Self-Advocacy, Shame, and Learning to Tell the Truth About My Brain

One of the phrases I keep hearing on this neurodivergent journey is self-advocacy. Supposedly, it’s one of the most important skills to learn.

And on paper, it makes perfect sense. No one else sees what’s happening inside me. They don’t feel the way noises, lights, or temperatures overwhelm me. They can’t measure my shifting energy levels, the emotional swings, or the thousand ideas colliding in my head at the exact same time. They don’t notice when executive dysfunction derails my carefully planned day, or when time blindness makes me late before I’ve even left the house.

They don’t see the constant spirals triggered by something unexpected, or how exhausting it is to keep up with conversations when my brain keeps jumping ahead. They can’t tell when social norms tie me in knots or when I need to stim just to regulate myself. All of that lives inside me.

So, yes, on paper, self-advocacy is essential. But here’s the part that rarely gets said: it’s also exhausting.

Every explanation feels like a defense. I can feel myself bracing as if I’m being accused all over again—of being lazy, of being careless, of not trying hard enough. For decades, I carried that shame and guilt. I carried the weight of people’s sighs, their criticisms, their frustration with the ways I forgot, fumbled, or fell short. Even now, each time I say, “Actually, this is what I need” or “That doesn’t work for me”, a part of me still wonders if I’ll be dismissed or scolded.

But I’m trying to see self-advocacy differently. It isn’t making excuses. It isn’t special pleading. It’s telling the truth.

It’s saying: This is who I am. This is how my brain works. This is what helps me thrive.

That shift matters. Because when I can advocate for myself, I give myself permission to stop pretending. To stop bending into someone else’s definition of “normal.” To stop wasting energy on being who I thought I had to be, instead of being who I actually am.

Is it easy? Not at all. After a lifetime of masking, trying to fit in, and “just trying harder,” it feels unnatural. It feels heavy. Some days it feels like one more task on an already overloaded to-do list.

But it’s also a step toward freedom. Toward less shame. Toward more honesty.

And maybe, little by little, that truth-telling can carve out space for the life I’ve been working so hard to find.