By Yamila García

A few days ago, I visited my doctor, and they asked me a question that got me thinking. They asked what “level” of neurodivergence I had. Although my diagnosis states it, I thought that by now, health professionals would know it’s not correct to talk about “levels” when it’s actually a spectrum. But what also surprised me was my response. First, I said what my official diagnosis states: “high functioning,” and then I clarified that, in reality, it is “high masking.”  

Since then, I’ve been reflecting on that almost automatic answer I gave. What was it that I wanted to clarify? The question bothered me, that’s true. Maybe that’s why I felt compelled to explain further, because anyone who asks that question clearly has a limited understanding of what it means to be neurodivergent. Responding the way I did, I think, was my way of acknowledging my struggles and giving them the relevance they deserve. It’s not that being ‘high functioning’ means I struggle less, but rather that others notice my struggles less because I am ‘high masking.’ 

My thoughts kept trying to make sense of all this, and I ended up realizing that even that outdated way of labeling neurodivergents had more to do with how much tolerance others needed to have toward us than with what we were actually capable of. It wasn’t about our ability to do and achieve things, but about how much our environment had to adapt so that we could fully use our abilities. For many years, the movements for inclusion and awareness of neurodiversity were led by people who were not neurodivergent themselves. Seeing more neurodivergents now involved in education, communication, politics, and other areas gives me hope that perhaps in the future, it will no longer be others determining and labeling us. 

By Yamila García

One of the biggest difficulties I go through every day as a neurodivergent person is explaining to others how I perceive and experience the world around me. On the one hand, I usually have very clear and organized ideas in my mind, but when I try to communicate them, they become a mess of confusing thoughts that are not at all clear to the listener. There is a disconnect between what I think and how I manage to communicate it, and the only way to “fix” this is with pre-made sentences based on what I have learned from listening to others in situations where they want to express something that seems similar to what I’m feeling. Yes, it is not my natural way of communicating, but it is the way that others understand and that ensures I am not misunderstood or misinterpreted. The problem with this is that often the way others express things lacks the intensity with which I feel or experience life. Their experiences are usually quite far from mine, which makes my explanation seem reduced to something much less significant than it really is. 

On the other hand, I think it is also extremely challenging to explain things to others when they differ so much from their own experiences. Naturally, this makes it very difficult for them to understand. Just as I think it would be difficult for a neurotypical person to explain to me how they manage to speak in front of five people without getting anxious, getting stuck, or saying things they don’t want to say. It probably comes naturally to them, and they don’t think about it as much. At the same time, any explanation they give me is going to be hard for me to fully grasp. I can understand that I don’t understand because of how big our differences are, but truly understanding what the other feels is a great challenge when we live with such different ways of processing, thinking, and perceiving. 

 I know that others’ understanding of me does not depend 100% on my ability to explain, and maybe that is what frustrates me the most, because many times I have felt that I would give anything for others to really understand what I feel. 

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. 

By Yamila García

A few days ago, I read an article about peer pressure and how this is a concern for many parents of teenagers. The search for acceptance in certain groups drives the choice of certain behaviors, some harmless and others dangerous. I tried to think if I had ever felt this or if my parents had felt concern about me at that stage of my life, but I could not identify that this had happened in my life. Then, considering that this is something quite common, I tried to think about why it did not affect me. Why did I not feel peer pressure? Well, to feel peer pressure, I should have understood in the first place what my peers wanted or were looking for. And if there was something that marked my relationship with my peers, it was precisely the lack of understanding. I could not understand their tastes, why they acted the way they did, or even their way of speaking many times. I could not feel pressure because there was a big part that I was missing. 

 If I ever felt pressure, it was self-imposed. Because even though I didn’t understand what my peers did, I did realize that we were very different and that I found it difficult to do things that they did easily. That’s why I carried a giant backpack of guilt and responsibility, of having to be able to do what everyone else did. After all, I was a girl like all of them. That’s what I thought because despite recognizing that I was different, I didn’t have my diagnosis until I was an adult. And no, my effort and pressure to “fit in” never came from a need to belong, but from a need to be efficient and simply be able to do the things that were so difficult for me. I had the illusion that the more effort I put in and exposed myself to what was difficult for me, the faster I would get used to it, and it would stop being difficult for me to do it. As you can imagine, even though with practice I improved in some aspects, things never became easy. So, yes my journey was never about fitting in with others, but about trying to understand and accept myself in a world that often felt so foreign. 

By Yamila García

In this process of learning some things and unlearning others, I think a lot about how much I have changed over time. These changes may be seen as positive from a neurotypical perspective, but for me, they do not represent justice or self-love. I want to continue to reconnect with myself, and that is why I analyze my changes. I have realized that over the years, I have learned to “smile more.” I smile when I am uncomfortable, I smile when I am overwhelmed, I smile when I perceive that others are uncomfortable. Why do I do it? I think it is so as not to make others uncomfortable… And a little also so as not to make myself uncomfortable, because, at the end of the day, that is what society expects. Whenever you smile, they will be nicer to you, they will be more predisposed, and they will not make you feel like you are a stone in the road bothering whoever wants to pass by. The problem is, whether I smile or not, I am not that… Intolerance to what is different is not my fault, nor is it my responsibility to resolve it. From childhood, we learn that those who are different make people uncomfortable, and society is not a very good host to those who are different. 

I don’t want to lose myself; I don’t want to lose who I am. I analyze myself, I question myself, and ask if the person I am today is who I really am or what society allowed me to be. I do it because I understand that it is not bad to be who I am, because I grew up and adapted to survive many things that I did not understand, but today, as an adult, I want to take care of the girl that I was. I feel that I lost a lot of my authenticity along the way. That is why now I want to live doing justice to who I am, give myself the freedom to be who I was supposed to be, and free myself from the limitations that living in a world that was not designed for me imposed on me. It is not easy work, but I feel that it is the best project in which I can put my energy and that I owe it to myself. 

By Yamila García

I don’t love the gym; I used to get bored and annoyed by having to go. I’ve always been more into sports, but there’s not much to do in the area where I’m living, so I have no choice. I’ve tried to go to the gym many times, but I always ended up not going. I went very reluctantly, and while I was there, I couldn’t wait to leave. I also wondered if it was fair that the moment I had to do something, it had to be something I didn’t enjoy at all. 

I recently tried once again to get used to the idea of the gym. I thought that if I wanted this time to be different from the previous ones, I had to do things in a different way. On the one hand, I decided to go in the morning, something I never did because I waited to “gather strength” during the day and ended up going exhausted and frustrated in the evening. On the other hand, I also decided not to let that “all or nothing” thinking determine what I did there. I would go, and at least I would be moving, and with that, I would feel satisfied. 

 The first time I went in the morning, I felt a very strong change in my mood. I felt as if my brain had been cleansed of anxiety, worries, and darkness. I returned home proud of having gone and with a lot of positive energy that allowed me to continue the day with optimism and a desire to do more things for myself. Also, by not having gone full of expectations and simply listening to my body, I was putting together a routine that didn’t weigh me down so much, and I ended up liking it. By liking it, I was able to maintain it over time, and suddenly I began to notice how I had to increase the weight in the exercises because I no longer felt anything. Clearly, without realizing it, I had not only cleared my mind but also strengthened my body. 

 Working out is clearly having a positive impact on my mind. I never thought that exercising could have an even bigger impact on my mind than on my body; I never thought it could solve so many things that I struggled with for so long. I know it’s something that is said and that many professionals recommend, but many times taking that first step takes time and requires courage, especially when you have tried so many times without success. 

By Yamila García

I often try to remember a particular event in my life and find that I can’t remember almost anything. I’ve been mulling this over for a while, and I finally think I’m understanding why I have these gaps in my memory. It’s not common for me to forget something, but in these specific cases, I can’t remember almost anything. What these events have in common, which creates a gap in my memory, is that they were all extremely stressful. I often ask myself: how was I able to give that presentation at school when I was a teenager? How was I able to speak in a meeting with so many people? How was I able to do that job interview or start that job where everything was new and everyone was extremely extroverted? And the reality is that I simply abstracted myself from reality and from myself. I have memories of seeing myself from outside myself, with that feeling of being outside the world, observing myself and others. The world is spinning, everyone is spinning with it, and my mind is out there floating somewhere while my body “seemed” to keep spinning like everyone else. That disconnection of body and mind has allowed me to pretend that I was functioning as expected, but it feels like I was never there, like I never spoke at that meeting, or went to that interview, or met those people… I don’t remember what I felt in those moments, how I went through them, what was going through my mind at that moment, because I wasn’t really there. 

 Over time, there are fewer and fewer gaps in my memory. Partly because I have advanced and grown in various areas of my life, and partly because I respect myself and no longer force certain things so much. I am no longer willing to do myself such harm that I need to dissociate in order to survive it. In any case, sometimes it is difficult to find a balance between pushing myself to go for more and respecting my limits. Sometimes those limits are not so clear, or perhaps my self-demand blurs them so I can continue going for more.