The Map Was Already There

Apparently, my writing has been quietly waving the neurodivergent flag long before I ever knew to look for it. Which, in hindsight, shouldn’t be surprising. You’re born neurodivergent — it’s not something that arrives later, like a new hobby or a bad haircut. Of course, there would be traces, scattered across the years. 

And for me, it turns out those traces aren’t just scattered. They’re woven right through my work. In classic neurodivergent fashion, I find this utterly fascinating. Lately, I’ve been toying with the idea of digging into these recurring threads — the traits that have always been there, stitched into my writing. 

The challenge, as always, will be to make it resonate beyond myself, to avoid slipping into a purely self-indulgent exercise. But it feels important, somehow, to mark these patterns. Because they were telling me something long before I had the language to understand it. 

Some of the recurring aspects I’ve noticed include: 

•  A relentless pattern-seeking instinct, in creative works and in social issues. 

•  A deep, personal, emotional connection to the art I review. 

•  Constantly searching for meaning, consistency, and fairness in the messy systems around us. 

•  An unshakable attachment to outsiders, underdogs, and those living on the margins. 

•  Wrestling with the sense that I’ve always been… different. 

•  Overanalyzing small exchanges, convinced they carry more weight than they appear to. 

•  Questioning conformity, norms, and the so-called “natural” order of things. 

•  Dissenting, sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly, from accepted systems and ideas. 

•  Tying art and issues to personal memories and emotions. 

•  Holding onto a deep, almost compulsive emotional honesty about my fears, worries, and hopes. 

•  Finding layers of meaning in the ordinary, the overlooked. 

•  Feeling deeply connected to past events and creative works in ways that linger. 

•  Living in a constant tug-of-war between logic and emotion. 
• Sensing that my thoughts and ideas only truly take shape through the act of writing them down.  

I’ve always felt different. I’ve always wrestled with what it means to be ‘normal.’ My diagnosis wasn’t a cure — it was a key. It opened a door to finally understanding myself. To realizing that I wasn’t broken, just wired differently. 

And now, it feels like I’m walking a path towards not just accepting, but maybe even loving myself. What’s wild is realizing that the map to this place was already drawn — in my words, my work, my stories — long before I knew what I was looking for.