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. 

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.