The Small Space Before the Reaction

Mindfulness, autism, and the art of being present in one’s own life

In the essay on mood changes, stress, and emotional regulation, I described how an apparently minor event can trigger a strong reaction. A motorcycle passes. An aeroplane flies low over the house. A conversation takes an unexpected turn. Suddenly, the voice becomes sharper, the comment harsher, and the space between feeling and action becomes smaller.

The reaction may appear to arise in an instant. But the body has often been moving towards it for a long time.

The stress has been building. The brain has been trying to sort too many impressions. The nervous system has moved from calm into a state of alarm. Before I have time to understand what is happening, the words may already have been spoken.

Afterwards, I often need silence. I withdraw to a dark room. I rest, sleep, or meditate. Sometimes five minutes are enough. At other times, it may take a day or two before my body feels like my own again.

It is within this landscape that mindfulness becomes important to me.

Not as a method for becoming a different person. Not as a technique that can remove autism, noise, or unpredictability. But as a practice that may help me notice what is happening a little earlier.

Mindfulness may create a small space between what affects me and what I do with it.

That small space may be the difference between reacting and responding.

What is mindfulness?

Mindfulness is often described as present-moment awareness. It means directing attention towards what is happening here and now, with as much openness as possible and with as little immediate judgement as possible.

This may sound simple. We are merely asked to be present.

Yet most of us are rarely fully present. Our thoughts move backwards towards something that has already happened, or forwards towards something we fear or hope will happen. We assess, compare, plan, and defend ourselves. The body may be in one room while attention is somewhere else entirely.

Mindfulness is not about emptying the mind of thoughts. Nor is it about ceasing to feel anxiety, irritation, or pain. It is about noticing a thought, emotion, or bodily reaction without immediately being carried away by it.

I may notice:

Now I am clenching my jaw.

Now the sounds are becoming harder to tolerate.

Now my breathing is becoming faster.

Now I am beginning to hear an ordinary question as a demand.

Now I simply want the conversation to end.

These are small observations. But they can have great importance.

When I discover the reaction while it is still building, I have an opportunity that I do not have once the words have already been spoken.

I can take a breath.

I can say that the noise has become too much.

I can ask for a pause.

I can leave the room before my voice becomes sharp.

Mindfulness does not remove the reaction. But it may make it visible earlier.

Being present without becoming overwhelmed

For a person with autism, the instruction “be present in the moment” may seem almost paradoxical. The problem is not always that I am insufficiently present. Sometimes I am too intensely present.

I hear the motorcycle. I notice the aeroplane. I register the light, the movement, the voice, the choice of words, and the interruption. The impressions push themselves forward and demand space. The world is not absent. It can be far too close.

Mindfulness cannot therefore simply mean opening oneself more fully to every impression. For an already overloaded nervous system, being asked to notice even more may not be helpful.

The practice must be adapted to the person.

For me, mindfulness may mean gathering attention around one simple point of focus. The breath. My feet against the floor. My hands resting in my lap. A tree outside the window. The sound of the wind after the other sounds have faded.

It is not about taking in everything. It is about finding a place within experience where attention can rest.

When I follow the breath, the motorcycle does not disappear. But perhaps the motorcycle no longer becomes the whole world. There is also an inhalation. There is an exhalation. There is a body sitting in a chair, and a floor supporting it.

Attention becomes broader than what has just struck me.

This may be the beginning of regulation.

The body as the first teacher

In practical philosophy, we do not ask only what is true, but how truth can be lived. This also applies to knowledge of ourselves.

I may know a great deal about emotional regulation. I may read about the brain, the amygdala, the autonomic nervous system, and sensory overload. But this knowledge begins to help me in a deeper way only when I can recognise the process in my own body.

The body is often the first to know.

It knows that stress is rising before the mind has found words for it. It knows that a conversation is becoming too demanding. It knows that the sound affected me more strongly than I first understood. It knows that I need to withdraw.

Mindfulness may be understood as a practice of listening to this knowledge.

Not all bodily signals are clear. Sometimes I notice them late. I may not realise that I am irritated until the irritation has become words. I may not discover the exhaustion until the body can hardly continue.

Through meditation, I can practise noticing the weaker signals.

What does the breath feel like at this moment?

Where in the body is the tension?

Are my shoulders raised?

Are my hands clenched?

Is my stomach unsettled?

Am I trying to push myself through a situation that I should really leave?

This is not an intellectual analysis. It is a form of attentive listening.

Aristotle described practical wisdom, phronesis, as the ability to see what a particular situation requires. Such wisdom is not merely knowledge of general rules. It requires attention to the concrete moment.

For me, practical wisdom may begin with a very simple question:

What does my body need now?

Not what should I be able to manage. Not what other people can tolerate. Not what will look normal.

What does my body need now in order for me to act well?

From automatic reaction to possible action

When the nervous system is in a state of alarm, the space for action becomes narrower. The world may appear more threatening and more demanding. A remark may sound like criticism. A question may be experienced as pressure. The regulating thought arrives too late.

Mindfulness cannot guarantee that this will not happen. But regular practice may make it easier to notice the transition from calm into alarm.

It is like learning the landscape before darkness falls.

I begin to recognise the path. I know where the ground becomes steep. I see the signs that I am approaching a place where I may easily lose my footing.

In this way, mindfulness may strengthen emotional regulation. Not primarily by suppressing the emotion, but by making the relationship to the emotion less automatic.

Irritation can be noticed as irritation before it becomes an accusation.

Anxiety can be noticed as anxiety before it is interpreted as evidence that the other person has done something wrong.

The need to withdraw can be acknowledged before the withdrawal becomes dramatic.

Perhaps only a few seconds appear between impulse and action.

But a few seconds may be enough to say:

“I can feel that this is becoming too much.”

“I need to step outside for a while.”

“We need to talk about this later.”

This is not passivity. It is action.

Nor is it an escape from responsibility. It may be the most responsible action possible in that moment.

Mindfulness as practical philosophy

Mindfulness is often presented as a method for reducing stress. This is correct, but it is not the whole truth.

Viewed through practical philosophy, mindfulness also concerns how we relate to our own experience. It concerns freedom, responsibility, judgement, and care.

Freedom does not mean that we can choose everything that happens within us. I do not choose for the motorcycle to feel overwhelming. I do not choose for the nervous system to react quickly. I do not always choose the first emotion that arises.

But there may be a limited freedom in how I meet what arises.

Viktor Frankl wrote about a space between stimulus and response. The wording is often quoted in different forms, and its exact origin is uncertain. Yet the idea is important: between what happens to us and what we do, there may be a space in which choice becomes possible.

For an overloaded nervous system, this space may sometimes be almost invisible.

Mindfulness can be a way of making it slightly larger.

Not so that I always choose correctly. Not so that emotions come under complete control. But so that I more often manage to notice that a choice exists.

This is where mindfulness meets practical philosophy. Philosophy asks how I ought to act. Mindfulness helps me recognise the moment in which action can still be chosen.

Not judging what is happening

An important aspect of mindfulness is the attempt to meet experience without immediate condemnation.

This does not mean that everything is good or right. Nor does it mean that an angry comment should be accepted. But if I meet my own reactions only with shame and self-criticism, it may become more difficult to understand them.

I can say to myself:

Now I feel irritation.

Now my body is in a state of alarm.

Now I want to escape.

This is what is happening at this moment.

Such an observation is different from saying:

I am impossible.

I should not be like this.

Now I have ruined everything again.

The first attitude opens the way to investigation. The second closes it.

Here there is a connection to Socrates and the philosophical call to know oneself. Self-knowledge requires that I dare to see what is actually happening, not merely what I wish were happening.

But self-knowledge without kindness can become harsh. It can become another way of punishing oneself.

Mindfulness introduces a different tone: I try to see clearly without striking myself.

I notice the reaction, but I do not make it my whole identity.

I am not the irritation.

I am a human being who is experiencing irritation at this moment.

I am not the overload.

I am a human being whose nervous system is overloaded at this moment.

This small difference in language may create enough distance for the experience to become bearable.

Self-care without self-absorption

Mindfulness can be understood as an individualistic practice. A person turns inward and becomes concerned with personal wellbeing.

This is a real danger if mindfulness is reduced to a project of self-optimisation. It may then become yet another demand: I should be calm, efficient, balanced, and productive.

But in practical philosophy, self-care is not the same as self-absorption.

I care for myself because my actions affect other people.

When I withdraw before saying something hurtful, I am not only caring for my own nervous system. I am also caring for the relationship.

When I meditate in order to regain calm, I do not do so only to feel better. I make myself capable of returning to the other person in a better way.

When I learn to notice the body’s warning signs, I increase the possibility that the people around me will not be affected by a reaction they do not understand.

Self-care therefore has an ethical dimension.

Martin Buber wrote about the encounter between I and Thou. The other person should not be reduced to an object of my needs, fear, or irritation. But in order to meet the other as a Thou, I must also be present as an I.

When I am severely overloaded, this mutuality becomes more difficult. I may no longer hear what the other person is actually saying. I hear the words through the alarm state of my body.

Mindfulness can help me return to the situation. First to my own breath and body. Then to the other person.

Inner calm is not the end of the conversation. It may be the beginning of a better conversation.

Silence as a moral space

I have previously written that silence is not a punishment. It is treatment.

But silence can also be understood as a moral space.

When I withdraw to a quiet and dark room, I interrupt the immediate movement from strain to reaction. I refrain from continuing a conversation that I no longer have the capacity to conduct well.

Silence gives the nervous system an opportunity to calm down. But it also gives the conscience an opportunity to return.

In a state of alarm, I act first and think afterwards. In silence, the order can gradually be restored.

I can ask:

What happened?

What did I say?

How may the other person have experienced this?

What do I need to do when I return?

Meditation can therefore become more than a technique for relaxation. It can become a practice of responsibility.

Not because I sit and blame myself, but because I make myself available for reflection.

Practical philosophy often begins precisely here: in the pause in which action is examined.

Socrates believed that an unexamined life was not worth living. Yet examination must take place in a state in which we can see reasonably clearly. When the body is still in a state of alarm, it is difficult to distinguish danger from discomfort, criticism from a question, or the other person from my own activation.

Silence may help me see the difference.

Meditation as a restart

I often use the word “restart”. It comes from computing, but it describes the experience well.

A system may be given too many tasks at once. It becomes slower. Some functions cease to cooperate. Eventually, the system has to be stopped and started again.

After a strong episode, my body may feel this way. I am not only mentally tired. I may feel as though I have run a marathon. My whole body is heavy. Attention feels empty. The need for sleep may be intense.

Meditation is sometimes part of this restart.

I sit down or lie down. I close my eyes if that feels safe. I follow the breath without trying to make it perfect. Thoughts come and go. I do not attempt to solve the episode.

The task is smaller:

This inhalation.

This exhalation.

This body.

This moment.

Sometimes five minutes are enough for the body to begin to release its tension. At other times, calm does not come. Then sleep may be necessary. After more intense overload, recovery may take one or two days.

Mindfulness does not mean that I can always meditate my way out of overload. Sometimes the body needs darkness, silence, and sleep more than attention training.

It is also a form of wisdom to know when not to push oneself.

The promise and limitation of research

Research on mindfulness suggests that the practice may be helpful for stress, anxiety, and certain forms of psychological distress. Studies involving autistic adults have also reported promising results, particularly when programmes have been adapted to autistic needs.

Participants have reported, among other things, lower perceived stress, improved coping, and a changed relationship to their own thoughts and reactions.

But the research must be interpreted cautiously.

Many studies are small. The interventions vary. Participants differ. It is not always clear how long the effects last. Mindfulness does not work for everyone, and some people may experience increased anxiety, distress, or discomfort when attention is directed strongly inward.

This is especially important when a person has experienced trauma, severe anxiety, or distressing bodily memories. In such cases, meditation may need to be adapted and, at times, practised with professional guidance.

Mindfulness should therefore not become a new moral demand.

If I still become overloaded, it does not mean that I have meditated too little.

If I cannot remain calm, it does not mean that I have failed.

And if society is filled with unnecessary noise, unpredictability, and demands, the entire responsibility cannot be placed on the individual to meditate themselves into greater tolerance.

An inclusive society must also reduce the burdens.

Mindfulness may help me live in the world. But the world still has a responsibility for how it meets people with different nervous systems.

Attention is also an ethical act

We often think of attention as a mental skill. But attention is also an ethical act.

What we direct our attention towards acquires importance.

When I notice my own body before the reaction comes, I take responsibility for what may happen.

When I later listen to the person I have hurt, I direct attention away from my own defensiveness and towards the other person’s experience.

When I meditate, I do not practise concentration alone. I practise being present without immediately grasping, rejecting, or judging.

Simone Weil described attention as a rare and pure form of generosity. To be truly attentive means giving space to what is, without immediately turning it into a means for one’s own purposes.

This idea can also apply to the attention we give ourselves.

I try to meet the body as it actually is. Not as an obstacle to be overcome, but as part of my life that needs to be heard.

I try to meet the emotion without immediately obeying it or condemning it.

And I try to meet the other person without allowing my own alarm state to define the whole situation.

In this way, mindfulness may become a practice of humility.

I do not always know immediately what is happening.

I do not always understand the other person correctly.

I do not always recognise my own condition in time.

Therefore, I stop.

I breathe.

I examine.

Not becoming a calm person, but a more present person

The goal of mindfulness can easily be misunderstood. It is not necessarily to become a person who is always calm.

Such a goal would be unrealistic. It might also make me less truthful. Anger, anxiety, and frustration may be meaningful responses. They may tell us that a boundary has been crossed, that a situation is unjust, or that the body needs protection.

Nor is the goal to become indifferent to noise or unpredictability.

The goal may be to become more present in what is actually happening.

To notice the strain without immediately dismissing it.

To register the irritation without immediately turning the other person into an enemy.

To acknowledge the need to withdraw without feeling ashamed of it.

To return when the body once again has the capacity.

Mindfulness does not make me independent of the body. It may teach me to cooperate with it more effectively.

It does not free me from autism. It may help me live more attentively with the brain and nervous system I have.

The small space

A motorcycle will still pass.

An aeroplane will still fly low over the house.

A conversation will still take an unexpected turn.

I will still become overloaded. The regulating thought will sometimes still arrive too late. There will still be episodes in which I need to withdraw, sleep, and try to begin again.

Mindfulness does not promise to remove this.

But perhaps the practice can do something else.

It can help me notice the body a little earlier.

It can help me distinguish between discomfort and danger.

It can help me say, “This is becoming too much,” before the sharp comment comes.

It can remind me that an emotion is real without necessarily telling the whole truth about the situation.

And afterwards, it can help me return.

First to the breath.

Then to the body.

Finally, to the other person.

Perhaps this is what mindfulness can mean within practical philosophy: not an escape from the world, but a way of returning to it with slightly greater attention, a little more freedom, and a better possibility of acting responsibly.

Between what happens and what I do, there is sometimes a small space.

Mindfulness is the practice of finding it.

Author’s note

This essay builds on the text “When My Mood Changes in an Instant” and on my own experiences of autism spectrum condition, stress, sensory overload, meditation, and the need for recovery. Its purpose is to explore how mindfulness may be understood as more than a method of stress reduction: as a practical-philosophical practice of attention, self-knowledge, freedom, and responsibility. Research on mindfulness and autism shows promising results, but the evidence remains limited, and the practice must be adapted to the individual. OpenAI/ChatGPT was used as a conversational and writing partner in the development of this essay.

General research on mindfulness suggests possible benefits for stress, anxiety, and sleep, although the quality of the evidence varies. Public health authorities also emphasise that, in some cases, the practice may lead to increased distress or other negative experiences. Mindfulness should therefore not be presented as entirely risk-free or as a substitute for necessary treatment.