The Muted Life: Grey Rocking as Survival for an Autistic Trans Person in a Hostile World

The laughing emojis stared back at me from the screen, mocking the vulnerability I’d shown in posting an aspirational photo of myself. It is a retouched headshot, an image that captures how I see myself as a trans woman - confident, authentic, happy.

But there, in the comments section, were “friends” and family members, their laughter a cruel rejection of my identity. As an autistic trans woman navigating a world often hostile to my very existence, ‘grey rocking’ has become a necessary survival tool. It’s a way of protecting myself from the toxic reactions of those who should love and support me unconditionally, but instead meet my authenticity with mockery and disdain. In today’s article, I'll explore what grey rocking is and how it works as a psychological defense mechanism. I'll delve into my experiences as an autistic gestalt language processor, and how this neurological wiring intersects with my trans identity to create unique challenges in navigating social interactions. I’ll discuss the role writing plays in helping me develop scripts to assert my identity, and how grey rocking, whilst painful, can provide much-needed clarity and boundaries in the face of toxicity. Ultimately, today’s is a story of survival, resilience, and the ongoing fight to live authentically in a world that often seeks to deny our very selves.

Grey Rocking

With all of that in mind, let’s dive into the concept of grey rocking itself. Grey rocking is a term that has gained increasing prominence in discussions of toxic and abusive relationships. Put simply, it refers to the practice of making oneself as uninteresting and unreactive as possible in the face of someone else’s toxic behaviour - in essence, becoming as dull and unresponsive as a grey rock. The origin of the term is somewhat unclear, but it has become a widely used and recognised strategy for those dealing with narcissistic, manipulative, or otherwise abusive individuals.

Psychologically, grey rocking works by denying the toxic person the emotional reaction they crave. Many abusive individuals thrive on the power and control they feel when they can provoke a strong emotional response in their target. By refusing to provide that reaction, the grey rocker takes away the abuser’s sense of satisfaction and control. The hope is that, over time, the lack of emotional reward will cause the abuser to lose interest and leave the grey rocker alone.

For those in toxic or abusive relationships, whether with family members, partners, or others, grey rocking can be a necessary survival strategy. When leaving the relationship entirely isn’t an option - which is often the case, particularly with family - grey rocking provides a way to minimise the emotional harm caused by the abuser. It’s a method of self-protection, a way to create a psychological barrier between oneself and the toxicity of the other person.

However, the emotional toll of grey rocking cannot be overstated. It requires a tremendous amount of emotional regulation and compartmentalisation. The grey rocker must constantly monitor their own reactions, suppressing authentic responses in favour of a carefully curated blankness. This can be exhausting and deeply invalidating, as it requires hiding one’s true self and feelings. Over time, the practice of grey rocking can lead to feelings of isolation, disconnection, and even a sense of losing oneself.

For me, as an autistic trans woman, grey rocking has been a double-edged sword. On one hand, it has been a necessary tool for navigating the toxic reactions of certain family members and “friends” to my identity. On the other hand, as someone who already struggles with social communication and authentic self-expression due to my neurological wiring, the practice of grey rocking has felt like a further erasure of my true self. The intersection of my autistic and trans identities has made the emotional burden of grey rocking particularly heavy.

As I move through today’s article, I'll explore more deeply how my experiences as an autistic gestalt language processor have intersected with my trans identity and the practice of grey rocking. I'll discuss the unique challenges this intersection has created, and how writing has become a crucial tool for developing the scripts and strategies I need to assert my identity and set boundaries. Through today’s piece, I hope to shed light on the complex realities of navigating a world that is often hostile to difference, and the resilience and creativity required to survive and thrive in the face of that hostility.

Grey Rocking and My Trans Identity

Coming out as transgender is an incredibly vulnerable process. It involves revealing a deep, fundamental truth about oneself, a truth that many in our society still meet with ridicule, disgust, and even violence. When I first came out as a trans woman, I was terrified. I knew I was risking not just rejection, but potentially the loss of relationships that had been central to my life. And indeed, some of my extended family members and people that I had thought were good friends reacted with the kind of toxicity I had feared.

There were the cruel jokes, the intentional misgendering, the refusal to acknowledge my identity. There were comments like, “You'll always be [deadname] to me,” and “This is just a phase, you'll get over it.” Faced with this onslaught of rejection and hostility from various places in my wide social circle, grey rocking has become my go-to defense mechanism.

When a someone would make a hurtful comment about my appearance or my identity, I would respond with a blank stare and a noncommittal grunt. When they would try to engage me in arguments about the validity of my experiences, I would give short, emotionless responses until they got bored and moved on. I learned to make myself as uninteresting and unreactive as possible, to give them no fodder for their cruelty.

But the cost of this constant grey rocking is high. Each time I had to bite back an angry retort or suppress the tears that threatened to spill over, I felt a piece of myself crumbling away. I was hiding an essential part of myself, the part that was vibrant, expressive, strong, and unapologetically feminine. I was learning to associate my authentic identity with danger and pain, to view it as something shameful that needed to be concealed.

The specific examples of the hurtful comments and my grey rock responses are too numerous to list in full. Each of these instances chipped away at my sense of self, at my belief in my own worth and validity. Grey rocking may have protected me from the worst of their vitriol, but it also left me feeling a bit hollow and disconnected from myself. It is a survival strategy, not a sustainable way of living.

As an autistic person, I already struggle with navigating the unspoken rules and expectations of social interaction. Layering the practice of grey rocking on top of that, especially in relation to something as integral to my identity as my gender, is immensely challenging. It requires a level of constant masking and self-monitoring that has left me utterly drained.

But I couldn’t see any other option. The alternative was to leave myself open to the full brunt of their hatred and disgust, and that felt like a risk I couldn’t take. So, with these people, I retreat deep into myself, becoming more and more a grey rock, less and less the vibrant, multifaceted person I know myself to be.

It’s a pain I know many trans people, especially those who are also autistic or otherwise neurodivergent, are all too familiar with. The double bind of needing to express our authentic selves to live fully, but risking devastating rejection and abuse when we do. The way the very coping mechanisms we use to protect ourselves can end up eroding our sense of self.

Autism, Gestalt Language Processing, and Grey Rocking

As an autistic person (Level 2), I process language in a unique way. I am what is known as a gestalt language processor, which means I understand and express language in complete, complex chunks rather than piecing together individual words and phrases. This cognitive style has many strengths, such as the ability to quickly grasp overarching concepts and make creative connections. However, it also means that I often struggle with the kind of rapid, back-and-forth verbal exchanges that are the norm in many social situations.

This language processing difference intersects with my trans identity in complex ways, particularly when it comes to navigating toxic social dynamics. When faced with a barrage of hostile comments and questions about my gender, I often find myself at a loss for words. The scripts I have for engaging in these conversations are limited, this is new to me and the world is not set up to accommodate neurodivergent trans experiences. In the heat of the moment, faced with a snarky comment or an invasive question, I often simply go blank. My gestalt processing style means I need more time to formulate a response, to find the right chunk of language to express my thoughts and feelings.

In these situations, grey rocking often becomes my default response. When I don’t have the scripts or the processing speed to verbally defend myself, I retreat into blankness, into unresponsiveness. It’s a way of buying myself time, of shielding myself from the immediate impact of their toxicity while I search for the right words to assert my boundaries.

However, this combination of being autistic and trans also creates a double vulnerability. Not only am I navigating a world that is often hostile to my gender identity, but I am doing so with a brain that processes social interaction and communication differently from the neurotypical norm. This means that I am often less equipped to verbally defend myself against transphobic attacks, less able to quickly counter hurtful narratives or assert my own perspective.

Some people I know have, intentionally or not, exploited this vulnerability. They have used my sometimes halting, uncertain responses as “proof” that I am confused about my identity, that my transness is a result of my autism rather than a fundamental truth about who I am. They have talked over me, bombarded me with rapid-fire questions and accusations, knowing that I will struggle to keep up. In these moments, grey rocking becomes not just a defense mechanism, but a necessity for preserving my own sanity.

Autistic thinking is often characterised by a need for clarity, for definitive answers and boundaries. The ambiguity and open-endedness of many social interactions can be profoundly unsettling for us. This black and white thinking, whilst not always adaptive, can make the practice of grey rocking feel particularly necessary. By refusing to engage, by giving flat, monosyllabic responses, I am in a sense creating a clear boundary. I am ending the conversation on my terms, rather than allowing it to spiral into a confusing, emotionally fraught exchange that I am ill-equipped to handle.

Of course, grey rocking is far from a perfect solution. As discussed earlier, it takes a heavy emotional toll, and it can feel like a betrayal of my authentic self. But in a world that is not set up to accommodate the intersection of autistic and trans experiences, it is often the only tool I have for preserving my well-being in the face of relentless hostility.

Navigating this intersection is an ongoing challenge, one that requires constant adaptation and creativity. It means learning to advocate for my needs in a world that often doesn’t even recognise them as valid. It means finding ways to express my identity that don’t rely solely on verbal communication. And it means continually pushing back against the notion that my autism and my transness are somehow in conflict, that I cannot be both fully autistic and fully trans.

In many ways, this is where my writing practice becomes so crucial. Through writing, I am able to develop the scripts I need to assert my identity and my boundaries. I am able to process my experiences on my own terms, in my own time. And I am able to connect with others who share my struggles, who understand the unique challenges and joys of living at this intersection.

Writing as Resistance and Gestalt Development

In the face of the constant challenges and invalidations I experience as an autistic trans person (in such a short amount of time, mind you), writing has become my lifeline. It is through writing that I am able to process the complex, often overwhelming emotions that come with navigating a world hostile to my very existence. When I sit down to write, I can take the time I need to untangle the knots of feelings, to examine my experiences from different angles, to find the words that capture my truth.

More than just a means of self-expression, writing is for me a vital tool for self-advocacy. As someone who struggles with verbal communication, especially in high-stress situations, having scripts I can fall back on is essential. Through my writing, I am able to craft these scripts, to find the language that allows me to assert my identity and my needs clearly and confidently.

I remember one particularly powerful moment of insight that came through my writing (journalling). I was reflecting on an incident where a now former friend had used my autism as a weapon against me, suggesting that my trans identity was just a product of my “confused” neurodivergent brain. As I journaled about the experience, I suddenly realised that the opposite was true - my autism is in fact an integral part of my trans identity. The way I experience gender, the way I relate to my body and to social norms around gender, is profoundly shaped by my neurodivergence. This realisation became a key script for me, a way of asserting the validity and wholeness of my identity in the face of those who would try to divide and diminish me.

Writing has also been a way for me to work through the pain of specific instances of rejection and cruelty. The incident with my aspirational photo is a prime example. When I posted that photo, I was making a deeply vulnerable statement about who I am and how I see myself. To have that met with mockery and derision from people who were supposed to love and support me unconditionally was devastating.

But through journalling and writing about the experience, I was able to reclaim my power. I wrote about the joy and the fear I felt in posting that photo, about the deep longing for acceptance and celebration that it represented. I wrote about the pain of the laughing emojis, the way they seemed to pierce straight through to my deepest insecurities. And I wrote about my determination to keep living my truth, to keep seeking out spaces and people who would see and appreciate the beauty and courage in that photo.

Through that writing, I was able to reaffirm my identity, to remind myself that my worth is not contingent on the approval of those who cannot or will not understand me. I was able to develop new scripts, new ways of talking to myself and others about my transness, my autism, and my fundamental right to exist and thrive as I am.

Writing is my resistance against a world that would rather I remain silent, hidden, diminished. It is how I assert my humanity, my complexity, my worth. Every word I put on the page is an act of defiance against the forces that would erase me, a declaration of my unassailable right to take up space.

And perhaps most importantly, writing is how I connect with others who share my struggles and my joys. When I share my writing, whether it’s here on the AutSide or in private conversations with trusted friends, I am building a community of support and solidarity. I am reminding myself and others that we are not alone in these experiences, that there is power and beauty in our shared resilience.

In a world that is so often hostile to difference, writing is my way of creating a space where I can be fully seen, fully heard, fully validated. It is an ongoing practice, a continual process of self-discovery and self-advocacy. And it is, quite simply, what keeps me going on the hardest days. When the weight of invalidation and rejection feels like too much to bear, I turn to the page. I write my way back to myself, back to the unshakeable truth of who I am and what I deserve. In the face of everything, I keep writing, keep resisting, keep insisting on my right to thrive.

Finding Support and Celebrating Authenticity

As vital as my personal writing practice is, I know that my journey as an autistic trans person cannot be a solitary one. The importance of seeking out affirming communities, spaces where I can be fully seen and celebrated for who I am, cannot be overstated. In a world that so often tells me my very existence is a problem to be solved or a burden to be borne, finding those spaces of radical acceptance and understanding is not just a luxury, but a necessity.

This is where the connective power of writing comes in. When I share my experiences through my writing, I am opening a door to others who may be walking similar paths. I am saying, “Here is my story, here is my truth - does it resonate with yours?” And time and time again, I am amazed and humbled by the response. I receive messages from other autistic and trans folks who tell me that my words have made them feel seen, understood, validated in a way they never have before. We share our struggles and our triumphs, we offer each other support and encouragement, we build a network of mutual care and solidarity.

This connection, this sense of shared experience and shared resistance, is what gives me the strength to keep living authentically, even in the face of mockery, rejection, and outright hostility. Every time I am tempted to shrink myself, to hide away the parts of me that the world finds unacceptable, I think of my community. I think of all the brave, beautiful souls who are fighting the same battles, who are refusing to be silenced or erased. And I know that I cannot, will not, let them down.

So I continue to show up as my full self, in all my autistic, trans, complex humanity. I post the aspirational selfies from time to time, I write the raw and honest posts, I speak my truth even when my voice shakes. Because I know that every act of authentic self-expression is a revolutionary act, a defiant assertion of my right to exist and to thrive on my own terms.

And to every other autistic and/or trans person out there who may be reading this, I want to say: You are not alone. Your experiences, your struggles, your joys - they are valid, they are real, they matter. You matter. Whether you are out and proud, or still searching for the words to express your truth, know that you have a community that sees you, that believes in you, that is fighting alongside you.

Keep seeking out those spaces of affirmation and acceptance, whether it’s online or in person. Keep telling your stories, in whatever way feels right to you. Keep resisting the pressure to conform to a world that was not built for us. And know that every time you do, you are paving the way for others to do the same.

Together, we are building a world where authenticity is celebrated, where difference is valued, where no one has to hide or apologize for who they are. It’s a long and difficult journey, but it’s one we are walking together, one brave step at a time. In solidarity, in community, in unwavering commitment to our shared liberation, we keep moving forward. We keep writing our way home.