neurodiversity

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

I always feel like I overreact. Especially because my reactions don’t always stay inside. Sometimes they show up in public—in parking lots, grocery store lines, or traffic when I’m already tired and just want to be home.

When I’m out running errands, I’m on a mission. I want to get in and get out. I’ve always been that way. For me, I become easily overwhelmed by my environment.

If I’m out shopping, I get sensory overload. The lights, the sounds, the smells, all can make me uncomfortable. Waiting in lines makes things louder in my mind, and standing still for too long feels utterly unbearable. My patience runs thin and it often disappears faster than I can catch it.

I’m known to start mumbling things under my breath. Complaining, sighing too loudly, letting my frustration leak out in ways I don’t realize until I’m already in the thick of it.

Recently, I was at the market, frustrated after waiting so long in the 10 items or less line. I began expressing my emotions and frustrations out loud, letting my anger show. The guy in front of me asked me if I was okay. I immediately blushed, turned away, and nearly cried, feeling a meltdown coming on. Then he asked if I wanted to go before him. That did it for me. I was so embarrassed by my actions: my complaining, my impatience, my foolishness. Once I got back to my car, I let it all out and scream-cried from embarrassment.

And then someone notices. “Are you okay?” That question makes my stomach drop, my cheeks turn red, and my tears rise to the surface.

Because suddenly I’m aware of myself—my tone, my face, my body. I feel exposed. Like I’ve embarrassed myself without meaning to. The irritation spikes, but underneath it is shame. I get angry, not just at the situation, but at myself for being seen like this.

I’ll watch other people standing so calmly in line just scrolling through their phones, waiting without any visible frustration. But there I am, standing there tapping my foot, thinking why things aren’t moving along faster or why I always have bad luck choosing the wrong line to be in. I take their quiet as proof that I should calm down, be less of a complainer, be less dramatic and stop being someone who makes too much out of nothing.

I don’t choose to act this way. It’s an automatic reaction. My body will respond before my brain has time to catch up. By the time I realize what’s happening it’s already over.

The aftermath of it all hits me with a wave of emotion. I’ll replay everything I said, wishing I had kept it in, feeling guilty for bringing my emotions into public spaces. I tell myself that I made things worse. That I overreacted. That I should have handled it better.

Even when I’m socializing, my mind is loud. I overthink and mentally react to everything and then judge myself for it. On the outside, I seem fine. On the inside, I feel ridiculous.

My thoughts tell me that I’m too much, even when I’m being quiet. They tell me that I can’t trust my own reactions. That my feelings are something to be embarrassed by.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if what I call “overreacting” is really just overload. A nervous system that reaches its limit quickly. A body that reacts before it has the chance to explain itself. I realized that when I overreact, I’m really just feeling things deeply, and intensely.

Maybe the hardest part isn’t the meltdown. Maybe it’s how harsh I am with myself once it’s quiet again.

I don’t know how to change this yet. But I’m trying to stop calling myself dramatic. I’m trying to name what’s really happening — overwhelm, exhaustion, and a need for relief.

Have you ever felt your emotions spill out in public, leaving you embarrassed afterward? How do you cope when your reactions feel bigger than you expected?

“Be gentle with yourself; you’re doing the best you can.”— Unknown

#MentalHealth #ADHD #Anxiety #Neurodiversity #self