A Video Showing The Internalized Struggles of Autism and Neurodivergence

The title of this video claims to list “signs you’re not autistic,” but it unpacks many of autism’s most invisible challenges. It resonated deeply with me and my lifelong struggles. 

One of the biggest things that resonated was the sheer intellectual and emotional toll of socializing. I love people, but there is a constant mental math: Is my volume right? Is my posture open? Am I making eye contact for the correct length of time? Am I responding appropriately? The scripting, the masking, the performance. Even joyful outings leave me completely drained.

Sensory overwhelm was another lifelong struggle that was endlessly minimized. “It isn’t bothering anyone else.” “You’re just being difficult.” Light gave me headaches. Noise made focus impossible. Smells caused nausea. Clothing could feel like it was tearing at my skin. Before my diagnosis, I assumed I was simply bad at existing in public spaces. Now I understand why restaurants and parties made meaningful conversation nearly impossible.

As a child, there was constant concern over my rocking and face-rubbing. As an adult, I learned to suppress those behaviors in public,  but learning about stimming has helped dismantle years of shame around actions that were never wrong, only misunderstood.

I also carried deep shame around how intensely I replay conversations. A casual greeting could loop in my brain for hours; an awkward interaction could echo for weeks. Knowing this is a common neurodivergent trait brings understanding, though it doesn’t instantly quiet the fear that I messed something up.

Without realizing it, I spent decades battling internalized ableism. Being told I was “too obsessed,” “careless,” “rude,” or that I “just needed to try harder” became the internal soundtrack of my life. I believed I was failing at being human properly. Learning I wasn’t broken but rather autistic was profoundly healing.

For years, I tried to suppress my intense interests, believing they were embarrassing or childish. Now I understand how essential they are for regulation, creativity, and joy, and not flaws to erase.

People often described me as “easy-going,” unaware that inside I was spiraling whenever plans changed or expectations shifted. A last-minute change felt physically painful, like a fork to the forehead. I’m only now learning how important predictability and routine are for my nervous system.

I once believed my meltdowns and shutdowns were proof of personal failure and moments when my brain would short-circuit, emotions would overwhelm me, and I’d need to pace, yell internally, or disappear. Understanding these as real neurological responses to prolonged masking and overstimulation has reframed them entirely.

I’ve heard “let it go” more times than I can count. I was told I was overreacting, too sensitive, and making a big deal out of nothing. Writing has become one of the few ways I can process and regulate those lingering thoughts instead of drowning in them.

The final piece that hit hard was burnout. For years, I felt like I only had one task in me per day, like my brain was moving through molasses. Learning about autistic burnout didn’t cure it, but it gave me permission to stop hating myself for needing rest, care, and compassion.

This video didn’t tell me anything new, but it reminded me how far understanding can go when we stop asking people to “try harder” and start listening instead.

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