neurodiversity

I’ve always walked around quietly with my head down. Eyes focused on anything but what’s right in front of me. I felt alone in a room full of people, like I had some sort of invisibility powers that I didn’t ask for.

My whole life, I felt like something was wrong with me. I thought that my quiet nature, my need for space, and the way I felt everything so intensely were flaws I had to fix. I did my best to blend in and act “normal,” but a part of me felt so empty inside—like a piece of my soul was missing.

I learned to mask my real thoughts and feelings. I hid the truest parts of me that are actually beautiful. I didn’t realize it then, because all I could see were flaws. Now I know they weren’t. Since then, I’ve started to embrace myself more and live life authentically, without pretending every day to be someone I’m not.

Being Quiet

Being a quiet person has always felt like a trap—an inescapable silence that lingers and tells me to stay still, stay focused, stay compliant. I always thought that because I came off as quiet, I had to live up to that expectation. If I ever tried to be more extroverted, it felt unnatural. It made me feel foolish, like I was performing instead of being.

I remember being at a party with close friends. I was having fun engaging with those familiar to me, but when it came time to meet someone new, I froze. I didn’t have words. Nothing came to mind other than a short hello. After that, I immediately stepped outside to be alone, and eventually opted to leave because I felt so uncomfortable.

Being quiet happens in most social settings. My friends are used to it by now, but with acquaintances it takes a lot longer for my words to come out. I just tend to stay isolated and quiet, in my head rummaging through my thoughts of how awkward I am.

But being quiet is also where I’m comfortable. I don’t always feel the need to talk. I enjoy listening and engaging in more subtle ways. I’m not the loud person in the room demanding attention—I’m the one sitting in the corner—not because I have to, but because I want to. That’s where my comfort lies.

I always wished I would grow out of being a quiet person. I thought someday I would. But I’ve realized it’s simply who I authentically am. I’m someone who loves the sound of silence because it gives me space to breathe and just be myself. I thrive in solitude and come out the other end feeling born anew. Constant chatter drains me. My social battery dies out faster than the Energizer Bunny can beat his own drum.

It’s taken me a very long time to see that my quietness isn’t a flaw. For so long, it put me in a place of uncertainty. Will I make connections if I stay this quiet? Should I push myself to be more extroverted just to form them? Do I deny my true self to appear more vigorous—more what society labels as “normal”?

But being quiet has allowed me to notice things others usually miss, to hear what isn’t said, to connect in ways that go beyond words. My quiet isn’t a flaw. It’s a lens that colors the way I experience the world.

Needing Alone Time

Taking time alone for myself is essential. I don’t just want it—I need it to get through each day. I used to think that retreating meant I was being selfish, or worse, antisocial. So I pushed myself in social situations and pretended to be fine when I really wasn’t.

The thing is, I want to be involved. I want to be included. I have a fear of missing out, if you will, and genuinely want to be part of things. A lot of the time I’d forgo my own feelings of being drained and exhausted and push myself through moments of burnout just to be present.

I’m realizing now that it’s okay to say no. It’s okay to put limits on things that make you feel like you’re a second choice—or leave you feeling depleted. Now, if I miss out on something, I know it was because I was honoring my mind and body and chose rest instead of burnout.

Needing alone time is how I process my emotions, reset my energy, and reconnect with myself. Without it, I feel frayed, anxious, and untethered. Alone time isn’t a flaw. It’s a way to nurture my mind and heart so I can be fully present when I do choose to show up.

Feeling Deeply

I feel every emotion so intensely—joy, sadness, fear, love—and for a long time, it felt like a curse. My sensitivity always felt like a flaw because it made my emotions visible, vulnerable, and physically expressive.

If I’m sensitive about something, whether big or small, I automatically react emotionally. It’s innate. It’s hard to take time to absorb my feelings without physically expressing them. I recently had an experience where my rejection sensitivity came in intensely. I was chatting with a friend, and we had plans to meet up and hang out. But when I texted him throughout the day, I never heard a response back. Later on, I saw them hanging out with a close group of friends I know. I felt left out, unwanted, unappreciated, and that led to anger and rage. My feelings were hurt so much. I feel absolutely everything because I care so much.

I’m the true definition of an empath. When someone feels something deeply, I feel it with them. I feel their emotions as if they’re my own. My mood is also dependent on others around me. I feed off of how others are emotionally feeling, and I can’t help but take all of that in as well.

But the truth is, feeling deeply is a gift. It’s taken me a long time realize that though. My sensitivity allows me to create, to experience life in rich, vivid colors. It isn’t a flaw, it’s rather a bridge that connects how I care, and how I live fully in a world that feels overwhelming.

Taking Longer

My whole life I’ve been out of breath—running, chasing, trying to keep up with others. I felt like taking too much time meant that I was slow, that I lacked the motivation others seemed to have with ease. I thought that taking longer to do something meant that I lacked patience, willpower, and strength. Life was passing me by, and I was somehow failing at it.

Moving slower used to give me such anxiety. I always thought that I was taking too long to do just one simple ordinary task, and I felt like I was holding everybody else up. It made me rush through life without pausing to appreciate it or even appreciate my efforts. There have been situations, like at work, where I needed to take extra time to get my work done because my brain processes auditory instructions differently than visual. I need visuals to understand what I’m being asked to do, and taking extra time allows me to complete my work correctly.

But now, I take my time without feeling guilty or shameful. I know that it’s just my mind and body’s way of telling me that it takes time to process things, and that’s okay.

I’ve learned that taking my time isn’t a weakness. It’s mindfulness, carefulness, and respect for myself and my limits. It allows me to notice details, make intentional choices, and savor life rather than just survive it.

Other Things I Thought Were Flaws

Overthinking

Saying no

Crying easily

Being highly sensitive to energy or environment

There are times where I still view these as flaws, but that’s only because it’s been a struggle to finally accept myself as I am. With late diagnoses, there’s a sense of grief over the person you thought you were compared to person you truly are.

For me, it was both a relief and a letdown. A letdown in the sense that I spent so much of my life not fully understanding who I was, where I was going, what I wanted to be, what I wanted to do with my life. I felt like I had to choose who I wanted to be, instead of just simply being. But now, I have a newfound view and sense of freedom that’s been allowing me to live my life the way that I see fit without pressure or guilt. I’m doing me, and for the first time, I’m happy about that.

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #Anxiety #Depression #self

I’m rarely silent because I have nothing to say. I’m silent because too much is happening all at once. When emotions hits me, it hits me straight in the chest. It tightens, feels heavy, and buzzes with nerves. People ask, “What’s wrong?” and I stare back, wishing I could hand them the feeling itself because I don’t even understand it yet.

I’ve learned that my emotions move much faster than my words do. Or maybe my words move slower because I need time to catch up to the truth.

The Moment I Go Quiet

I know the exact moment when I go quiet. It could be over the smallest thing, like someone rolling their eyes in a way that feels judgmental. Or the way someone’s voice changes mid-conversation, suddenly making me feel personally targeted, as though it was my fault.

My body reacts before my mind even has a chance to interpret the actual meaning or cause. I feel the blood rush to my face, pressure behind my eyes, and the all-too-familiar urge to retreat further inward.

This is what shutting down looks like for me. I withdraw and grow distant because my mind is stuck in a loop. What did I miss? What did I say wrong? Did I misunderstand? My nervous system is in overdrive, incessantly searching for safety, meaning, and reassurance. And when I’m in that state of mind, asking me to explain how I feel feels like asking me to speak underwater.

I’ve Learned Not to Trust My First Words

There are times when I force myself to talk anyway. But the problem with that is I’m not fully present. I’m off somewhere in my mind, replaying everything that made me go silent in the first place. My attention isn’t even focused on the conversation at hand.

It’s frustrating because I want to be engaged and have a good time, but my mind holds me back in fear and anxiety. In those moments, it feels like I have no choice but to retreat into silence.

In that state, I answer too quickly. I minimize my feelings to seem easier. I say, “I’m fine,” when I’m not, because the phrase “I don’t know yet” once felt unacceptable. And later, when I’m alone, the real feelings kick into high gear, becoming heavier and clearer than before.

Processing Looks Like Stillness

Processing, for me, happens slowly. It looks like sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at nothing, letting the weight in my chest rise and fall until it softens. It looks like pacing around the house because my body needs movement even when my mind feels stuck, grabbing small bites of food because sitting still long enough for a full meal feels impossible. And it looks like crying in the shower so no one can hear me, letting the water run down my body along with my tears.

Sometimes it looks like opening my notebook and writing a sentence, crossing it out, and trying again. And again. Letting the wrong words fall away until one finally feels honest. Until something clicks and I can breathe a little easier, knowing I’ve found the shape of what I’m actually feeling.

I’m not avoiding the conversation. I’m preparing for it. I’ve given myself the space I need to come back grounded, instead of flooded. I need my body to settle before my voice can, before I can speak from truth instead of overwhelm.

When Silence Was Misunderstood

I feel like my silence has been detrimental to relationships. Some of the hardest moments in my relationships came when my need for time was taken personally.

It happened when space was seen as punishment. When pauses were treated like rejection. When I was pressured to speak before I understood myself.

That pressure didn’t bring me closer. It made me retreat even further. My mind and body don’t open under demand. They open under patience, gentleness, and knowing that I’ll be met with care when I return.

The Difference Safety Makes

With emotional safety, everything changes. When someone says, “Take your time. I’m here when you’re ready,” my body’s tension eases a bit. My thoughts slow down, and the fog I’d been in begins to lift. Words find me naturally instead of being dragged out of me.

I don’t disappear. I come back to myself clearer, more honest, and less guarded. That sense of safety gives my nervous system a chance to breathe again.

This Is Me Trying to Love Well

I’ve learned that needing time before I explain myself is an expression of how I love responsibly. It’s how I make sure my words are true instead of reactive. It’s how I protect the connection instead of damaging it in a moment of overwhelm. And It’s how I honor both my feelings and the person in front of me.

This has taken me a very long time to reach, but I’m finally able to say this without apology: “I need some time to process before I can explain how I feel.”

I’ll Come Back With Words That Matter

I may go quiet for a while. But I always come back.

And when I do, it’s with clarity, softness, and words that sound like me. I don’t need less feeling. I just need more time. And when the words arrive, they arrive whole—because I waited long enough to let them become true.

When you feel overwhelmed, how do you give yourself space to process before responding?

“I don’t need less feeling. I just need more time—and when the words arrive, they arrive whole.”

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #Anxiety #self

I know I need to declutter both my environment and my mind. My mind most of all—but for me, it always starts with what I can see. Visual clutter overwhelms me in a way that’s hard to explain. When things are disorganized and out of place, my nervous system goes into overdrive. I can’t focus. I can’t feel inspired. Instead, my inner critic gets loud, convincing me that I’m lazy or unmotivated, when the truth is much more complicated than that.

Lately, depression has been heavy. My body and mind feel drained, like the battery is completely dead. Some days, even small tasks feel impossible. When I look around at the mess, the shame creeps in—not because I don’t care, but because I don’t have the mental energy to fix it in that moment.

That’s when I remind myself: decluttering doesn’t begin with cleaning. It begins with care.

Decluttering the Mind, Gently

As a neurodivergent person, my thoughts pile up quickly. Emotions don’t pass through me quietly—they linger. So I’ve had to find small, accessible ways to create mental space before I can even think about tackling my physical surroundings.

For me, decluttering my mind looks like this:

Writing everything down—especially the thoughts I don’t know how to say out loud.

Naming what I’m feeling without trying to fix it right away.

Stepping back from constant noise and digital overwhelm when my brain feels too full.

Letting emotions move through me instead of bottling them up until I break.

Resting without trying to earn it, even when guilt shows up.

Writing, especially, has become a lifeline. I tend to hold everything in until it spills over in a breakdown that looks dramatic from the outside. But it’s never about attention—it’s about release. Writing helps me empty my head just enough to breathe again.

Hobbies help, too. Depression tells me to do nothing, but my brain needs stimulation or the emotional intensity grows louder. So I lean into the things that comfort me—baseball, Italy, food, movies, books. Familiar interests ground me. They gently lift my mood and help me build enough momentum to move forward.

Decluttering the Space, One Small Step at a Time

Eventually, that momentum leads me back to my environment.

Recently, I finally cleaned out my closet. Letting go has never been easy for me. I form emotional attachments to clothes—to memories, to past versions of myself, to who I thought I’d be. But this time, I didn’t overthink it. I let go of what no longer fit—physically or emotionally. And while it was nerve-wracking, it also felt freeing. Like quietly closing one chapter and making space for another.

When it comes to decluttering my space, I’ve learned to approach it with the same gentleness:

Starting small—one drawer, one shelf, one corner at a time.

Letting go of items I keep out of guilt or “just in case” thinking.

Clearing surfaces to create visual calm instead of chasing perfection.

Keeping what feels comforting and supportive, not what adds pressure.

Allowing my space to be functional and lived-in, not flawless.

Each small step matters. I don’t need to overhaul my entire life in one day.

Making Room to Breathe

Reducing clutter has become less about control and more about compassion. It’s about noticing what overwhelms me, what drains me, and what belongs to a version of myself I’ve outgrown. I don’t need to strip my life bare—but every time I let something go, physically or emotionally, I create a little more space.

And in that space, I find breath.

I find softness.

I find the beginning of change.

What would it look like to clear just a little space today—not to be productive, but to be kinder to yourself?

“The ability to simplify means to eliminate the unnecessary so that the necessary may speak.” — Hans Hofmann

#MentalHealth #selfcare #Neurodiversity #Depression #Anxiety #ADHD

Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?

There’s an item from my childhood that I was incredibly attached to. His name was Squidy. He was a stuffed animal, though even now I couldn’t confidently tell you what kind. Maybe a dog. Maybe a bunny. But what mattered wasn’t what he was, it was how he made me feel.

For some reason, Squidy’s arm became my security blanket. It was my soft spot. Not just in texture, but in comfort. I would wrap my fingers around it and rub it between my nose and upper lip. I did this whenever I needed soothing, whenever my body felt unsettled or my emotions felt too big.

Squidy himself was a bit of a mystery. He wore an unmistakable pastel, 80-s style clown jumpsuit, and somehow fit perfectly int my world during a time when I needed comfort more than anything. The touch of his fabric against my skin grounded me in ways that I didn’t understand back then.

I didn’t know it at the time, but looking back now, I know what Squidy was for me. He was sensory regulation, emotional safety, and he was my stimming—my body’s way of calming itself during times of internal chaos.

Squidy never left my side. He traveled with me everywhere I went. He absorbed my ffears and held space for my anxieties. There was a reassurance in his presence. A reminder that meant everything will be okay.

Time hasn’t been kind to him. Squdy is quite literally falling apar at the seams now. His fabric is worn thin, though still soft, his structure is fragile. He’s from 1988 after all. But, I still have him and quite honestly, I’d never be able to let him go.

He’s tucked away now but is still very much a part of my life. He’s a reminder of how I learned to comfort myself long before I knew words like anxiety, overwhelm, or sensory sensitivity.

Squidy represents the earliest version of me learning how to cope, how to self-soothe in a world that felt too overwhelming. As I grew older, my coping mechanisms evolved.

During my teenage years, I became a hair twirler in times of nervousness and anxiety. I’d pick at my split ends, hyper-fixating on each strand as if I were searching for relief from being either under- or overstimulated. It became an effective habit.

Now, I vocalize.

I hum. I sing at random moments. And I repeat the same phrase over and over in my mind: “It’s okay. You’re fine.” Sometimes I mutter it under my breath when I’m around others, trying to keep it contained, trying not to draw attention.

There are moments when everything builds too quickly, when it feels like I need to shed a second skin just to breathe. In those moments, I have to admit that I’ve engaged in unhealthy coping—hitting my legs, slapping myself, punching myself to release the pressure. These moments are rare, but they are real. They’re part of my journey, even if they’re difficult to say out loud.

Other times, the release comes through scream crying—deep, uncontrollable sobs that pour out when I feel empty and completely spent.

I also struggle with what to do with my hands. When I’m nervous, they become sweaty, and I rub them together incessantly until my skin feels raw. It’s another attempt to ground myself. Another outlet for energy that has nowhere else to go.

From Squidy’s comforting arm to whispered reassurances, from hair twirling to humming melodies—every coping mechanism I’ve had has served a purpose.

Some have faded. Some have changed. New ones may come into play.

But one thing has always remained constant: I will always find a way to calm the ache during times of extreme discomfort.

Squidy may no longer be tucked under my arm, but he’s still here—and so is the part of me that learned, very early on, how to survive through softness.

What are some of your coping mechanisms? Do you still hold on to a special item?

“Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”— A.A. Milne

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Autism #AutismSpectrumDisorder #Anxiety