By Yamila García

I’ve mentioned many times how sensitive I am to sounds and smells, and how that often affects me negatively in various situations. I don’t just smell what I’m about to eat; I smell everything around me: places, clothes, vegetation, and objects. When I was younger, back in my country, I used to play a game on the bus ride home where I’d close my eyes and guess when we passed a park, always relying on its smell to guide me. Even though I’ve always been aware of this heightened sensitivity, I feel like I never fully convey how intense it is or how much it impacts my life. In truth, I think I wasn’t as aware of it as I’ve become recently. 

A few days ago, I had Covid, and besides feeling terrible overall, the hardest part was losing most of my sense of smell. I felt like I wasn’t myself. I couldn’t recognize my surroundings or my belongings. It left me completely disconnected from everything and everyone, making me feel so lost. That’s when I realized that my extra sensitivity wasn’t just a burden; it also helped me communicate and connect with the world around me. Smell was so essential to me that, without it, my life felt paused. I didn’t know how to move forward without that sensory connection. It was like walking in the dark, possibly even worse than not being able to see. I felt alienated from my own life, as if I were just a spectator waiting for things to pass so I could participate again. I know this might sound exaggerated to some, and perhaps even I would have thought so before this happened to me. However, despite feeling awful and struggling to breathe, the hardest part was, without a doubt, not being able to smell and recognize my environment. 

So, once again, I’m reminded that I wouldn’t change the way I perceive the world for anything. Yes, it’s true that during these days, I wasn’t overwhelmed by any unpleasant smells, but I had never felt so lost in my life. The way I experience my surroundings, like everything in life (and not just for neurodivergent people), comes with both positives and negatives. But in the end, I’m grateful for the way I perceive the world, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. 

By Yamila García

Advocating for accommodations has made me feel very alone. The process often feels like a conversation between me (someone who is very clear about who I am and what I need) and a professor who is generally unaware of what it’s like to be neurodivergent. I can’t help but feel that something is missing in this process. Someone who understands both perspectives, perhaps? Yes, I know I have an advisor at CSD, but I also know it’s not common for them to intervene directly in accommodation requests. It almost feels like if I copy my CSD advisor on emails, it would come across as pressuring the professor to give me accommodations, and that’s not the type of relationship I want to have with my professor throughout the semester. 

It’s incredibly stressful at the beginning of each semester (or even when considering registering for a certain class) to contact professors to see what accommodations they would be willing to offer. In several cases, I ended up not taking certain classes because I knew the accommodations wouldn’t be sufficient. Sometimes, they were worse than if I had no accommodations at all. 

How do I make a professor understand that not being able to give a presentation in front of the class isn’t due to shyness, but because my heart rate exceeds 160 bpm before I even start, causing sweating, dizziness, palpitations, and even fainting? How do I explain this when they see me talking to classmates or to them without any issues? My anxiety spikes in front of a group, not when I’m talking to 2 or 3 people.   

I’ve encountered many kind and understanding individuals, but others, not so much. In all cases, though, I feel like something is missing. Many professors are respectful but don’t truly grasp my reality. There’s a sense of disconnection, and I wonder if there will ever be a way to bridge that gap. It feels like an imposed inclusion, not a genuine one based on understanding our differences, as if they are respectful because they’ve been told to be, rather than because they truly understand. 

By Yamila García

Often, when we talk about hobbies, we refer to things that are playful, entertaining, and enjoyable. However, while my hobbies also bring me “joy,” I feel that, many times, my hobbies are a refuge. My hobbies not only bring me joy, but they are also soothing and sometimes even grounding. They help me recover when my social battery has been completely drained, organize my thoughts, and become “functional” again after extreme situations. 

Recently, inspired by a neurodivergent friend, I decided to learn to crochet. I started with something super simple, like a beanie, following a video tutorial. I liked that the hand movements were repetitive, so I quickly learned to do them by heart. The rhythm took me to a state of zero anxiety; rhythm and repetition have always brought me calm. I could crochet for hours, no matter what I’m making, just for the sake of continuing—repeating the steps without stopping while my mind frees itself from the anxiety and exhaustion of the day.  

This made me think about how many times I’ve heard people underestimate others’ hobbies, completely unaware of how important they can be in helping us process the emotions of everyday life. Hobbies can even help us develop more complex ideas by simply grounding us and allowing us to think more clearly, without so much clutter in our heads. Hobbies are not just games; they can be a way to take care of ourselves and heal.