By Yamila García 

I was recently part of a gathering that I wanted to enjoy, even though I knew some aspects would be difficult for me. I knew there would be no plans or much prior organization, not even a clear time. I also knew there would be a lot more noise than I’m used to. As I write this, I think about how I said I wanted to be part of this, but now I’m not really sure if I truly wanted to be part of it, or if I just wanted those who participated to know that I care about them; that I’m interested in spending and sharing time together. 

When I try to explain what happens to me, I’ll say it’s like I have a gallon of energy assigned to me each day. On a normal day within my routine, that gallon usually lasts the entire day, but in other circumstances, it runs out much sooner than I’d like. My gallon is consumed more quickly when there are no concrete plans, when plans change, when there’s a lot of stimuli, or simply because I’m stepping out of my routine. During the gathering, I was “fine” for a few hours, and I say that because I think being “fine” just meant having enough energy left to mask and not despair. And yes, during that time, I was happy to be part of it. However, the moment the last drop of energy was consumed, I felt an overwhelming urge to leave—I wanted to simply disappear and teleport home. If that wasn’t possible right then, I was overcome with frustration. Although I tried to hide it, in that urgency, I could have come across as rude. 

When I’d finally left, I found myself crying inconsolably in my car, as if I needed to expel everything I had felt and kept inside. I always end up trying to figure out if it’s okay for me to expose myself to those situations or not. Because not doing so would imply I only crave isolation, and I don’t want that for myself either. I try to respect my needs and boundaries; I’ve worked hard on that and continue to do so. But it’s difficult to find a healthy or correct boundary—if one even exists. To what extent should I avoid discomfort? Is that really beneficial for me? I feel like there’s a blurred area that keeps me from clearly knowing when to prevent and when to allow discomfort, and I think that’s still the hardest thing for me to manage as a neurodivergent person.

By Yamila García 

One of the things I have decided to do this year is to try to advocate for myself in a more efficient way. It has happened to me many times; my attempts to advocate for myself have either failed or depended too much on the goodwill of whoever was on the other side. I tried to think about what had happened, and I realized that many of those times when I should have advocated for myself, I was already doing so from a place of anguish, frustration, and desperation. I was doing it when I needed to, but it is precisely in those moments that I began to lose my ability to function correctly and think properly. So the obvious solution is to advocate for myself before I actually need whatever it is I’ll need; to do it when I still have control of my thoughts, ideas, and abilities, and when I am still able to communicate what I need clearly. 

Of course, this brings up the big question of whether I should disclose my neurodivergence or not. However, lately I have tried to focus more on my needs themselves than on the reasons behind them. This way, I can simply say that loud noises make me uncomfortable, or that when I spend a lot of time in an unfamiliar environment, I get tired quickly, without giving any further details. After all, nobody really needs to know why I am this way, and anyone who is kind enough to care about the comfort and well-being of others will never need so many explanations. Now, I only feel the need to disclose my neurodivergence to people I already consider part of my life—people close to me with whom I have created meaningful bonds. Advocating for our needs should be just about that: our needs. Not labels or justifications.

By Yamila García

There is something I feel that seems to be the cause of my constant overstimulation: I am overly aware and perceptive of my surroundings. I don’t know if this can be measured in any way, but I can tell because, just as I notice everything around me, I also notice that other people usually don’t. So, what may just be entering a new place for some people, for me is the smell of that place, the buzzing of electricity, the different sound of my shoes on this unfamiliar floor, the way the light fixture is arranged and how it creates strange shadows… None of that is made up or imagined. It truly exists, but only I perceive it. Only me, and maybe another neurodivergent person who’s there at the time. And, of course, I would notice they’re different like me. 

This excess awareness of my surroundings is overwhelming, but also interesting. It makes me suffer because it overstimulates me, yet it also lets me see the world in a deeper and more connected way. Like many aspects of my brain, it carries that duality, both a blessing and a burden. It’s the source of my strengths, but using them drains me.  

Changing this part of me would mean losing a big part of who I am. I don’t want that. I’ve never even questioned it. However, I would like to regulate it a bit. Being able to “turn down the volume” on what I don’t need to perceive at the moment could prevent my energy levels from dropping as fast as they usually do. Being so aware of my surroundings makes me feel not only exhausted but also isolated and disconnected from others. It’s like going to the cinema, but watching a different movie than everyone else. You live in the same space, but you experience different things. 

By Yamila García

I always just need some time, whether it’s starting a new activity, a new job, or even a new semester at school. I usually call this my weighing time. During this period, I mostly observe in silence, with minimal or no interventions if possible. This time allows me to assess what I’m up against, how things naturally unfold in this new situation, and what is expected of me. It’s like watching a play and figuring out if it’s a comedy, a drama, or a monologue, and then based on what I see, I begin to build my character.  

Yes, sometimes this involves masking a bit, but not necessarily. Often, it’s just about figuring out how I can fit in with my differences in this new environment. It’s like evaluating whether it’s a safe place or not, in terms of how much I need to adjust to avoid being judged. When I realize I need to mask more, I tend to lean into my “shy person” character. That way, I don’t have to pretend to be someone else, but my lack of interaction and any behavior that might seem unusual to others can easily be justified with, “she’s just shy.”  

On the other hand, if during this time I observe that the environment is fairly safe and I can be myself, then little by little, I start to show my true self. It’s not something I measure or do consciously; it’s as if my personality naturally finds small gaps through which to emerge in this new space. My observation phase helps me understand how to navigate the environment, what roles each person plays, and with whom I can feel safer or more at ease. It acts as a guide, a way to scan everything and stop perceiving the environment as unfamiliar.  

That’s why I always need some time, a period of observation and adaptation, to understand how the new space works and determine how I can participate in it. I know it may seem like a delay, but once I’m on board, I usually catch up pretty quickly.