Michelle Labine, author of ‘Her Face of Autism’

What’s the one thing you hope readers will remember or
take away from your book long after they finish reading it?

I hope readers walk away knowing that they were never broken they were simply unseen.
So many late-diagnosed Autistic women spend their lives trying to fit into
spaces that were never designed with them in mind. I want this book to help
them lay down the self-blame and see their sensitivity, intensity, and depth as
strengths rather than flaws.

More than anything, I hope it invites a gentler kind of
self-understanding — one where readers can stop performing and start belonging,
both to themselves and to a community that truly gets them.

You must answer a minimum of 8 questions in this
section. (You don’t have to answer all 13 questions.)

Can you share a surprising or little-known fact about
your writing process or research for this book?

A surprising part of writing Her
Face of Autism was how emotional the research became. I began with
the intention of writing something academic and structured — but the more I
read, the more I saw how absent women’s voices were from the research on
autism. That realization shifted everything. The book evolved from analysis
into reclamation.

Another little-known part of my process is that I wrote many
sections in sensory-friendly spaces dim lighting, soft music, and long
stretches of quiet where I could unmask completely. I needed to experience the
same kind of safety I was writing about. In that sense, the book became both
research and self-discovery an unmasking in real time.

What’s the most memorable or impactful response you’ve
received from a reader, and how has it affected you?

One of the most powerful messages I received was from a
woman in her fifties who said, “Your
book put words to a lifetime I could never explain.” She told me
she read it in tears, stopping to underline sentences that felt like they’d
been written straight from her own journals. She said for the first time, she
felt understood not by a clinician or a diagnosis, but by another woman who had
lived it.

That message stayed with me because it reminded me why I
wrote this book in the first place. It’s not just about autism it’s about
recognition, relief, and belonging. Every time I hear from a reader who finally
sees herself reflected on the page, it reinforces that this work matters.

What’s the one question you wish readers would ask you
about your book, and how would you answer it?

I wish readers would ask, “How has
writing this book changed you?”

Because it truly has. Writing Her
Face of Autism wasn’t just about sharing information it was an act
of integration. For years, I carried the divide between who I was
professionally and who I was personally, between the therapist and the woman
still learning to unmask. Through writing, those parts of me finally met each
other.

It’s changed how I show up in my practice, in my
relationships, and in my own self-compassion. I no longer see autism as
something to explain or justify, but as a way of being that holds its own
beauty, wisdom, and rhythm. That’s what I hope readers take with them too: that
embracing our truth is the beginning of healing, not the end of it.

What’s the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to you
as an author?

One of my most embarrassing moments happened during an early
virtual talk about Her Face of Autism. I was so
focused on getting the slides and tech right that I didn’t realize my
microphone was on while I muttered to myself about a typo on the opening slide.
The audience heard the whole thing and kindly pointed it out in the chat with
laughing emojis.

In the moment I wanted to disappear, but afterward I
realized it was a perfect example of what my book is about: dropping the mask
and letting our humanity show. It ended up breaking the ice and making the
session even warmer and more real but it definitely wasn’t how I’d planned to
start!

What’s the most challenging part of the writing process
for you, and how do you overcome it?

The hardest part for me was writing about my own experiences
with the same compassion I extend to my clients. As a therapist, I’m used to
helping others hold their stories with gentleness — but turning that lens
inward required a different kind of courage. There were moments when old doubts
crept in, and I questioned whether my story was “too much” or “not enough.”

What helped me move through it was remembering why I was writing — to make sure
other women wouldn’t have to feel as alone or unseen as I once did. I also gave
myself permission to write slowly, in sensory-safe spaces, and to pause when
something felt too raw. The process became its own kind of healing — proof that
we can hold both our vulnerability and our strength at the same time.

How do you stay motivated and focused during the writing
process?

What kept me motivated was remembering who I was writing for the women
still searching for themselves in stories that don’t reflect who they are.
Every time I felt stuck or overwhelmed, I’d think of those moments of
recognition I’ve seen in my clients that deep exhale when everything finally
makes sense and remind myself, this is
for her.

Focus came through creating safety and leaning into my
natural wiring. As an Autistic and ADHD woman, I can struggle with shifting
attention, but when something deeply matters to me, I can also hyperfocus for
hours in complete flow. I built my writing process around that working in
sensory-friendly spaces, writing at night when the world is quiet, and allowing
myself to follow the pull of inspiration rather than forcing a schedule.

I treated writing the way I encourage my clients to treat
healing with gentleness, pacing, and permission to rest. When I honoured both
my rhythm and my intensity, the words came with clarity and heart.

If you could go back in time and give advice to your
pre-published self, what would it be?

I would tell her to trust
her voice even when it shakes. For so long, I second-guessed
myself, worrying about how my words would be received or whether I was
“qualified” enough to tell this story. But the truth is, authenticity is what
connects us, not perfection.

I’d remind her that this book didn’t need to prove anything
it needed to speak to the women who would see
themselves in its pages. I’d tell her to write bravely, rest often, and
remember that vulnerability isn’t weakness it’s the bridge between isolation
and belonging.

And maybe most of all, I’d tell her: you don’t have to mask here. The
world you’re writing for is ready to meet you as you are.

Your favorite quote/saying to live by?

One of my favorite quotes is by Glennon Doyle: “We can do hard things.” It’s
simple, but it captures so much of what I believe about healing and
self-discovery. It’s not about perfection or constant strength it’s about
courage, honesty, and taking one small step at a time toward your truth.

I also hold close a line I often share with my clients: “You were never too much you were just in the
wrong room.” It’s become a reminder for me, too that finding
belonging isn’t about shrinking ourselves but about finding spaces where we can
finally expand.

Do you have any more books in the works?

Yes absolutely. I’m already working on two follow-up
projects that expand on the world of Her Face
of Autism. One focuses more deeply on the lived experience of late-diagnosed Autistic women
the layers of identity, grief, and growth that continue long after diagnosis.
The other explores neurodivergent
relationships the beautiful complexity, communication patterns,
and emotional intimacy that emerge when we begin to understand each other
through a neurodiversity-affirming lens.

Both projects are close to my heart and continue the
conversation I began in Her Face
of Autism: what it means to be seen, to belong, and to build
relationships rooted in authenticity and understanding.

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What others are saying about Her Face of Autism

“The most resonant moments in the book occur when the author
steps away from the how-to structure to instruct through storytelling,
particularly when connecting her own experience of diagnosis or sharing the
many stories of women who never had a vocabulary to assign to their loneliness.
These vignettes give the book texture and heart, transforming theory into
personal experience.”
– Kirkus Reviews

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