Who Was I That Whole Time?

Autism, Clubbing, and Unseen Joys in the Tyranny of Unwritten Rules

Looking back on those years—nights spent in dark, sweaty rooms with music pushing through my body—I find myself asking the same question over and over: Who was I that whole time? For years, I moved through the underground dance music scene, convinced that music could create spaces of connection and liberation. But as I immersed myself deeper into the scene, a persistent sense of disconnection gnawed at me. Everyone else seemed to move effortlessly through the chaos of lights, bass, and bodies, while I stood just outside of it, straining to find my place.

It wasn’t a lack of love for the music—quite the opposite. The beats could transport me to another realm, but even in those moments of transcendence, something felt off. The very intensity that seemed to fuel others—the pounding bass, the flashing lights, the crush of bodies—often overwhelmed me. But it wasn’t just the sensory overload. What truly disoriented me were the unspoken social dynamics, the invisible rules that dictated who fit in and who didn’t. It took years before I understood: I didn’t know I was autistic the entire time I was a clubber.

The dissonance I experienced wasn’t just about the scene—it was about surviving in spaces that weren’t built for someone like me. For years, I had been grappling with the realization that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite break through. The connection I sought felt elusive, always just out of reach, and for the longest time, I didn’t know why.

The Tyranny of Unwritten Rules

One of the most insidious aspects of club culture is the invisible social capital that defines who belongs. These unspoken exchanges of influence—about who’s cool, which DJs matter, and which venues are worth your time—operate as an unspoken currency. I struggled to navigate this currency, to grasp the codes that everyone else seemed to crack with ease. Taste, clout, and connections were the keys to belonging, and even as a promoter, I often found myself on the periphery, unsure of how to gain full access to these unspoken systems.

Iconic spaces like Berghain or Sustain Release represented the pinnacle of underground culture, but they also embodied everything that kept me away. The unwritten rules that governed these places—rules about who was deemed cool enough, who knew the right people, who fit the vibe—felt impossible to decode. It wasn’t just the act of getting through the door; it was the anxiety that clung to the idea of never fully belonging. I didn’t even try to get in because I feared the rejection would confirm what I already felt: that I didn’t belong there.

It wasn’t until my autism diagnosis that everything began to fall into place. The struggle wasn’t due to a lack of effort on my part—it was structural. The club scene, like so many cultural spaces, is designed for people who can navigate neurotypical social norms without a second thought. Those norms aren’t written down anywhere, but they shape the entire experience. They dictate who gets to belong and who is quietly pushed to the margins, often without anyone realizing it.

This dynamic creates a form of tyranny—subtle, but deeply embedded. It’s a kind of subconscious ableism that never questions itself. From the overwhelming sensory environments to the unspoken social rules and gatekeeping, the scene demands conformity to norms that are built for a specific kind of person. For someone like me, these spaces were barriers that pushed me to the edges without ever explaining why.

The Invisible Dissonance

Even the club photographers seemed to reinforce these dynamics. They rarely captured me, drawn instead to those who fit the scene’s preferred image of “cool.” I didn’t seek their attention, but the fact that I was left out of the visual story told by the scene’s photographers deepened my sense of invisibility. I had been there, I had danced, I had connected with the music—but when the pictures came out, it was as though I had never existed. My energy, my presence, wasn’t the kind that could be captured in a single frame. I slipped through the cracks of the photographer’s lens, a ghost at the edges of the night.

What made this dynamic so painful was that the underground scene was supposed to be a refuge, a space where misfits and outsiders could find belonging. But in reality, it often replicated the very same exclusionary systems it claimed to reject. It was a place that promised liberation, yet left many of us on the outside, wondering what more we had to do to fit in.

Reclaiming My Space

Despite all of this, I found pockets of joy and connection through DJing and VJing. When I was behind the decks or immersed in visuals, I could control the sensory environment rather than be overwhelmed by it. The very elements that typically drained me—sound, light, energy—became tools I could manipulate. It was in these moments that I felt a sense of ownership over the scene, shaping it in ways that worked for me. These moments weren’t just about survival; they were about creating something new, something that felt more aligned with who I was.

Yet even in those moments of connection, I couldn’t escape the larger reality: the club scene, with its emphasis on intensity and spectacle, wasn’t designed for people like me. The assumption that more sensory stimulation equals more joy is taken for granted. The scene prioritizes those who thrive in these high-energy environments while sidelining those of us who need something different. It’s a model driven by the capitalist logic of profit and spectacle, where more is always better, and anyone who can’t keep up is quietly left behind.

What makes this exclusion so insidious is that it goes largely unquestioned. The idea that joy and connection can only be achieved through excess is rarely challenged. Unspoken rules about behavior, taste, and belonging are never made explicit, but they’re rigorously enforced. Quiet spaces, adjusted lighting, or more thoughtful social dynamics aren’t considered integral to the experience—they’re seen as dilutions of the “real” thing.

The Way Forward

If we’re serious about inclusivity, we need to rethink how these spaces are designed from the ground up. True inclusion isn’t about tacking on accommodations after the fact—it’s about recognizing that the structures themselves are exclusionary. The club scene, like so many other cultural spaces, needs to be reimagined—not just for neurodivergent people like me, but for everyone who has ever felt like they don’t belong.

Understanding that my struggles weren’t personal failings, but reflections of broader structural issues, has been transformative. The dancefloor should be a place of liberation, not exclusion. If we want to create truly inclusive spaces, we need to start asking harder questions: Why have we accepted sensory overload as the baseline for joy? Why do we assume that connection can only happen through excess? Who are we leaving out when we prioritize one way of experiencing the world over all others?

My journey through the club scene showed me that connection is possible, even in spaces that weren’t designed with me in mind. But those moments of connection shouldn’t be the exception—they should be the norm. The dancefloor has the potential to be a space where everyone can find joy, where difference is celebrated rather than marginalized. But that will only happen if we make space for everyone—not just those who fit the mold.

So, the next time you step onto a dancefloor, take a moment to consider who isn’t there. Who’s been quietly excluded? And why? If we want to build a scene that truly lives up to its ideals of liberation and connection, we have to start by acknowledging the ways in which it currently falls short. The beat has the power to unite us all—but only if we make room for everyone to dance.