Why My Friends Don’t Mix
The myth of the “one big friend group,” Autistic Boundaries, One-on-One Safety, and the Cost of Being the Common Denominator
Some People Should Never Be in the Same Room
Autistic Boundaries, Code-Switching, and the Reality of Neurodivergent Friendship
Some people think it’s strange that my friends don’t mix. Others assume it means I’m hiding something. But here’s what I’ve learned: I’m autistic, multilingual, and emotionally observant.
Different friends hold different parts of me and not every part belongs in the same room. What looks like fragmentation to others is actually structure. Design. Protection.
My work is layered and so am I. I build slowly, and I build deep.
Solitude isn’t absence for me it’s rhythm. It’s where I can hear myself.
My friendships reflect that.
They come from completely different chapters of my life. Different continents. Different masks. Different codes I once learned to survive.
As an autistic person, I’ve learned that emotional safety is about environment. Some friendships exist best one-on-one. Some truths aren’t meant to be mirrored in a group. And some connections are sacred in separation—not broken, just better that way.
I Choose My Friends Carefully—And I Don’t Mix Them
Not everyone is built to exist in the same emotional landscape. Just because I love you doesn’t mean your best friend—or your partner—will feel safe to me.
Some friends I’ve known since Gambia—back when we spent our days climbing mango trees with a book and my pet monkey.
See, my grandmother raised me to be book-rich. She built me a library, hired me tutors, and invested in my curiosity like it was a birthright. That’s why I spoke what people called the Queen’s English.
Because Gambia was colonized by the Queen of England, and I was trained in her tongue before I had the words to name that system.
When I moved to Sweden, I was quickly told I was “too white” for my diction. I grew tired of explaining where it came from. So I started code-switching. I spoke “hood” instead. And honestly? I liked it. It was always the Brown kids who gave me the most hell.
Later, I entered the International Baccalaureate program. Different school. Different mask. There, I had to soften my edges this time to avoid being labeled “too ghetto.”
Autism is funny like that. You study the rules. Perfect the lingo. Decode every room. And still find yourself outside of it. But by Jove do you upskill in life.
Eventually, university gave me diaspora friends who helped me name my neurodivergence. They helped me unmask. They taught me that I didn’t have to earn belonging by performance.
And after that?
Came the friends who gave me godchildren. The ones who taught me emotional repair. The ones who knew how to care without keeping score. All of these people know me. But they’ve almost never met each other. And that’s not an accident. That’s architecture.
Some Facets Are Not Meant to Mix (In Me, or in Them)
Different versions of me live in different languages, different contexts, different timelines.
I’ve always been a constellation of selves.
Versions of me exist in different languages, different timelines, different codes I learned to stay safe.
And not all of those parts were designed to blend. Some friendships hold the bookish, curious version of me—the one raised with structure and solitude. Others reflect the sharp, quick-talking, code-switching version who survived Sweden. Some hold the nurturer. Others hold the disruptor.
Each friend connects with a different thread of me. And trying to weave all of them into one single social fabric? That’s never felt natural. Because it isn’t.
My friends are diverse, but they’re also strong-minded—and very different from each other. I already know how it would go if I put them in the same room.
Some don’t even know I’m close to the other. They’ve argued online over politics without realizing they’re both my people. That’s the thing: just because I can hold them doesn’t mean they can hold each other.
And over time, I’ve learned: just like all parts of me can’t always coexist in the same room neither can all the people who hold them. It’s not fear that keeps me from merging friends.
It’s design. Because sometimes, when those frequencies overlap when people meet only through me, without shared values or rapport things get distorted. Assumptions are made. Boundaries get blurred. People attach to ideas, not realities. And the emotional cleanup always lands in my lap. Especially as an autistic woman who’s used to being the bridge, the translator, the one managing the vibe.
So no, I don’t mix my friends. Not because I’m hiding something but because I’m protecting everything. My peace. Their stories. The integrity of what we’ve built, one-on-one, in trust. Some connections only exist safely in separation. And that’s not dysfunction. That’s wisdom.
Privacy Is Not Secrecy. It’s Care.
Another reason I don’t mix my friends? Because I don’t triangulate.
I avoid venting to one friend about another. I don’t build invisible alliances around whispered grievances. That’s not how I move.
If I’m struggling in a friendship, I take it elsewhere, quietly, intentionally, with someone trained to hold multiple truths at once.
I actually have a dedicated therapist for relationship work. Because friendships are sacred. And when something feels off, I don’t want to create ripple effects across people who’ve never even met.
I don’t want someone forming an image of another person through the lens of my pain. People process things differently.
Some lean into group chats, collective venting, and consensus-based thinking. That’s fine.
Others, like me, need space. Distance. The ability to hold two truths without needing agreement. Also fine.
The problem starts when people assume one model is the standard. Then venture to public platforms to seek more agreement that not mixing friends means you’re withholding. Or asocial. Or suspicious.
Forgetting humans aren’t identical in behavior or in how they do care.
And friendship isn’t community theatre. I’m not staging a reunion special where everyone has to get along for the camera.
This isn’t Sex and the City, and even Samantha eventually had enough of Carrie’s behaviour and they had to repair away from the group. Personally I want resolutions not resentment.
And I’ve learned: where you take your confusion determines whether it becomes clarity or collateral damage.
Group Chats Don’t Work for Me And Neither Does Collective Confusion
Group chats are redundant to me. Dont add me.
Whether it’s for planning, venting, or “just staying connected,” they leave me disoriented.
Too many threads. Too many tones. No room to learn people properly.
Being autistic, I get confused when dynamics are layered like that.
I need clarity to build understanding.
One-on-one, I map people deeply. In group settings, I lose the signal.
If I put all my friends in the same chat, they’d ask a thousand questions.
I’d be forced to mediate tone, clarify intention, smooth misunderstandings before they even landed.
The politician would probably try to get the yoga instructor to lead a breathing exercise. The botanist would be explaining root systems while the lawyer asks if this is all admissible.
They’re wildly different. Brilliantly so.
But I’m the only one who took the time to learn how each of their minds works.
Because they fascinate me.
Because I’ve spent years learning them because we have both spent lifetimes misunderstood so we I can also honor their language.
They are waters I navigate with ease.
But only because I spent years learning the currents.
That doesn’t mean they’d survive each other’s tides.
When I Say I Don’t Mix Friends, I Mean It
So no, I don’t merge my circles.
I don’t host mixed group hangs. I don’t do “friend brunches” with everyone at the same table.
Because while I can hold multiple truths, not everyone can hold each other.
Some of my friends are direct. Others need gentleness.
Some are spiritual. Others, deeply secular.
Some are neurodivergent. Others are… loud about their neurotypical discomfort.
Some talk. Some listen. Some perform. Some build.
When people meet only because of me, the only thing connecting them is a shared mirror.
And mirrors reflect things people aren’t always ready to see.
The Cost of Curated Community
People romanticize “friendship groups” because they assume proximity means harmony.
But I’ve seen what actually happens when emotional boundaries are replaced with optics.
I’ve seen:
One friend become the default emotional laborer for everyone else
Hierarchies form based on who has access to whom
Neurodivergent friends included—but never supported
Loyalty measured by performative group participation
I’ve left group chats.
I’ve watched them implode.
I’ve been the one in the corner, quiet, while everyone else performed inclusion.
And I’ve been blamed for “fracturing community” just because I chose solitude over self-erasure.
One-on-One Is Not a Flaw—It’s a Boundary
I prefer one-on-one friendships.
That’s where we can be present. That’s where we can go deep. That’s where no one is fighting to be heard or managing three people’s triggers at once.
It’s how I protect the people I love from each other, yes, but also from the fantasy that we should all blend.
Because some connections are sacred in solitude.
Not everything should be passed around.
Explore More from The Lovette Jallow Perspective
You’ll find more of my essays on friendships, holding boundaries and reclaiming voice.
Who is Lovette Jallow?
Lovette Jallow is one of Scandinavia’s most influential voices on systemic racism, intersectional justice, and human rights. She is a nine-time award-winning author, keynote speaker, lecturer, and humanitarian specializing in:
Neurodiversity and workplace inclusion
Structural policy reform
Anti-racism education and systemic change
As one of the few Black, queer, autistic, ADHD, and Muslim women working at the intersection of human rights, structural accountability, and corporate transformation, Lovette offers a uniquely authoritative perspective rooted in lived experience and professional expertise.
Her work bridges theory, research, and action—guiding institutions to move beyond performative diversity efforts and toward sustainable structural change.
Lovette has worked across Sweden, The Gambia, Libya, and Lebanon—tackling institutional racism, legal discrimination, and refugee protection. Her expertise has been sought by outlets like The New York Times and by leading humanitarian organizations addressing racial justice, policy reform, and intersectional equity.
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Thank you so much for naming something that has been an unnamed piece of my autistic experience I’ve never been able to articulate. Letting this part of me feel the fresh air and freedom from shame is a revelation. Bless.
"Decode every room" resonates--as does much else. Some of my earliest experiences have been exactly that--decoding the room while being deeply observant, another word you use. Honey, nobody can read a room like an introvert.