The Extremely Awkward Art of Promoting Yourself (When Your Soul Would Prefer to Hide Behind the Couch

Let me tell you a secret about running a small business for me, as an autistic woman.

The hardest part is not designing products.
It’s not pricing them.
It’s not packaging them.
It’s not even dealing with shipping.

The hardest part is promoting myself.

Now, some people love this part. They hop onto social media with the confidence of a motivational speaker who just drank six espressos. They make cheerful videos. They post constantly. They say things like, “Hey friends! Just popping on here to share something exciting!”

Meanwhile I’m over here like:

“Hello internet strangers. Please don’t perceive me or judge me.”

As a middle-aged autistic woman, putting myself out there feels less like marketing and more like emotional skydiving without a parachute.

Many years ago, during my first business adventure, someone gave me the classic entrepreneurial advice:

“You should try wholesale!”

For the uninitiated, wholesale involves walking into stores and asking if they want to carry your products.

Which, for some people, is a normal business activity.

For me, it was essentially voluntary psychological warfare.

I prepared samples of my product and attached a little card with my information. My plan was simple: visit three stores, politely drop off the sample, and leave.

Three stores. That’s it.

Very achievable.

Except for the part where before entering each store I had to sit in my car and psych myself up like I was about to wrestle a bear.

“Okay. You can do this. You are a professional. You are a business owner. You are definitely not going to panic and flee.”

Eventually I would walk in.

I would awkwardly hand over the sample.

I would say something that was probably meant to resemble a business pitch but likely sounded more like:

“Hi, um… I made this… you could… maybe sell it… or not… that’s fine too… okay goodbye.”

Then I would leave.

Mission accomplished.

Except immediately afterward I would go home and cry for two hours.

After the third store I was so confused about my own reaction that I actually booked an appointment with a counsellor.

During the appointment I described what had happened.

And then I started crying again.

The counsellor looked puzzled and said:

“Why is this making you cry?”

To which the only honest answer was:

“I HAVE NO IDEA. THAT'S WHY I'M HERE!”

Years later I learned some very helpful things about myself.

For example:

I am autistic.

I have something called rejection sensitivity dysphoria.

My brain treats mild criticism roughly the same way it treats a meteor strike.

I don't like being perceived.

Which, in retrospect, explains a few other things.

For example, one of my earliest memories of being perceived and judged goes all the way back to kindergarten.

At our graduation show, we were all dressed in animal costumes, singing a song for the parents. I was one of several dalmatian dogs.

Except my costume was missing the tail.

I was horrified.

I was absolutely certain everyone would notice. While the other kids bounced around happily, I spent the entire performance trying to keep my back to the wall so no one could see the catastrophic absence of my dog tail.

I don’t remember the song. I don’t remember the audience.

I only remember the overwhelming certainty that everyone could see that something about me was wrong.

A picture of the traumatic dalmation costume incident of 1983.  I'm the one sitting in the front next to the leopard.

And just to keep things interesting, three years later at another school performance I was cast as an angel in a nativity scene. After standing perfectly still for what felt like several geological eras, I got dizzy and passed out.

Directly onto Joseph.

Who responded by loudly yelling, “GET OFF OF ME!”

So, as you can see, my relationship with public performance has been consistently catastrophic in my mind.

Nowadays, I at least somewhat understand how my autistic mind works and have been able to reframe these events.

I assumed that having all this self-knowledge would solve everything.

I started a new creative business and this blog, armed with insight, self-awareness, and the vague hope that things would be easier.

They are not.

Not even slightly.

If you look up how to grow a creative business, you will receive the same advice over and over:

Post constantly.
Be visible.
Make videos.
Show your face.
Tell your story.
Engage with your audience.
Be authentic.

Which is excellent advice.

For someone who does not experience existential dread at the thought of being perceived.

Every comment I receive is carefully over-analyzed.

Every non-engagement is interpreted by my brain as a detailed performance review that reads:

“Dear Creator,
We regret to inform you that you are terrible at everything.
Sincerely, The Entire Internet.”

Even when nothing of the sort has actually happened.

My brain just… fills in the blanks.

Almost every day I have the same internal conversation.

Brain: You should probably take everything down and disappear quietly.
Me: That seems dramatic.
Brain: But think how peaceful it would be.
Me: We enjoy creating things.
Brain: True.
Me: And writing.
Brain: Also true.
Me: And people do occasionally like them.
Brain: …Fine.

So we compromise.

I keep making things.

I keep writing.

And I keep awkwardly attempting the terrifying act known as marketing.

I genuinely love the process of creating.

Whether it’s crafting something with my hands or writing something strange for this blog, the act itself brings me joy.

The enjoyment outweighs the pain.

But still.

I’m slowly trying to learn something incredibly difficult:

Not everything is personal.

Sometimes people just don’t need or want the thing you made.

Sometimes they didn’t see it.

Sometimes the algorithm buried it under a video of a raccoon stealing donuts.

None of those things are actually about me.

My brain does not fully believe this yet.

But we’re working on it.

So, what is a person to do?

Honestly?

I don’t have a perfect answer.

But I do have a strategy.

Keep creating.

Share things imperfectly.

Accept that awkwardness is part of the process.

Remember that hiding forever is not actually living.

Also, if necessary:

Cry a little.

Eat snacks.

Continue anyway.

Which, when you think about it, might actually be the most realistic small-business strategy ever written.