person — if they aren’t at all into it — or to be given physical affection from someone who is at all tense inside at the moment of touch. (Do not try to hug me if you’re feeling like this: 😬😰😒😠.) This has caused so many problems with immediate or extended family members throughout my life! Most of them took my regular (but seemingly random, to them) recoiling at forced/automatic, tense, or weak touch and assumed I “don’t like to be touched,” or I don’t like them touching me, when nothing could be further from the truth!!! I need touch way more than most people (and don’t receive it nearly enough to feel regulated), but I also need it to be real and genuine, above all else, and I need the other person to be somewhat calm/regulated inside (huge exceptions for when I hug/touch someone who is in distress to help soothe them, but I’m in control then — bodily autonomy and all — and I can sense when it’s not what they want).

Don’t worry! I love hugs from nearly everyone I know (unless you stink!), but if you hug me when you are tense, I will tense when you hug me. If you hug me while feeling uncomfortable expressing physical affection, I will be uncomfortable with your affection. If your hugs are automated or slight, I will feel you don’t care or are being dismissive. If you try to hug me when I’m obviously pissed off, my hackles will be raised.

One of these cats wants you to pet them, one will cut you if you try (hint: they’re the same cat).

One thing to note about many autistic people (I’ve confirmed this in closed online groups for autistic folks and speaking with clinicians who work with autistic clients), is that quite a lot of us can sense others’ internal states in the way your dog knows when you’re tense or afraid, and we’ve always assumed this was universal. Imagine if you could always feel a sort of biofeedback from others and intuitively feel their internal states, including how they like to be touched and when/how they don’t, and you assumed most other people could do this too, such that you never even thought it was an extra ability, it was just “existing as human,” but then a bunch of people in your life often touch you in ways that you hate; you would regard those people as being callous, oblivious, cold, or even outright mean. You can’t help recoiling — it’s a sudden instinctive response, bypassing inhibitions and reasoning, and you’re wondering, why can’t they sense my physical distress the way I sense theirs? You can smell/taste micro amounts of cortisol and adrenaline, or pheromones or whatever, but you don’t know you are smelling it — you just “know” someone is stressed or distressed (or happy, sad, turned on, conflicted, angry, depressed), and why would you have any reason to think others didn’t also do this? It’s not like we’re all going around deconstructing our every mental processes for one another. You wouldn’t think to ask someone, what and how do you perceive when you use “sight”/“hearing”/“touch”? But when autistic people notice that others can’t see/hear/feel the things that they can see/hear/feel, they often assume others are just bad at it — that they’re disabled.

For instance, I recently learned (through the autistic grapevine) of a non-speaking younger adult who lives with their parents but can communicate in other ways, who only just realized their parents can’t read their mind. They’d always thought the parents were essentially cruelly denying them what they wanted and needed at any given moment, because this autistic person had such an intuitive understanding of what those around them were feeling/needing/wanting and had no idea that wasn’t the norm. I identified so much with that, and have had similar realizations with people as an adult.

Even two autistic kids with opposite physical touch needs/preferences can sometimes find ways to physically connect, but it only happens when both are in a relaxed physiological state doing a mutually desired activity (like cloud-watching).

I still remember when I was roughly six years old and departing from a visit to the Florida Keys to see my maternal grandfather. Because it was Florida in summer, my grandfather was shirtless with a pair of shorts on, and his bare torso was covered in — dripping with — sweat. There was no way in hell I was going to hug him goodbye, and I remember that that was one of the few times I was unable to disassociate — that is, turn “off” my feelings — and just comply with my parents’ orders (i.e., how I survived childhood). I flat-out refused, and was made to feel deeply ashamed and hurtful by all of the adults involved. But guys, I wouldn’t even hug my husband if he were shirtless in summer after a run (unless we’d gone jogging together, then it’s mutual!). Because to me, sweat is as familiar of a substance as saliva, and combining sweat with someone is an incredibly intimate act: appropriate when hugging another sweaty teammate after a match, very appropriate when breastfeeding a young baby or toddler, and universally appropriate to adult consensual sex, but those and similar situations are roughly it for me. Other times (like being six and saying goodbye to a sweaty old guy I barely know), I might actually, physically gag — a reflex response that I can’t remotely control.

So to recap, be more intuitive and observant when you touch people, especially (but not limited to) autistic people. Do assume that recoiling/stiffening/freezing means someone doesn’t like either what you’re doing, or the way you’re doing it, or in that context, and use that as an opportunity for learning and directly engaging with the question. Don’t assume that people who sometimes recoil universally don’t want to be touched by you, so if someone recoils, ask them about it; we don’t get all weird and squeamish like you oranges do when asked about our preferences — we love it! Unless it’s obvious to you (and you’re paying attention), ask someone if it’s okay to hug them (even if they aren’t autistic). Ask all kids before a hug, unless you know their preference, and better to offer a hug, a high five, or wave. Don’t expect (or offer!) a hug from a kid who barely knows you, even if you’re closely related, and take whatever you can get with grace, even if it’s nothing! In general, in all contexts for all people everywhere, the burden is entirely on the giver of touch to be attentive to subtle physical feedback and to recognize universal signs of nonverbal consent/well-being and its opposite. The bottom line is, you can tell when someone does and doesn’t like your touch — you can! — so stop doing it when they obviously don’t.

Cheers, y’all! I hope this is helpful to family and friends of autistic folks. Happy arbitrary revolution time around the sun!

Best sweaty hug ever! Post-run in July, ~15 years ago. ❤️