Learning to Name What I Lived With for Decades

For most of my life, I thought I was just too sensitive. I’d crash after social gatherings, need hours to recover from what others seemed to breeze through, and melt down when an unexpected change threw my plans into chaos. I called it being dramatic. I told myself I was weak. I blamed stress, a bad day, or that I simply wasn’t built for the pace of the world.

What I didn’t know was that these weren’t random quirks or failings—they were autistic meltdowns and burnout. For decades, I didn’t have that language. I thought I was broken when really I was overwhelmed.

I can remember times when I’d retreat to my room after a family event, unable to explain why I felt like my skin was on fire from all the noise and conversation. Or the many moments I’d freeze, blank out, or even nod off while watching a show—not because I didn’t care, but because my brain had run out of capacity. Or how a simple unexpected knock at the door would feel like my whole system short-circuited. I dismissed these things as overreactions. Others sometimes did too, which only deepened the shame.

Now, I see them differently. I wasn’t “failing at life.” I was living it without the accommodations and understanding I needed. And despite that, I still managed to write thousands of articles, raise a family, perform in plays, host a podcast, and keep pushing forward. I was doing all of that with an invisible disability that I didn’t even realize I had.

That changes how I see myself. Instead of berating myself for being fragile, I can start offering compassion. I can allow myself to take breaks, to say no, to recognize when a meltdown is brewing instead of blaming myself for “overreacting.”

For 47 years, I thought being “too sensitive” was my greatest flaw. Now I know it was actually my brain telling me what it needed. And for the first time, I can start listening.