Unmasking and "Resting Autistic Face": The Exhaustion of Performing Pleasantness

"Are you okay?"

My husband asks me this at least twice a week. Sometimes more.

"You look upset. Are you mad at me?"

And every time, I have to pause. Check in with myself. Am I upset? Am I mad? No. I'm just... existing. My face is just doing what it does when I'm not actively managing it.

"No," I tell him. "I'm autistic."

It's become a running joke between us, but underneath the humor is something heavier. Something I'm still learning to sit with.

For most of my life, I didn't know I was autistic. I just knew that people were always asking me if I was okay. If I was mad. If something was wrong. And I learned to smile more. To soften my face. To perform pleasantness so that people would stop asking.

I got very, very good at it.

And then I learned I’m autistic. And I started unmasking. And I realized: this is just what my face looks like.

What Is "Resting Autistic Face"?

You've probably heard of "resting bitch face." It’s the idea that some people's neutral expressions look angry or unapproachable. It's usually said with a wink, a joke. "Oh, that's just my face."

But for autistic people, it's not quite that simple.

Our neutral faces don't always match what neurotypical people expect neutral to look like. We might not smile when we're content. We might furrow our brows when we're thinking, not upset. We might look serious when we're perfectly fine, or blank when we're deeply engaged.

And because neurotypical social norms equate "pleasant expression" with "everything is okay," our faces get misread. A lot.

People assume we're upset when we're not. They assume we're disengaged when we're listening intently. They assume we're angry when we're just... neutral.

And when you've spent your whole life being told (implicitly or explicitly) that your neutral face is wrong, you learn to change it. You learn to smile more. To animate your expressions. To perform the pleasantness that other people expect.

You learn to mask.

The Weight of Constant Performance

Here's what I didn't realize until I started unmasking: managing my face was exhausting.

Not in an obvious, "I'm so tired from this specific thing" way. But in a background hum of depletion that I just accepted as normal.

Every conversation, every meeting, every interaction required me to monitor my face. Am I smiling enough? Do I look engaged? Is my expression matching the emotion I'm supposed to be feeling? Does my face look "right"?

It's like running a background app on your phone that you don't even notice is draining your battery until you close it and suddenly you have so much more energy.

Unmasking my face has been one of the most freeing parts of my autism journey. But it's also been one of the most complicated.

Because other people don't always know what to do with it.

The Freedom and the Friction

When I stopped managing my face, something shifted.

I stopped spending energy on something that wasn't serving me. I stopped monitoring myself in every interaction. I stopped performing pleasantness for the comfort of others.

And it felt like relief.

But it also created friction. Because the people around me, people who love me, people who mean well, don't always know how to read my unmasked face.

My husband asks if I'm okay because he genuinely can't tell. My face doesn't give him the cues he's used to reading. And I get it. I do. He's trying to check in. He's trying to be attuned to me.

But it's also exhausting to constantly reassure people that I'm fine when I'm just... existing.

This is the paradox of unmasking: it's freeing and it creates new challenges. Because neurotypical social expectations don't disappear just because you stop meeting them.

The Expectations Are the Problem, Not Your Face

Here's what I want you to hear, especially if you're autistic and you've spent your whole life being told your face is "too serious" or "unapproachable" or "makes people uncomfortable":

Your face is not the problem.

The expectation that everyone should perform pleasantness at all times? That's the problem.

The assumption that a neutral face means something is wrong? That's the problem.

The social norm that says we owe other people a pleasant expression just to exist in public? That's the problem.

And I want to acknowledge something my friend Samar helped me understand: the expectation of pleasantry isn't just ableist, it's also racist, gendered, and rooted in colonialism. White supremacy requires assimilation and pleasantness from people it sees as "other." So when we're talking about who bears the burden of this expectation most heavily, it's not just autistic people. It's Black and brown folks, it's women, it's anyone who doesn't fit the white colonial standard. The demand for pleasantness is a tool of control.

And I need to name something else: for Black and brown folks, especially Black men, unmasking isn't just uncomfortable—it can be dangerous. A Black man's neutral face might be read as aggressive or threatening in ways that a white person's never would be. The consequences aren't just social awkwardness or having to reassure people you're okay. The consequences can be violence, police intervention, loss of employment, or worse. Unmasking is a privilege that not everyone has equal access to.

So when I talk about letting your face just be, I'm speaking from my position as a white woman. The freedom I have to unmask is not the same freedom everyone has. And resisting the demand for pleasantness, letting your face just be, is an act of resistance against colonial control. But that resistance comes at different costs for different people.

Your face is allowed to be neutral. It's allowed to not smile when you're content. It's allowed to furrow when you're thinking. It's allowed to just... be.

You are not responsible for managing other people's comfort with your existence.

But I also recognize that safety sometimes requires strategic masking.

What Unmasking Looks Like (For Me)

I won't pretend I've figured this all out. I'm still navigating it.

Some days, I let my face do whatever it wants. I don't monitor it. I don't manage it. I just exist, and if people misread me, that's not my problem to solve.

Other days, especially in professional settings, or with people I don't know well, I still mask a little. Not because I think I should, but because I'm choosing my battles. Because sometimes, managing my face is less exhausting than managing other people's reactions to my face.

And I'm learning to be okay with that. To give myself permission to mask when I need to, and to unmask when I can.

Because unmasking isn't an all-or-nothing thing. It's not "I'm fully unmasked now and I'll never manage my face again." It's a spectrum. A choice. A dance.

Some days I'm tired and I don't have the energy to perform. Some days I have the spoons to manage my face and I choose to. Some days I forget I'm even doing it.

And all of that is okay.

If You're Just Realizing This About Yourself

Maybe you're reading this and something is clicking.

Maybe you've spent your whole life being asked if you're okay, if you're mad, if something's wrong. Maybe you've learned to smile more, to soften your face, to perform pleasantness without even realizing you were doing it.

Maybe you didn't know this was part of being autistic. Maybe you thought everyone felt this way.

If that's you, I want you to know: you're not alone.

And you're not wrong for having the face you have.

Unmasking is hard. It's vulnerable. It requires you to let go of patterns you've built over a lifetime. It creates friction with people who are used to the masked version of you.

But it's also worth it.

Because you deserve to exist without constantly monitoring yourself. You deserve to let your face just be. You deserve to stop performing pleasantness for the comfort of others.

Your face is not too serious. It's not unapproachable. It's not wrong.

It's just yours.

The Tension I'm Still Sitting With

I don't have a neat conclusion for this. I don't have a five-step plan for how to navigate this perfectly.

What I have is this: I'm learning to let my face be what it is. I'm learning to stop apologizing for existing in a way that doesn't meet neurotypical expectations. I'm learning to give myself permission to mask when I choose to, and to unmask when I can.

And I'm learning to sit with the tension. The freedom and the friction. The relief and the misunderstandings.

Because that's what unmasking is. It's not a destination. It's a process. A choice you make over and over again, in a thousand small moments.

And some days, when my husband asks if I'm okay, I'll smile and explain. Other days, I'll just say "I'm autistic" and let it land however it lands.

Both are okay.

Your face is okay.

You are okay.