A few days ago, I shared a personal reflection that surprised me as much as it seemed to resonate with many of you. I admitted something that feels almost irrational to say out loud:

I really don’t like being watched while I’m doing ordinary things.

Doing the dishes, walking on a beautiful nature trail, folding laundry, exercising at the gym.  Even when one of my sweet, innocent daughters stand behind me while I’m making her dinner sends unexplainable chills down my spine. 

The moment I realize someone is watching me, even for just a few extra seconds, my nervous system jumps straight to: What do you want from me?!

It’s almost impossible to explain, except that it is very visceral. For years, I assumed I was just socially awkward. But now I’m not so sure.

It’s Not Exactly Social Anxiety

This isn’t the same as fearing public speaking or worrying everyone secretly dislikes me, or is judging me. In fact, I don’t spend much time wondering what strangers think about me. The older I get, the less I care. 

It’s something different – it’s actually the feeling of being observed. The awareness that someone else’s attention has landed on me. And almost instantly, my body reacts as if something is expected of me.

“Can I help you?!”

Attention Can Feel Like Pressure

The more I’ve paid attention to this pattern, the more I’ve realized that attention itself can feel strangely demanding. My nervous system seems to interpret being perceived as an expectation.

If someone is watching me…am I supposed to smile? Wave? Start a conversation? Look busy? Act like I’m competent? Explain myself? Do the thing “correctly?”

I don’t consciously or measurably think through any of those questions, but my body seems to. It’s as though observation immediately creates an invisible social contract that I never agreed to.

“What Do You Want From Me?”

That sentence keeps coming back to me. Most people don’t actually “want anything.” A little human standing behind me while I wash dishes probably just wants to spend time with me. Or learn how to do it. 

Someone looking at me at the gym may not even realize they’re looking. Or maybe they are impressed with my form. Or think my form is shit. Who knows?

Someone passing me on a walking trail may simply be noticing another human being and think nothing about me at all. 

And yet…though my brain knows this, my body & nervous system reacts as though attention itself is making a request. Like, “Now I have to do something. What should I do?” Which is the part I’m becoming increasingly curious about.

Could This Be Related to PDA?

As someone who identifies with a Persistent Drive for Autonomy (PDA), I can’t help but wonder if there’s a connection. PDA isn’t outright refusal to do what’s asked or expected of us because we’re stubborn. It’s a nervous system response to perceived demands as threats to autonomy.

We usually think about demands as obvious things, like: “Do your homework.” “Answer your emails.” “Go make dinner.” But what if our nervous systems also perceive social expectations as demands?

Eye contact…small talk…looking approachable…responding when someone looks at you…being “on.” Being observed.

I’m not saying this explains everyone’s experience. I’m still figuring it out myself. But it makes me wonder if, for some autistic people, being perceived isn’t distressing because we’re being seen. Maybe it’s distressing because being seen often comes bundled with a thousand invisible expectations.

The Relief of Not Being Observed

Now, the opposite feeling is just as noticeable. When no one is watching…I can fully relax. I move naturally. I’m not monitoring my face, and I don’t ever wonder how I’m coming across. I simply exist.

There’s something incredibly freeing about existing without feeling perceived.

I’m Curious…

If you’re autistic, or even if you’re not, I wonder whether any of this resonates.

Do you feel uncomfortable being watched while you’re doing ordinary things? Does attention feel energizing? Neutral? Or strangely demanding?

I’m still exploring this idea, and I still have more questions than answers. But sometimes that’s where the best conversations begin. I’ll keep exploring this in the next posts in this series, because I have a feeling there’s still a lot more to uncover.