[Sunday Strokes] Minotaurus in the Mirror: Finding Authenticity in an Unexpected Reflection
[Sunday Strokes] Minotaurus in the Mirror: Finding Authenticity in an Unexpected Reflection
A chance encounter with a bronze Minotaur becomes a profound moment of self-recognition, unveiling the beauty of neurodiversity and the power of embracing our true selves.
As a late-diagnosed neurodivergent person, I've always prided myself on my self-awareness. Years of wondering why I felt different from others led me to constantly analyze my thoughts, feelings, and experiences. This introspection, combined with dedicated effort, had brought me to a place of relative peace and stability by early 2020.
In the years leading up to February 2020, I had invested heavily in my personal growth and wellbeing. Through therapy, coaching, hypnosis, and tireless work on my self-worth and mental health, I had made significant strides. My anxiety and depression were well-controlled, and I felt successful and content in my life. I had learned to feel my feelings, connect with my purpose, and explore my spirituality. I was, perhaps, the most peaceful and unanxious, if that is a word, I had ever been.
Yet, despite this progress, I sensed that something was amiss in my business. I found myself on a quest to rediscover the fun and creativity that I felt I had lost along the way. It was in this state of overall wellbeing, tinged with a hint of professional restlessness, that I embarked on a four-day retreat for my business mastermind in February 2020.
What transpired during and after this retreat would challenge my understanding of myself in ways I couldn't have anticipated. It would lead me to an encounter that would become a pivotal moment in my journey of self-discovery—an encounter that would remain a mystery to me for years, defying my usual ability to attribute my reactions to anxiety, depression, or other familiar challenges.
As I stepped into the retreat, I thought I was fully prepared. These women were not just intelligent; they were emotionally mature, discussing concepts like boundaries, holding space, and the delicate balance between intellect and intuition. They understood the difference between stereotypical self-care and genuine self-nurturing. I felt ready for this experience, bolstered by years of therapy, coaching, and personal development.
Walking through the doors of our retreat venue—an old Jewish community center turned Airbnb—I carried with me a mixture of excitement and a slight undercurrent of apprehension. Ten years ago, I wouldn't have been able to even consider such an experience. Back then, I would have felt less than, out of place, paralyzed by fear and barely able to utter a word. But now, I told myself, I was different. I was prepared. I belonged here.
The first day was exhilarating. The conversations were deep and purposeful, vulnerability flowed freely, and the air was thick with unconditional acceptance. Even the food, prepared by a private chef, was healthy and delicious. Everything seemed perfect on the surface.
But as the days wore on, I found myself increasingly overwhelmed. My "room" was more of an entryway with no door, and I was sleeping on the top bunk of a bed with dust falling from the ceiling tiles and outdoor lights flooding the space—a sensory nightmare. The constant social interaction, though enriching, began to take its toll. I found myself desperately needing breaks, but there was nowhere to retreat for solitude, no quiet corner where I could recharge.
By the third day, the cracks in my composure were becoming more apparent. The very things I had worked so hard on—my social and emotional intelligence—felt raw and tender. I found myself burrowing into pillows and blankets, seeking any form of comfort and safety I could find. I managed to keep it together, participating in discussions and activities, but internally, I was floundering. Self-doubt crept in, whispering questions I thought I had long since answered. “Why was I struggling when everyone else seemed to be thriving? Had all my personal growth been an illusion?”
When the opportunity for an afternoon off finally presented itself, most of the women chose to stay back, chatting and relaxing. But for me, it was a lifeline. I knew I had to get out, to find some space where I could breathe. Without fully understanding why, I felt an overwhelming urge to flee. My feet carried me to a place that had always been a sanctuary: the art museum.
The moment I stepped through the doors of the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, a palpable wave of relief washed over me. My body, tense from days of overstimulation, instantly began to relax. Tears welled up in my eyes as I realized just how much I had needed this escape. For the first time since leaving home, I felt truly safe. The museum's quiet halls and open spaces were a stark contrast to the intimate, intense environment of the retreat. Here, there was no pressure to engage, to perform, to be "on." I could simply be. The weight of the past few days began to lift, and I felt my breath deepening.
As I wandered through the galleries, allowing the art to soothe my frayed nerves, I turned a corner and found myself face to face with a sculpture that would leave a lasting impression on me: Minotaurus by Nandipha Mntambo.
Minotaurus is a larger-than-life bronze sculpture that commands attention. Standing on a sandstone base, this female Minotaur is an imposing figure, easily taller than the museum visitors around her. Her body is mostly human and female, nude except for fur that forms what looks like boy shorts. Bull horns crown her head, and thick, textured fur covers her neck, shoulders, and back.
As I stood before Minotaurus, I was struck by the contradictions embodied in her form. She was powerful, majestic even, with a body that spoke of strength and beauty. Yet her posture told a different story. Her shoulders were hunched, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Her head was tilted forward, eyes cast down to the ground, avoiding the gaze of onlookers.
In that moment, looking at Minotaurus, I saw myself.
I saw my own shoulders, hunched from the weight of trying to fit in. I recognized the desire to fade into the background, despite always feeling like I was standing out. In her downcast eyes, I saw my own struggle to make eye contact, to connect. Her powerful frame reminded me of my own strength, often hidden beneath layers of self-doubt and societal expectations.
As I stood there, transfixed, I began to have an internal dialogue with Minotaurus—and, by extension, with myself. I wanted to tell her to stand tall, to be proud of her unique magic. I wanted to remind her that the very things that made her different—her horns, her fur, her imposing presence—were what made her magnificent.
But as I thought these things, I realized I was really speaking to myself. I was the one who needed to hear these words. I was the one who needed to embrace my differences, to stand tall in my own skin. In Minotaurus, I saw my journey reflected back at me. From feeling like a horrible, monstrous beast to recognizing myself as a magical creature. From hiding my light to learning to let it shine. From running away from myself to finally, truly seeing myself.
As I stood there, lost in reflection, I felt a shift within me. The overwhelm and self-doubt that had plagued me during the retreat began to transform. In their place, a new understanding started to take root—an understanding that would take years to fully blossom, but that began in that moment, standing before Minotaurus.
Leaving the High Museum of Art that day, I felt both drained and oddly invigorated. The Minotaurus had stirred something within me, but I couldn't yet fully grasp its significance. As I returned to the retreat, and then made my way home, I found myself more exhausted and overstimulated than I remember ever being in my life.
For days after the retreat, I struggled to recover. The experience had broken something in me, or perhaps more accurately, had cracked open a part of myself I had long kept hidden. I was confused and frustrated. Despite all my work on myself, despite feeling like I had conquered my social anxiety and other challenges, here I was, completely overwhelmed by an experience that others seemed to have enjoyed thoroughly.
I spent weeks analyzing and overthinking every aspect of the retreat and my reaction to it. But no matter how much I dissected the experience, I couldn't pinpoint why I had felt the way I did. It wasn't social anxiety—the people had been kind, the conversations engaging. It wasn't depression or general anxiety—I had those well under control. Something else was at play, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Many of these words today were originally written for my book, but even then I couldn’t make sense of that experience. It was still a mystery.
It wasn't until almost four years later, when I finally realized I was autistic, that the pieces began to fall into place. Suddenly, my experience at the retreat made sense. The constant social interaction, the sensory overload from the sleeping arrangements, the lack of alone time to recharge, and the absence of any private space where I could retreat—all of these were triggers for my autistic sensitivities that I hadn't known I had.
The Minotaurus sculpture took on new meaning in light of this realization. Just as the Minotaur of Greek mythology was caught between two worlds—neither fully human nor fully bull—I had been caught between the neurotypical world I had been trying to fit into and my true autistic self. The sculpture's powerful yet vulnerable stance reflected my own struggle to stand tall in a world that often felt overwhelming and confusing.
Understanding that I'm autistic has been transformative. It's allowed me to see that what I had long perceived as weaknesses or character flaws were actually just different ways of experiencing and interacting with the world. The sensitivities that had made the retreat so challenging are the same sensitivities that allow me to experience art so profoundly, to pick up on subtle details others might miss, to think in unique and creative ways.
I've come to see that owning my "magic"—my autistic traits, my sensitivities, my unique perspective—is not about changing who I am, but about fully embracing all parts of myself. It's about learning to stand tall, like Minotaurus, even when I feel different or out of place. It's about recognizing that what makes me different is also what makes me magnificent.
This journey of self-discovery has taught me that true self-acceptance isn't about fixing ourselves to fit into the world around us. It's about understanding and embracing our true nature, quirks and all. It's about finding the environments and experiences that allow us to thrive, and learning to create the space we need to be our authentic selves—standing tall in our own skin, horns and fur intact.
In the end, we are all a bit like Minotaurus—complex, contradictory beings, caught between different worlds and different expectations. But in embracing all parts of ourselves, in standing tall despite our differences, we find our true strength and beauty. And in that acceptance, we find our way out of the labyrinth of self-doubt and into the open air of self-love and authenticity.