Learning Social Skills in a Neurodiversity Affirming Way

At age 18, I enrolled in an intensive social skills training course. The class was thorough and demanding. I memorized entire dialogues to incorporate into conversations. I learned how to introduce myself, write an email, make a phone call, wish someone a happy birthday, order a meal, or ask for directions. I wrote scripts and rehearsed them until I had them down. I recorded myself performing full monologues and received detailed feedback on my pronunciation and inflection.

After each lesson, my mouth felt full of marbles, and I was exhausted from trying to keep every detail straight in my head, but my efforts paid off. I was no longer tongue-tied at the start of a conversation. I could express myself with relative confidence, and I was proud of what I had accomplished.

What was the name of this magical course, you ask? SLAVLANG 181, also known as third-year Russian.

I’m sure my professor had no idea that she’d become my de facto social skills coach. I didn’t expect it either. I signed up for the class for the same reasons everyone else did: 80% love of learning and 20% masochism. However, along the way, I learned invaluable lessons in the fine art of interacting with other humans. I’m still quite awkward, but somehow, I'm less awkward in a foreign language than in my native one. My love of Russian has also motivated me to step outside my comfort zone in everyday life. I built close relationships with professors and classmates in college. I'm hesitant to meet new people, but I don't think twice before booking a virtual Russian lesson with a stranger. I've even started conversations with Russian speakers in real life. To many, that might seem trivial, but to me, it's huge.

I call this a strengths-based approach to social skills. It’s based on interests. It offers natural scaffolding. And perhaps most importantly, instead of aiming to make an autistic person "normal," this approach prioritizes interests, values, and self-advocacy.

For years, adults in my life had recommended that I "take a social skills class," and for years, I'd resisted this well-intentioned advice. Social skills training just sounded bad. I imagined being scrutinized and dissected, my every word and gesture taken apart and corrected until I was finally resculpted into a less autistic version of myself, one that would be more palatable to those around me.

Don't get me wrong; it's not that autism doesn't confer impairment. I wish social interactions came naturally to me. I'd love to be able to strike up conversations with strangers, fluidly shift in and out of eye contact, or understand a group chat without constantly googling slang. I consider autism a disability because it makes everyday life more difficult. These social struggles are frustrating and isolating. If there were a quick, easy fix, I'd sign up in a heartbeat.

But there's no quick fix, and many of the solutions that are offered to higher-functioning autistic individuals like me come at an enormous cost. Inadvertently or otherwise, these interventions convey the message that there's something wrong with the way autistic people naturally communicate and that without becoming indistinguishable from neurotypicals, people on the spectrum will never be liked or accepted.

Moreover, social skills training and therapy can lose sight of an autistic person's actual preferences, focusing instead on what providers think a person should want. In my teenage years, I was never going to be a stereotypical adolescent who posted on Instagram, obsessed over TV shows, and enjoyed midnight pizza parties–and yet, these were precisely the goals that my therapists prioritized. These goals were pushed on me so fervently that I began to doubt my own sense of what I wanted. Maybe the professionals were right. Maybe I would be happier if I were more normal.

I went through a brief phase of trying to conform to these expectations. I learned the lyrics to several Shawn Mendes songs (not Shakespeare, but catchy for sure). I created an Instagram account and posted a selfie or two, feeling like an alien trying to blend in with another species. I even watched Mean Girls, which I'll admit was enlightening.

Pretty soon, though, my attempts at normalcy fell apart because I'm not typical. I'm a geek who never stays up past 10 pm and hasn't attended a party since 2017, and I'm okay with that. Abandoning the social skills I don't need has helped me focus on the ones that really matter to me: having deep conversations; supporting my students in tutoring sessions; being there for my friends when they need me; and memorizing important Russian phrases like, "Have you seen Uncle Vanya?" and "Where is the potato?"

Best of all, my Russian-based social skills training didn't involve any judgment or criticism of my natural ways of being. I was there because I wanted to learn, not because something about me needed to be fixed. I had agency and ownership, and that made my learning infinitely more meaningful.

I know others on the spectrum who have developed their own versions of strengths-based social skills training. A college classmate was coxswain on the rowing team, meaning that she literally steered her team's ship. Her coach helped her modulate her voice, choose the right words, and read her teammates' nonverbal cues so she could lead effectively. Another acquaintance tackled her autism-related social anxiety by joining an improv troop. Forcing herself into the spotlight made day-to-day social interactions less scary.

To help an autistic youngster discover their version of strengths-based socializing, start with their interests. What makes them tick? What do they love? What could they talk about endlessly? 

From there, consider how other humans are involved in that passion. Is there an online community where they could participate in conversations and answer questions? Can they join an online fan community to connect with others who share their hobby? Could they attend an online meet-up? If they love video games, anime, or other fictional worlds, could they look to their favorite characters to better understand social relationships? (I could do a whole separate post on learning social cues from sitcoms.)

Don't underestimate the power of non-human socialization, either. Dogs and cats may not talk, but they're very capable of social cognition, and animal interactions can feel more manageable to some autistics.

Once you've identified interest-based opportunities to socialize, you can start looking for ways to develop social skills. Semi-structured activities like language classes, martial arts, dance, and theater all naturally incorporate social rituals and awareness. Fandoms and subcultures often have their own norms and conventions that, once mastered, can help autistic participants feel more at home. Volunteering is also a fantastic way to connect to local communities and build social skills in the process.

And of course, you could always take a Russian class.

About Lucy: I graduated from Stanford in 2024 with a degree in psychology and Slavic Studies. I currently live in Boston and work as a writing tutor with a focus on supporting 2e/neurodivergent students. I've been involved in the neurodiversity world since I was diagnosed with autism at age 18. I hope to pursue a PhD in psychology and develop evidence-based interventions to help neurodivergent students write. For tutoring inquiries, please check out my website!