The Cost of Community:

Your right to choose what to pay.

When I say community, I mean some combination of friendships, family, romantic partnership, and social connection that involves love, meaningful conversation, touch, trust, and a sense of belonging. Community always costs us something. I can only speak from my perspective when I say that, to date, it cost me my identity, my health, my sense of value and purpose, and my joy. But did it have to cost me everything to remain connected? I was not aware—nor was it taught—that I had a right to choose the cost. 

We all need community, but not every version of it is safe, sustainable, or honest for every body. You have a right to choose a cost you can actually live with.

I’m hearing a lot about community lately in the wake of the financial, healthcare, and humanitarian crises that have intensified since the 2024 election. In many conversations, what seems most present is that we are pissed, stressed, broke, afraid, and exhausted. The popular consensus is that we remain in, or find, supportive communities where we might feel connection and safety, build resistance, and support one another. The battle cry sounds like “resiliency and resistance in community.” I absolutely agree, but it isn’t that simple. There is a cost, and for some, the cost is too great. 

Why community isn’t simple for everyone 

Without meaningful and safe relationships—or in the presence of ambiguous or unsafe ones—we can become depressed and anxious, and we may see increased risk of autoimmune disease and inflammation (Fishbane, 2016). So, great! We jump into a community or go back to Sunday dinner at grandma’s, or join that church that keeps dropping flyers on our windshield and all is well...right? We will be resilient and able to resist the pain of our cultural structure! 

The problem with the “resiliency and resistance in community” movement is that community doesn’t come easily to all of us. And for some of us, it has been the greatest source of hurt—especially for Autistic folks and people with a history of traumatic invalidation in relationships. For us Autistic people, community can be scary and harmful even when our people mean well. 

Why do people like me have such a hard time with community? I think the answer differs depending on how each neurodivergent person—or each person who has experienced trauma—was socialized. Some people I’ve talked to say they never understood social norms or structures and either felt left out or voluntarily opted out. Some, like me, were socialized to be so high-masking and to carry the weight of female cognitive load that connection never felt real or safe. We had to shut down authentic parts of ourselves, including sensation in our own bodies, just to participate. 

For many neurodivergent people, community is synonymous with trauma. That may sound hyperbolic, but let me explain. 

When community has been a site of traumatic invalidation 

A working definition of trauma is this: an incident or situation surpasses a person’s ability to cope, and that person does not receive adequate support or is left alone in recovery. In a recent training I took on Somatic Internal Family Systems theory, Linda Thai offered a definition that resonated deeply with me. She describes trauma as what happens when an event—or chronic events—occur and a person is not believed about what happened or what it was like for them. In her words, “Trauma is what happens in the absence of a compassionate witness who can help reinstate sanity.” She goes on to describe traumatic invalidation as what happens when a person is minimized, dismissed, or shamed in their pain or their basic personhood (The Embody Lab, 2026). 

Healing can happen when a person has support and that support system—their community—believes them about what happened and what it was like for them. So trauma occurs not only when an event is beyond a person’s capacity to tolerate, but also when they are not believed that the event happened or that it was that intolerable. That sounds a lot like the Autistic experience of sensory overwhelm in a neurotypical environment: “Oh, the lights aren’t bright—take those sunglasses off.” “It’s rude to wear a hat indoors.” “It isn’t even that loud. Quit being so dramatic.” 

And then add on the experiences of being harmed and not believed by your caregiving system or social groups. The less intense soundbites might go like this: “Why do you have to act so weird?” “You take everything so literally—I’m just joking.” “You’re too sensitive.” “You overthink everything.” “I didn’t lie; I just didn’t do what I said I would.” “Stop exaggerating.” Being harmed and not believed can also be far more sinister, including assault, coercion, or other forms of abuse followed by the message that the victim was actually exaggerating or caused the harm. Traumatic invalidation within community can make it very difficult to feel safe and welcomed anywhere. Our invalidation often begins in our caregiving systems, and then we move into new communities that are often just as invalidating because of our early training around where we belong and how we are supposed to participate. We keep trying to fit the culture and correct our internal sensations and emotions to meet the expectations of the community we were trained by. For many Autistic and otherwise neurodivergent folks, community is painful and risky. We can stay trapped in a cycle of self-suppression in order to ramain relevant to the group.

Like I mentioned earlier—and really, this is the point of the whole essay—community comes at a cost. That is a neutral statement. The question is not whether there is a cost. The question is whether the price you are paying is one you can actually afford. 

For the average person, the cost may be relatively minimal. People with an average sensory profile and good-enough caregivers—people who learned that they are valuable and have something to contribute—often feel safe being themselves in social spaces and can move through environments with little physical or emotional discomfort. They may have a lighthearted dinner with friends, attend a work function and network with others in their field, or play weekly pickleball or soccer and come away a little tired but still intellectually or emotionally fulfilled—able to sleep well and wake up ready for another day of participation. They still experience disappointment or hurt, but they often bounce back more quickly with the reassurance of community or the internalized validation that grows from consistent support in early life. The actual cost may be time, money, a little less sleep, or a small cheat on their diet. 

Masking as the entry fee 

For a neurodivergent person—specifically an Autistic person—the cost of participating in a neurotypical style of community can be too great to bear. Many autistic folks have lived a lifetime of traumatic invalidation within the context of community, so they learn to adapt themselves to match the group “vibe.” This often happens through a lifetime of meticulously honed hypervigilance. We study body language, tone of voice, and affect to make sure we do not get expelled from community. Expulsion can look like quiet quitting—never being asked to participate again and slowly getting phased out of a friend group, which is my number one experience—or direct communication that we have been too offensive and do not belong. 

Matching the group vibe is what is generally referred to as masking. Masking, or camouflaging, is a conscious or unconscious strategy in which autistic individuals suppress their natural traits, behaviors, and sensory responses in order to mimic neurotypical behavior and fit into social situations. We can walk into a group terrified that if we do not mask appropriately, we may be bullied, rejected, or denied opportunities like promotions, invitations to exciting social events, or even romantic love (Neff, 2025). 

Before I understood that I was masking to remain in community, I used to call it “wear the T-shirt.” In a religious community where my social life and career were deeply entrenched—and which I genuinely loved for a time—our leadership started following a wider trend of branding everything. Everything. We had logos on car decals for every member, on flyers, and yes, on T-shirts. So many T-shirts that the fancy women would cut them up and turn them into fringy tops, tanks, and other fun things. They wanted to “wear the T-shirt” without sacrificing their style. I F’ing hated those shirts (and the black ripped skinny jeans from the mid 2010's), but I wore them. Not only did I wear them, I helped design and produce them. Why? Because I was afraid of not being seen as a team player, of being expelled from the only source of care and connection I knew, or of being mocked for being difficult or contrary. I was already being mocked in my early years on staff for my comfortable business-casual clothes. A couple of staff members jokingly—and hurtfully—called me “Power Suit.” The moment I learned about that nickname, I updated my wardrobe to those painful, awful skinny jeans. 

A lot of people might read this and say, “It’s a fucking T-shirt, Lynn. Put it on. What does it matter?” It matters—especially when you are wearing it all the time, for a lifetime. Masking is often the entry fee into community, and that can create profound identity confusion or a real loss of connection with the authentic self. Some of us have a mask so deeply embeded into our survival strategies that we have no understanding of or access to our authentic values and needs. As a result, we have to expeience of a core identity, only our masks.

Loss of identity through masking is one cost. Another is the physical toll of social environments and sensory overwhelm, which can have profound chronic health effects. 

The cost of masking is Autistic Burnout.  

Dr. Megan Anna Neff, who has provided extensive resources and training on autistic burnout, describes it as chronic exhaustion, loss of skills (including executive functioning), increased sensitivity to stimuli, difficulty managing emotions, increased use of self-regulation strategies like stimming, reduced capacity for change, memory and focus difficulties, dissociation, and loss of self-care skills (Neff, 2025). Autistic burnout is where I meet most of my neurodivergent clients. Many of them do not realize that they are not the problem; their adaptation to environments that do not fit them is. 

So how do we choose the cost? 

Download the free resource to map out your "Cost of Community"

Notice what is actually within your capacity to pay. In other words, look at your full community budget and assess what is truly available to spend. 

Begin by thinking through—and maybe even mapping—your values alongside your needs, including sensory needs like lighting, noise, social recovery time, smells, and textures. When you consider the earlier paragraph on traumatic invalidation and values and needs, do you need your community to believe you when you talk about authentic life experiences and is one of your values to be honest or authentic in relationships? 

What types of community expectations and responsibilities will fit into this capacity? 

Are you all in on that crafting group and loving the jovial and lighthearted banter or certain people in the circle? Do you feel excited and energized at book clubs, church, Sunday dinner at grandma’s? Essentially, I’m asking: do you love the “fucking T shirt “and wear it with pride? If so-F'ing fantastic! If no? Then keep asking yourself the following questions.

What types of community expectations or responsibilities will strain or overspend what you have available?  Maybe a social group meets too late or too far away and expends time or energy you don't have available. Are you always expected to agree with the community rules or the "leaders" beliefs (a leader can be the chairperson, director, pastor, parent, etc.)? Sometimes we are even expected to accept "jokes" or "white lies" in communities regardless of if they hurt our feelings or make us feel uncomfortable so that we are not seen as difficult or disciplined in some way.

If the community conflicts with your values and/or needs it falls into the “overspend” list. What are you willing to give up in other areas so that you may have either energy to participate in the social engagement ? Will you need to rest before the event or set aside recovery time after?  

Stay curious as you participate. The most important thing to notice is whether the community has engaged—or is still engaging—in traumatic invalidation of your lived experience. If so, I highly recommend taking a break from those relationships until you have worked through some of the aftermath, and then seriously considering whether reentering that community is worth carrying the hurt of continued invalidation. 

If traumatic invalidation is not occurring, notice whether engaging in certain social groups or performing certain expectations outside your capacity creates consequences that feel costly. That might look like restlessness and insomnia after a late dinner in a loud restaurant, leading to sluggishness and overwhelm at work the next day. It might look like reduced speaking ability after a party, or less money for necessities and self-care after paying membership fees or dues. Are you masking more, feeling drained, or feeling misunderstood? Or do you feel supported, connected, energized, welcomed, and believed? 

Here is the hard question—the one most folks get stuck on: are you willing to pay the cost of this community if it is harming your health, finances, identity, or values? And if so, why? Is that friend group or community structure actually meeting your needs? Is the cost of less sleep, less money, more masking, or extended periods of recovery a fair trade to get those needs met?

You may also find that accommodation helps: dinner earlier, when restaurants are less noisy; meetings in nature with no financial expectation; game nights at your home, where the environment and food feel safe. Only you can make that decision, and the answer may change from season to season. 

If you are not getting your authentic needs met in a given community, and it doesn’t align with your values to keep participating, there may be another community that fits better. One pattern I see often is autistic folks leaving friend, family, or religious communities and finding something more aligned in special interest spaces—online gaming guilds, autistic social groups, dance classes, artist retreats, and other places where participation feels more energizing than depleting. 

If you choose isolation or disconnection from community, that choice has a cost too, and it is worth meeting that cost with honesty. Are you disconnecting to protect yourself from rejection, abandonment, overwhelm, or painful memories? Are you in a season of recovery and need less demand right now? There is no moral failure in needing distance. The point is not to force connection at any price. The point is to know what you are paying and to choose it with as much self-trust as possible. 

For me, I have chosen to step back from intense engagement in former communities so I can heal from burnout and rediscover myself as an AuDHD, perimenopausal person with chronic illnesses. My circle is very small, but it feels more energizing and authentic than the invalidating community I worked so hard to belong in. Yes, I get lonely, but for me, loneliness is a fair cost if it means I no longer have to live in a never-ending cycle of people-pleasing, masking, and overextending just to avoid abandonment and shame in a community that never accepted the authentic me. 

We all need community, but not every version of community is safe, sustainable, or honest for every body. If community is going to support our healing rather than deepen our harm, we have to stop pretending the cost is the same for everyone. We have to make room for people to choose the cost they can actually live with. My heart is with you as you explore your cost.

References 

The Embody Lab. (2026). IFS-informed somatic trauma therapy: Module 5, class 2, preverbal, developmental, and attachment trauma, part 2 with Linda Thai [Course transcript]. 

Neff, M. A. (2025). The autistic burnout workbook: Your guide to your personal recovery plan. Simon & Schuster. 

Fishbane, M. D. (2016). The neurobiology of relationships. In T. L. Sexton & J. Lebow (Eds.), Handbook of family therapy (pp. 48–65).