By Yamila García

Many times, people have thought I was rude because of the direct way I say certain things. On the one hand, I do feel that things shouldn’t have to be embellished to be said as they are. But on the other hand, I understand that I live in a society that works this way, so I try to present my opinions or ideas in a more subtle way. But I usually fail. Maybe I’m too subtle, or maybe I overthink it; I don’t know. I’ve tried many times. My first instinct is always to communicate like others do, so as to not be perceived as rude. However, there’s something I clearly fail at, and yet I still don’t understand what it is. I feel like I start off being too subtle, and when I get tired of explaining things gently, I end up being too direct, which others find rude. It’s never my intention to be rude; I just want to be clear, for the person in front of me to understand. How is it that people always speak this way, disguising their ideas, yet they understand each other? What am I doing wrong? I always wonder. I pay attention to how others do it, and that’s usually how I’ve learned most of the things that don’t come naturally to me. But in this case, I just can’t figure out what I’m missing.

I also don’t understand why people get offended when you’re direct and honest. I’m not talking about telling someone “your hair looks bad” or “you’re dressed badly today.” I understand that can hurt their feelings, and besides, those things are subjective. I’m referring to a situation like turning down an invitation by saying something like, “I’m not going because I don’t feel like it. I’ve been busy all week, and I’d rather be alone on Saturday.” I’m not saying, “I don’t like you and don’t want to spend time with you.” I’m just turning down an invitation because of how I feel, not because of them. In this sense, I can understand why people try to soften their messages to avoid offending others, since people tend to take things personally. However, I don’t know how to find a balance between subtlety and clarity. This is why I have confused many people and offended others, but it has never been my intention to do either. It’s simply how I am, and I tend to communicate differently than most.

By Yamila García

I have this quirk that is often misinterpreted as being possessive. It’s not that I don’t like to share or that I don’t want to, even though it can come across that way. The truth is, I get deeply attached to certain things and people that make me feel comfortable. As a neurodivergent person, comfort is rare in my life. Many things feel uncomfortable, chaotic, or even painful. So when I find something that brings me calm, joy or security, I hold onto it tightly. This attachment can sometimes look like possessiveness, which is defined as: “a feeling of wanting to control or own someone or something.” In my case, it’s probably more about control, but control tied to the fear of losing what feels like an oasis in the middle of the desert. The unpredictable overwhelms me, so having control over what I can helps ensure that I don’t lose what brings me comfort.

When it comes to people, this might look like wanting to share as many experiences as possible with them. Doing things together makes me feel that if we have more in common, if we enjoy more moments together, our bond will be stronger and they will stay in my life. It might sound toxic, but I don’t think so. I don’t mind if the people I care about spend time with others, nor do I expect them to always prioritize me. My way of showing that someone matters to me might just look different from how others do it. I’ve been told this many times, and not in a bad way. People ask me how I remember small details, stories, and dreams they’ve shared. The truth is, I simply pay close attention to what matters to me. Over time, I’ve learned that I don’t need to do everything with someone to maintain a strong connection.

What may seem more like possessiveness is my deep urge to protect the things and people I care about. I know I take on a responsibility that isn’t mine, but it’s hard not to intervene when I feel that something important to me is at risk. In some ways, it feels as if my refuge, my peace and comfort, are being threatened. I can become defensive, trying to stop what I perceive as an attack, even when it might not be one. I work every day to recognize these moments and shift my perspective so that fear doesn’t turn into the need for control. 

By Yamila García 

The way society generally communicates doesn’t feel natural to me, so I tend to overthink and review past conversations as a way to analyze them and improve them. I even judge myself a little for not doing better. Generally, there is one issue in particular that worries me: over-explaining. I know that this happens a lot since neurodivergent people can be misunderstood or misinterpreted throughout our lives, and we try to “clarify” many times by getting even more tangled in our words. The problem, besides the fact that I don’t remember a time that over-explaining ever helped me be understood, is that every time I do it, I feel like I’m failing myself.

From what I’ve observed, other people don’t seem to feel the need to over-explain and justify what they do or say. So why should I? Yes, as I said before, for as long as I can remember, people don’t exactly get what I want to convey. However, I’m not the only one in those conversations, and assuming that I’m the problem may be too harsh on me. Why should I justify or explain so much? It almost feels like justifying my existence. And while I want to be understood, over-explaining feels like begging for something that should come from openness and empathy, rather than needing explanations. 

I’ve talked to many people who, when they didn’t understand what I was saying or felt that maybe they weren’t getting the right idea of what I was trying to communicate, simply asked me questions to clarify and understand me better. The willingness and interest in clear and genuine communication is not solely the responsibility of those who over-explain; it involves both parties actively trying to understand and be understood. Understanding this may be the way to stop over-explaining and accept that communication is not only up to me. 

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. 

By Yamila García

There are certain fights that I no longer want to fight. These are fights that add no value to my life and that I have fought for a long time simply because they are one of those things “that are hard for me.” Who knows when and for what reason I assumed that I had to fight them all? Maybe because of the need to show that even though I am different from others, I can do everything. And I don’t know if I can do everything or not, but what I do know is that I don’t need to be able to do everything, nor do I want to. I am no longer willing to go through so much discomfort simply to show how capable I am. I am very capable in some things and less so in others. It’s as simple as that. 

In the past, when I got involved and committed to doing one of these “things that are hard for me,” I suffered days before and days after the activity. First, the anticipation kept me awake. I didn’t sleep, or when I fell asleep because exhaustion overcame me, I dreamed about what I had to do and woke up terrified. Of course, I would arrive at that unwanted day completely exhausted and even more frightened than at the beginning. I would go through the moment sweating, shaking, and almost unable to breathe. When things overwhelm me a lot, I don’t breathe as I usually do. I hold my breath, do a part of what I have to do, let it out, take it in again, and go back to the task for as long as I can keep it up. I repeat it until I finish completely and can finally breathe normally. Then, an immense satisfaction comes to me. A feeling of euphoria and adrenaline invades my body from the emotion of leaving that behind. I lock myself in my house, in silence, in pure happiness. And then my head starts to review everything I did, everything I said, and even how I moved. From the euphoria that took me to heaven from the happiness of finishing whatever I did, I now go to the bottom because of the weight of anxiety and reviewing past scenarios. Then, I am burdened with those feelings for days until my natural rhythm leads me to stabilize again. 

Now, I am no longer willing to go through all that for any reason, much less for one that does not add anything to my life. I have already fought more fights than I should have. My body and mind deserve to be respected and cared for. 

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.