Group Therapy Could’ve Changed My Childhood

I recently had another existential crisis in which I forgot I’m autistic… again.

It’s surprisingly easy for me to forget, because my adult life is so carefully structured around my needs. I have more control now, more awareness, and way more self-compassion. My daily routines support my sensory preferences and executive functioning. I’ve spent years questioning internalized ableism and perfectionism, working toward lowering the bar from "indistinguishable from neurotypical" to “sustainably myself.”

But every now and then, something reminds me of the version of me who didn't have this insight. Who didn’t have the words. Who didn’t know why she was always a little out of sync.

The disability from being AuDHD (autistic + ADHD) was far more pronounced in my childhood and deeply affected my emotional and social development. And because I am late identified as autistic , I spent most of my life without a clear framework to understand what was happening in my relationships.

Childhood Social Pain Points

I never really grew out of preferring parallel play to more interactive socializing. Even when I wanted to be with other kids, I often pushed my own agenda. I was called bossy, mostly because I avoided games that felt too imaginative or chaotic. I preferred rigid gameplay—games with rules, structure, predictable roles. When kids broke those rules, I got upset. It felt like they were breaking an unspoken contract I was relying on to feel safe.

These were the early years, when kids still extend a certain social goodwill to one another before noticing who’s different. Eventually, my peers began to pull away. The social distancing was subtle at first, then unmistakable. I didn’t understand why I was being left out. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. And there weren’t any adults who could explain it to me in a mature, thoughtful way.

Instead of growing into social skills, I grew into confusion and shame.

In adolescence, I became hypervigilant about being thoughtful. I tried. I overthought every interaction. And I still missed the mark. Even in grad school, I’d knit quietly in group settings, feeling warm and connected—only to later realize I’d been perceived as disengaged or rude. When the invites stopped coming, I was confused and hurt.

Only recently have I developed the language and confidence to explain: fidgeting and avoiding eye contact helps me connect, not disconnect. I’ve had to learn, over and over, that just because I feel deeply connected doesn’t mean others see me that way.

Missed Opportunities for Intervention

If I’d had access to group therapy for autistic adults earlier—or even as a teen—I think so much could have changed.

Being excluded by peers left me feeling defective and unlovable. If someone had helped me understand that I wasn’t bad—just different—I could have developed the tools to communicate those differences, rather than internalize them as shame.

Because I was avoided by most of my peers and spent a lot of time alone, I didn’t even realize my behavior was different until I received sudden and confusing feedback by ruptures and avoidances. If someone had explained that my behavior was being misinterpreted, I could have seen that the issue wasn’t my inherent worth—it was a mismatch in social understanding.

When adults did step in, they often saw my behavior as rude or inappropriate. But they didn’t ask what I was thinking or feeling. They just corrected me.

So I didn’t just miss out on peer connection—I missed out on contextualized feedback. On skill-building. On the kind of mutual understanding that can only happen when someone takes the time to be curious about you instead of judging you.

Why Group Therapy Would Have Helped

Individual therapy, while supportive, might not have uncovered the kinds of struggles I was having. In one-on-one spaces, I could more easily keep pace. I was often with an older, more accommodating adult—someone who might’ve found my quirks endearing rather than off-putting.

But that wasn’t the world I was struggling in.

I didn’t need more practice interacting with authority figures. I needed practice interacting with peers. Real feedback, in real time. Group therapy for autistic adults could have given me exactly that.

In a group setting, I could’ve received clear, immediate, non-shaming feedback—something autistic folks often do really well with. I would’ve had chances to ask questions like: “Did I say something that didn’t land?” or “Can you tell me how that felt to hear?” I would’ve learned how to repair and clarify, instead of just shutting down in confusion or shame.

I would’ve loved it, honestly.

I’ve always appreciated direct communication and clear boundaries. I just didn’t know how to initiate it, or that it was even an option. I talked a lot as a kid—but I didn’t know how to listen for needs. Not because I didn’t care, but because no one ever taught me how.

Autism and friendships often get reduced to a story about deficits. But in my experience, it’s not that I didn’t want connection—it’s that I didn’t get access to the right kind of support to make it work.

Group therapy could’ve helped me move beyond just trying to calculate the right social move. It could have given me experiential practice—something my overworked prefrontal cortex was desperate for.

If I’d had that earlier, maybe I would’ve felt less broken. Maybe I would’ve known that I deserved to have needs and boundaries, too.

An Invitation

If you grew up feeling similarly—or if you're still struggling to feel understood, to track your impact on others, or to stop interpreting every silence as rejection—you’re not alone.

This is exactly the kind of work we do in The Haven, my interpersonal process group for neurodivergent adults.

The group is a space where we explore how we show up in relationship—awkwardness, fidgets, missed cues, and all. We practice giving and receiving feedback, repairing ruptures, and learning how to connect on our own terms.

If you’ve longed for a space where your way of relating isn’t pathologized but understood, The Haven might be your place.

👉 Learn more or apply to join here.

Let’s build the kind of connection we should’ve had all along.

May the Force be with you,

Leanna Greenberg, LMHC/LPC
(licensed therapist, trauma-informed, neurodivergent-affirming)