neurodivergent Archives

How do you know who to trust when you’re neurodivergent?

Reading time: 3 minutes

Many of us as neurodivergents ask a question because we want to understand. And yet what the other person hears is a challenge. By the time we realize they’re upset, they’ve already decided we were being difficult.

We might be willing to explain or apologize for how it came across. But we need an opportunity to have that conversation in the first place.

When experiences like this repeat, meeting someone new can involve a lot of private calculations. You might wonder, will they ask what you meant? Will they tell you if something bothers them? Or will you discover afterward that a conversation you thought went well was received very differently?

For me, this is part of what makes neurodivergent trust toward neurotypical folks complicated. I want connection, but I also want to know there will be room to work through a misunderstanding.

When Misunderstanding Becomes a Judgment

Damian Milton’s double empathy problem offers a useful way to understand communication difficulties between autistic and non-autistic people. It describes a breakdown in mutual understanding across different experiences and perspectives, challenging the assumption that the difficulty belongs entirely to the autistic person.

The concept was developed around autism, though the frustration of being misunderstood may also resonate with ADHD readers.

Consider direct communication. You might say to someone, “That plan won’t work because the building closes at five,” intending to flag a practical problem. The other person may hear you dismissing their effort.

Their reaction deserves consideration, but so too does your explanation. A useful conversation makes room for both: “I felt brushed off when you said that,” followed by a chance to clarify what you meant and find a way forward.

That becomes harder when “that sounded dismissive” turns into “you’re a dismissive person.”

If you’ve repeatedly been judged this way, withdrawing becomes the natural response. This way, you don’t have to keep guessing what went wrong. And yet you may still miss having people around you.

Do They Act With Integrity?

So how do you decide who you should let closer?

I pay attention to whether someone’s actions generally match what they tell me.

If they say they’ll call, do they call? If plans change, do they let me know? When they make a mistake, can they acknowledge it without making me feel unreasonable for noticing?

As an autistic person, I find that consistency grounding. I don’t want to spend my time in a relationship continually working out whether someone meant what they said.

Integrity doesn’t require perfect follow-through. People forget things and overestimate their capacity. They also have days when they can’t manage what they planned.

What helps me is how someone handles that situation. “I forgot, and I’m sorry. Let’s choose another time” gives us something to work with. Repeated promises followed by irritation when I ask about them leave me much less sure.

We want to ensure that others make commitments they can reasonably keep and are honest when they can’t.

Do They Treat You With Dignity?

The second question becomes especially useful when something goes wrong.

Can this person be upset with you while still speaking to you respectfully? Will they consider your explanation, even if it doesn’t immediately resolve their hurt?

Someone might say, “I’m not sure how you meant that. Can you explain?” They might need a break before talking. They may also tell you plainly that a comment hurt and ask you not to repeat it.

Respecting your dignity leaves room for those responses. It also means your communication differences aren’t used as evidence that you’re selfish or incapable of caring.

You have a part in this, too. If someone explains that your words hurt, listening goes a long way to help. You can also adjust how you express something while asking them to check their assumptions about your intentions.

That effort therefore needs to travel in both directions. If you’re always adjusting for their preferences while yours are dismissed, there’s a limit to what your effort alone can accomplish.

Let Trust Grow Through Ordinary Interactions

These two questions aren’t a guarantee that someone will be safe, but they are one way of noticing behavior without needing to predict a person’s entire character.

See how they respond to you expressing an ordinary preference: “Could we meet somewhere quieter?” Or a small clarification: “When you say ‘later,’ do you mean tonight?”

Then notice whether they are responsive to your needs.

Wrap Up

I’m more willing to trust someone when I’ve seen that their word means something and that a disagreement won’t cost me basic respect.

Integrity and dignity give me a practical starting point. They help me look beyond whether an interaction went perfectly and consider whether this is someone I could work through a difficult moment with.

What helps you trust someone enough to be yourself?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD

Recognizing harm when you’re neurodivergent and used to doubting yourself

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 3 minutes

You tell a friend about something hurtful someone said, only for them to surprise you by explaining that the person is stressed or probably didn’t mean it.

In fact, you already considered that. You’ve spent hours considering it. What you wanted was some acknowledgment of what happened to you.

If you’re autistic or ADHD and accustomed to having your interpretation questioned, this can feel familiar. You leave wondering whether you’ve misunderstood again, even though the same thing keeps happening.

I’ve struggled with this myself. Learning about harmful relationship patterns has helped me make sense of experiences I previously couldn’t explain. It has also raised a question: how much do we need to understand about someone before we’re allowed to protect ourselves?

When Giving the Benefit of the Doubt Becomes a Habit

If you know what it’s like to be misunderstood, you may be reluctant to judge someone else. You remember the times your words came out badly and wish someone had asked what you meant.

That generosity can make it difficult to revise your view of someone who initially seemed caring.

They tell you they respect you, then ridicule a need you’ve shared. You explain why it hurt. They say you’re too sensitive, and you start wondering how you could have explained it better.

You may wind up finding that you’re doing most of the work of keeping the relationship comfortable.

For me, neurodivergent self-trust includes allowing later experiences to change an earlier impression. Someone’s initial kindness is part of the picture. So is how they treat you when you disagree.

Why a label can feel like an answer

After enough confusing interactions, you may start researching. An article about narcissism describes something so familiar that you reread the paragraph.

There can be relief in that recognition: an experience that felt private and inexplicable suddenly has language around it.

I understand the appeal of learning everything you can. Research gives you something to work with when “trust your gut” feels unhelpful, especially if you’ve spent years being told your gut is wrong.

The difficulty comes when identifying a pattern turns into trying to establish a diagnosis. You may spend hours checking criteria while the practical question remains unanswered. Namely, what do you need to do about how this person treats you?

A personality disorder diagnosis does not establish that someone is abusive, and harmful behavior does not establish a personality disorder.

You can take the harm seriously without resolving the diagnosis.

Describe What Keeps Happening

Specific language can help you understand an experience and explain it to someone else.

“They’re toxic” leaves a lot open to interpretation. “They keep making jokes about my disability after I’ve asked them to stop” tells someone what the problem is.

You might notice that:

Disagreements repeatedly become attacks on your character.
A limit you’ve stated is treated as the beginning of a negotiation.
Apologies are followed by the same behavior, without meaningful change.

These observations give you something concrete to consider. You don’t have to know whether someone intended to hurt you to recognize that the behavior is continuing.

There’s also a difference between an awkward interaction and an ongoing pattern. A person can respond badly, reflect, and make a repair. What matters is whether that repair changes your experience of the relationship. A serious incident can warrant action on its own; you don’t have to wait for it to happen again.

Understanding Someone Doesn’t Settle What You Should Accept

Someone may be struggling. Their history may help explain their reactions. You can care about that and still need the behavior to stop.

When other people rush to explain their conduct, it can help to bring the conversation back to what you’re asking for: “I understand they’re having a hard time. I need you to hear that this keeps happening and is affecting me.”

The same applies to your own internal debate. You may never reach certainty about their motives. You can still decide to share less personal information, limit contact, or seek support in working out what feels manageable.

If raising a concern has led to intimidation or retaliation, you don’t owe the person another confrontation to prove you tried hard enough. Consider support from someone you trust or an abuse-informed professional before deciding your next step.

Wrap Up

Learning about harmful relationship patterns can give you language you badly needed. The useful part is what that knowledge helps you recognize and do.

Neurodivergent self-trust leaves room to reconsider your interpretation without automatically discarding it. Your account deserves attention, even when you don’t have a complete explanation for the other person’s behavior.

What helped you take a harmful pattern seriously when you were doubting yourself?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD

Asking for help when you’re neurodivergent and expecting judgment

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 3 minutes

You’re struggling with something other people seem to manage easily. Someone notices, but instead of offering help, they point out how poorly you’re doing. The next time you get stuck, you have another reason to keep quiet.

Asking for help can become complicated when you’re used to being judged for needing it as a neurodivergent person.

I think about this whenever I remember a math teacher I had in high school, and how unexpectedly our relationship changed.

What My Grade Didn’t Explain

Math has always been difficult for me. Even now, I can lose track of a basic calculation halfway through doing it. When I’m working on accounts, I sometimes enter the same calculation twice and get different answers because I’ve mistyped a number.

I have ADHD and most probably the learning disability dyscalculia. What I do know is that being comfortable with words has never translated into being comfortable with numbers.

At school, those difficulties came alongside a transition I wasn’t managing well. In Australia, I started high school in grade eight. My primary school friendships had scattered, I was being bullied, and things were difficult at home. Keeping track of different classes and assignments added demands I didn’t know how to manage.

My math grade showed that I was struggling. It explained very little about why.

The Comment That Stayed With Me

One day, I finished the assigned in-class work and opened a book. I thought I’d completed the equations correctly, although my results often suggested otherwise.

My teacher commented in front of the class that, as a C-grade student, I shouldn’t be reading.

I felt exposed. Before I thought about what I was doing, I called her the B-word.

It wasn’t an acceptable response. I can also remember how humiliated I felt, sitting there with everyone hearing her assessment of me.

I was sent out of the classroom. Later, I wrote a letter asking to move to another class. Reading it recently, I could see that it was barely an apology. I wanted to get away from someone I felt had already decided what kind of student I was.

What Changed Between Us

Eventually, I apologized and told her I wanted to improve my grade. I don’t remember every step that followed, but I remember her helping me.

She spent more time explaining things and talking me through the work. I had someone I could turn to when I didn’t understand. By the end of our time together, my grade had gone from a C to an A.

That still moves me.

Our relationship had become something I wouldn’t have expected after that classroom confrontation. A teacher I’d wanted to escape was now helping me succeed in a subject I dreaded.

Her support didn’t remove my difficulties with math. They’re still here. It did make a difference to what I could achieve at the time, and to how alone I felt while trying.

Repair Can Create An Opening

I’m glad I apologized. I also don’t think a struggling child should have to handle a conflict perfectly before receiving help. She had a responsibility to support my learning before that conversation, too.

What made the repair meaningful was what happened afterward. I expressed a wish to do better, and she responded with practical help.

That distinction matters when we talk about neurodivergent support. Encouraging someone to ask is only useful if we also pay attention to how their request is received. “Try harder” gives you very little to work with when you’re already trying and don’t understand why you keep getting stuck.

A useful response might involve working through an example together or writing down instructions that are difficult to hold in mind. It gives the person something they can actually use.

Asking Without Taking Responsibility For Everything

If you’ve been dismissed before, another request can feel like an invitation to be embarrassed again. You may need time to decide whom you trust.

When you do ask, being specific can help: “I lose track when there are several steps. Could we write them down as we go?”

Their response gives you information. Do they try to understand the difficulty? Does their help make the task more manageable?

Some relationships can change. Others remain difficult despite your efforts, and seeking support elsewhere may be the better use of your energy. You don’t have to turn every critical person into an ally.

Wrap Up

I still struggle with math, but I also remember what became possible when someone took the time to teach me in a way I could use. The A mattered. So did having a person beside me who was willing to keep working through it.

Has a teacher, colleague, or someone else changed your experience by offering the right support? What did they do that helped?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD

Neurodivergent humor: Why was it funny on TV but awkward in person?

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 3 minutes

You repeat a line that got a huge laugh on television, only for people to look suddenly conversation, and for the conversation to move on without you. Apparently, the joke works when that character says it, but sounds rude coming from you.

What changed?

I ran into this growing up exposed to sitcoms like Seinfeld. The characters said things I already thought about everyday life: how strange people could be, how awkward social expectations were. Sometimes I didn’t understand why it was funny. To me, they were pointing out the obvious.

But people clearly enjoyed it. I took that as permission to be equally direct, and sometimes borrowed jokes for my own conversations. The response was often nothing like the one on television.

Television Leaves Out Part of the Lesson

A sitcom gives us information that an ordinary conversation doesn’t. We know the characters and expect them to entertain us. We may be laughing at someone’s poor judgment rather than agreeing with what they said.

Watching as a young person, I didn’t always make that distinction. I heard the laugh and understood the line as socially approved.

In person, the listener has to work out what you mean without that context. They may hear a criticism where you intended a playful observation. If they don’t know you well, they have little reason to assume you’re being ironic.

Delivery matters too. A line said with exaggerated disbelief can sound different in a flat voice. That doesn’t make a flat delivery wrong; deadpan humor can be wonderful. It does mean the words alone won’t necessarily communicate that you’re joking.

This isn’t unique to neurodivergent humor, but it can be a frustrating discovery if you’ve been borrowing dialogue to help you navigate conversations.

Sometimes the Problem Really Is the Joke

There’s another part of this that’s harder to talk about. Sometimes a joke lands badly because it was insensitive.

In my twenties, before my autism diagnosis, a colleague told me about a puppy that had died in a preventable accident. I responded with a joke about natural selection.

I regret saying it. An animal had suffered, and I treated the story as an opportunity to make a clever remark.

I love dogs. That’s part of why the memory still bothers me: what I said communicated something so far from what I felt. But the people listening only had my words to go on. They couldn’t see the care for animals that I assumed was obvious.

I can understand my nervousness and limited awareness at the time while acknowledging that the comment was cruel. My diagnosis gives me context for some of my communication difficulties. It doesn’t make that joke harmless.

What “Read the Room” Actually Asks Us To Do

“Read the room” is frustrating advice when you need someone to explain what you’re supposed to notice.

A more useful starting point is to consider what the person has just shared. Are they joking about an everyday inconvenience, or telling you about something painful? If they’re describing a loss, responding to that loss gives you a clearer starting point than searching for a punchline.

It also helps to ask who the joke is aimed at. Making fun of a confusing parking sign is different from making fun of someone who is already embarrassed. A joke that works with a close friend may need more trust than you’ve established with a colleague.

For me, spontaneity is part of the pleasure of humor. Pausing can feel cumbersome, especially when the line arrives fully formed and I want to say it immediately. I’ve had to learn that having a funny association doesn’t oblige me to share it.

Which is not to say that it requires require reviewing every sentence before speaking. I’m more careful around fresh grief and subjects where I don’t know the other person’s experience. Those are useful places to slow down.

Repairing a Joke Without Making Excuses

If I realize I’ve said something hurtful, I try to name it plainly: “That was insensitive. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have joked about that.”

Explaining that I meant to be funny adds little. The problem is already that I tried to be funny at the wrong moment.

Sometimes I only understand the impact later. I can still acknowledge it when appropriate, without asking the person to reassure me that I’m good or forgive me immediately.

These memories can become shame hangovers: incidents I revisit long after I’ve understood what went wrong. When that happens, I try to return to the specific lesson. I know why that comment was hurtful, and I’ve changed how I respond to similar situations. Repeatedly insulting myself won’t improve the repair.

Wrap Up

I still like my dry sense of humor. I enjoy noticing the absurdity of things, and I value people who share that enjoyment.

What I understand better now is that a joke happens between people. Whether it works depends partly on what they know about me and what’s happening for them. Learning to consider that has helped me keep the humor while becoming more thoughtful about where I use it.

Have you ever borrowed a joke from television and discovered it sounded very different in real life?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD

Shame hangovers: When a social moment stays with you for years

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 3 minutes

You’re halfway through an ordinary day when you remember something you said ten years ago. Your stomach drops. You cringe, despite knowing that everyone involved may have long since forgotten it.

Or perhaps the conversation happened yesterday. Someone’s expression changed after you spoke, and you’ve been trying to work out why ever since.

I’ve started calling this a shame “hangover:” the shame that lingers after a social interaction has ended. It’s a description of an experience, rather than a clinical term. For some autistic and ADHD adults, the replay can become more painful than the original exchange.

When Uncertainty Becomes Self-Blame

Sometimes we know what went wrong. We might have interrupted someone or made a comment we later recognized as hurtful.

Other times, we have very little information. Someone looked away, and we interpreted it as disapproval. A pause felt like rejection. Those reactions might mean something, but they don’t tell us exactly what the other person was thinking.

If you’ve often been misunderstood, it can be difficult to leave that uncertainty alone. You end up searching the conversation for an explanation and land on yourself: I made it awkward. I always do this.

An uncomfortable exchange becomes evidence about who you are. Once that happens, reviewing the details may turn into another opportunity to criticize yourself.

A Rejection I Carried For Years

When I was around nineteen or twenty, I met a woman at a social event and thought we were getting along well. At the end of our conversation, I asked whether we could exchange numbers.

She said no.

I laughed awkwardly and walked away, feeling my stomach drop. I’m gay, and I’d been thinking about friendship. It hadn’t occurred to me that she might interpret the request as romantic interest. I assumed my intentions were obvious because they were obvious to me.

Looking back, that’s one possible explanation. I don’t actually know why she declined, and she didn’t owe me her number or an explanation.

What stayed with me was the feeling that I’d done something wrong without understanding what it was. I became tearful afterward. The person I was dating told me to move on, and someone else I confided in called me an “idiot.”

I needed help making sense of the interaction. Instead, those responses gave me more to feel ashamed of.

Months later, the woman greeted me at another event. I remember feeling so uncomfortable that I didn’t want to risk trying again. By then, that brief exchange had become something much bigger in my mind.

An Awkward Moment and a Harmful Action Need Different Responses

Asking once to exchange numbers and accepting a “no” isn’t inherently wrongdoing. But I’ve also said things that were hurtful, including comments I now recognize as prejudiced.

Those situations require more than reassuring myself that I meant well.

Being neurodivergent can provide context for an interaction. It doesn’t establish why every mistake happened, and it doesn’t make someone else’s hurt disappear. I can acknowledge what I said, consider whether an apology would help, and change how I behave.

The difficulty comes when taking responsibility turns into repeatedly declaring myself a terrible person. At that point, I may be spending more time judging myself than understanding what needs to change.

Self-compassion allows me to be specific: That comment was hurtful. I understand why now, and I can respond differently. I don’t need to minimize it or keep punishing myself to prove I care.

What To Do When the Memory Returns

Start by asking what you know. Did someone tell you they were hurt, or are you trying to interpret an expression? Both can feel upsetting, but they leave you with different information.

If there’s a clear action to take, make it proportionate. An apology might name what you said and acknowledge its impact without asking the other person to reassure you. For an incident from years ago, consider whether renewed contact would benefit them or mainly relieve your own discomfort.

If you’ve already addressed it, ask whether another replay is giving you anything new. You might remind yourself: “I’ve thought about this. I know what I’d do differently.” Then return to what you were doing, even if some discomfort remains.

It can also help to talk with someone who can offer perspective without insulting you or automatically insisting you did nothing wrong. You deserve room to understand a mistake without having your whole character reduced to it.

Wrap Up

Shame hangovers can make withdrawing feel safer than risking another difficult interaction. I understand that impulse. After enough painful experiences, even an invitation to connect can bring up memories of what happened before.

What has helped me is learning to look more fairly at those memories. Sometimes I needed to take responsibility. Sometimes I was confused or rejected, and treated that as proof I was defective. Recognizing the difference has made it easier to forgive myself.

Do old social moments return when you least expect them?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD

Misophonia and the sounds we can’t mute

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 2 minutes

Someone beside you is chewing, and suddenly it’s all you can hear. You can’t follow the conversation, because each mouth sound makes you more tense. Nobody else seems bothered, which makes it awkward to explain why you need to move away.

For people with misophonia, everyday “human” sounds like these can make sharing a meal difficult. Online, those same noises are sometimes amplified for an audience that finds them relaxing.

Mukbang videos, which feature people eating on camera, bring that contrast into focus. Some viewers enjoy the chewing and lip-smacking. Others reach for the mute button.

I find myself caught between wanting to watch and wanting to switch them off.

When a Sound Provokes More Than Annoyance

Misophonia involves a decreased tolerance for particular sounds or associated cues, which can bring on intense emotional and physical reactions. Eating sounds are common triggers, though the sounds that affect one person may not bother another. The reaction is tied to the specific sound or its meaning, rather than simply how loud it is.

For me, the response can feel like rage. I hear the noise and feel an immediate urge to get away from it.

Chewing and slurping are difficult, but other human sounds can catch me off guard too. Repeated sniffing, for example, or the little noises someone makes to show they’re listening. I can’t always predict what will bother me until it happens.

That can make social situations uncomfortable in ways other people don’t necessarily see. They’re carrying on with a conversation while I’m trying to manage my reaction to a sound they may barely notice.

A Shared Meal is Harder To Mute

The strange part is that I find the visual side of these videos genuinely appealing.

I love chewy textures. Mochi and gummies have a physical quality I enjoy, and watching someone bite into them brings that sensation to mind.

Online, I can switch off the sound. At a dinner table, it’s more complicated.

When I briefly lived in China, slurping was common in the dining settings I encountered. I found it difficult enough that I sometimes wanted to eat alone. The people around me were eating in a way that was ordinary for them, while I was becoming overwhelmed.

That distinction matters. My response to a sound doesn’t automatically mean the person making it is being inconsiderate. Equally, knowing they aren’t doing anything wrong doesn’t make the sound easier to tolerate.

It helps to explain what’s happening without making someone’s eating habits the entire problem: “Certain mouth sounds are really difficult for me. Could we put some music on?” Depending on the setting, sitting farther away or taking a short break might also make the meal more manageable.

Those adjustments won’t work for everyone. The point is to make a shared meal more comfortable without turning it into an argument about whether a sound should bother you.

Wrap Up

For now, the mute button lets me enjoy the mochi without the chewing. In person, I have to be more deliberate about what I need and how I communicate it.

I can want someone’s company and still struggle with the sound of them eating. Recognizing both makes it easier to explain why I might need an adjustment or a break.

Do you experience misophonia? How do you cope with it?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD

Why neurodivergent self-silencing can leave you exhausted

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 3 minutes

You agree to stay a little longer, even though the restaurant noise is making it hard to think. Your friend wants to tell you something, and you don’t want them to feel brushed off. So you keep listening and hope they finish soon.

Later, you’re exhausted and irritated. You wanted to spend time with them, but you also wanted to leave half an hour ago.

This is one way neurodivergent self-silencing can show up: you hold back what you need because someone else’s possible disappointment feels more urgent. Sometimes you agree so quickly that you only recognize your discomfort afterward.

How Holding Back Your Needs Becomes a Habit

If people have repeatedly taken your needs personally, you may start treating those needs as something you have to explain carefully.

Asking for quiet becomes an apology, while leaving a gathering requires reassurance that you had a good time. You might even stay somewhere uncomfortable because saying nothing seems easier than convincing someone you aren’t rejecting them.

This can overlap with masking, particularly when you’re concealing discomfort or managing your expression to meet social expectations. Those adjustments may help you get through an interaction, which is part of what makes them difficult to reconsider.

Other people’s responses can reinforce the habit. Someone may describe you as easygoing without realizing how often you’re agreeing to things you don’t want.

After a while, you can find yourself wondering whether they would still enjoy your company if you asked for more.

Caring Can Take Effort Without Being Fake

Some autistic and ADHD adults need time to work out what they feel or how they want to respond. If a friend shares something painful while you’re overwhelmed, you may care about them and still struggle to find words.

Choosing a thoughtful response doesn’t make your concern artificial. Nor does needing a moment mean you lack empathy.

The pressure comes when you believe you must respond immediately, regardless of your capacity. You start worrying about whether your face looks sympathetic enough instead of listening to what the person is saying. Meanwhile, your own need for a pause goes unspoken.

A flat voice or quiet expression doesn’t necessarily reveal how much you care. You might be concentrating or tired; it may simply be how you communicate.

Saying, “I’m listening; I just need a moment to take that in,” gives the other person some context without requiring you to conceal what’s happening for you.

The Difficult Part Is Allowing Disappointment

When you’re accustomed to holding back, another person’s disappointment can feel like evidence that you should have kept quiet.

But a friend can wish you’d stayed longer and still respect your decision to leave. You can care about that disappointment without changing your answer.

Waiting until nobody minds your boundary may mean never setting it. Even considerate people won’t always want the same thing you do.

What tells you more is how they respond. Do they accept your answer, even reluctantly? Or do they keep pressing until you give in?

You can explain your needs clearly. The other person’s willingness to respect them remains their responsibility.

Essy Knopf neurodivergent self-silencing

Give Yourself Time Before Agreeing

A useful place to begin is with the moment before your automatic yes.

“I’ll check and get back to you” gives you time to consider whether you actually want to go and what it would require. You don’t have to decide while watching someone’s face for signs of disappointment.

For plans you do want, try stating a limit early: “I’d love to come. I can stay for about an hour.” That may feel easier than waiting until you’re overwhelmed and trying to explain why you suddenly need to leave.

If you notice your discomfort only afterward, that information still helps. You might realize that dinner works better somewhere quieter, or that you need a shorter visit next time. You can use what you learned without criticizing yourself for not speaking up sooner.

Start with someone who has shown they can respect a request. You don’t need to disclose more or drop protective habits around someone who repeatedly punishes you for expressing needs.

When a person accepts your limit, give yourself a chance to notice. You asked for something, and the relationship continued. You don’t have to follow that with an apology.

Wrap Up

Neurodivergent self-silencing can be difficult to notice when you’ve become used to checking what everyone else wants first. Making room for your own needs starts with considering them before you commit.

The next time you feel yourself saying yes automatically, give yourself a moment. You may still choose yes, but you’ll have had a chance to include yourself in the decision.

When do you find it hardest to say what you need?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD

Why do I always have to explain myself? Autism, ADHD, and being misunderstood

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 4 minutes

Have you ever left a conversation feeling fine, then started wondering whether something you said sounded rude?

By the time you get home, you’re considering sending a message to explain yourself. You don’t actually know whether the other person was offended. And yet leaving it alone feels risky.

For many autistic and ADHD adults, being misunderstood is familiar enough that we start preparing for it before it happens.

For example, we may qualify a question so it doesn’t sound like criticism. Or we may explain why we need time alone, then reassure the person that we enjoyed seeing them. Sometimes the explanation gets longer than whatever we originally wanted to say.

It can be hard to enjoy their company when we’re also reviewing our own performance.

When You Start Questioning Your Own Intentions

There’s a difference between knowing you’re interested and knowing how to make that interest recognizable to someone else in a social interaction.

You might look away because it helps you listen, then remember that someone once accused you of ignoring them for doing exactly that. So you make yourself look back, even though you’re now finding it harder to follow the conversation.

Your attention shifts from what works for you to what will reassure them.

American sociologist and writer W. E. B. Du Bois explored a particular form of divided self-awareness through his concept of double consciousness: the experience of being Black in a racist society and seeing oneself through the judgments of the dominant white culture.

Although rooted in a distinct experience of racism, his account offers a useful way to think about neurodivergent masking: how we can become so accustomed to seeing ourselves through other people’s judgments that we begin to distrust our own understanding of ourselves.

You know you asked a sincere question, but someone heard a challenge. Now you’re wondering whether you were being difficult without realizing it.

When this happens repeatedly, knowing what you meant can stop feeling like enough. You start anticipating how you’ll be interpreted and adjusting yourself before you’ve even spoken.

How You End Up Doing the Repair Work

If your questions were treated as backtalk growing up, it makes sense that you might explain why you’re asking. If people regularly mistook your expression for anger, you may have learned to smile when you didn’t feel like smiling.

Those adjustments may have helped. They may still help. The difficulty is that you can become accustomed to making them whether or not the person in front of you needs them.

A friend gets quiet, and you start searching for what you did wrong. Perhaps they’re tired. Perhaps something you said did bother them. You don’t yet know, but you’re already working on an apology.

This is where I think we need to ask more of the people around us.

Autistic researcher Damian Milton’s double empathy problem describes how autistic and non-autistic people can struggle to understand each other across differences in experience and perspective.

It challenges the assumption that a misunderstanding must originate with the autistic person. The framework was developed around autism, though the question of shared effort may also resonate with ADHD readers.

Consider what happens when someone assumes your directness means you’re annoyed. You can explain what you meant, but they also need to be willing to reconsider their interpretation. If they continue treating their first impression as more reliable than your explanation, there’s a limit to what further explaining can accomplish.

Of course, we can hurt people without intending to. And we still need to listen when someone tells us that happened. But there should be room in that conversation for them to listen to us, too.

The Conversation Ends, But You’re Still In It

Sometimes the most tiring part comes after social interactions. You’re making dinner and remembering a pause before someone answered you. You wonder whether you interrupted them. You pick up your phone, reread the message you’ve drafted, and decide it sounds excessive.

Then you wonder whether saying nothing would be worse.

Overexplaining can become a way of trying to settle that uncertainty. If you provide enough context, perhaps you can prevent someone from coming away with an impression of you that feels painfully wrong.

But you can’t always explain your way into feeling certain about what another person thinks. And the more time you spend trying, the less attention you may have for your own experience of the interaction.

Did you enjoy yourself? Were you comfortable? Did they make an effort to understand you?

These are questions that deserve some consideration before you spend hours deciding how to make yourself easier for others.

Letting Someone Else Do Their Part

I don’t think “just stop caring what people think” is particularly helpful advice here. Other people’s judgments can affect our relationships and our jobs. Some of us have good reasons to be careful.

A more manageable starting point is to notice when you’re responding to something that happened and when you’re responding to something you fear happened. Another person’s short reply might make you uneasy, but it doesn’t tell you much by itself.

With someone you trust, you could ask, “Did that come across differently from how I intended?” That gives them a chance to tell you, rather than leaving you to construct both sides of the conversation.

You can also ask for an adjustment that would make future conversations easier: “Sometimes my voice sounds flat when I’m concentrating. If you think I’m upset, please ask.”

Then notice what they do with that information. Someone who wants to understand you may still get it wrong, but over time you should see some willingness to check their assumptions. You shouldn’t need to deliver the same explanation indefinitely.

There may also be people with whom you already feel less pressure to monitor yourself. Think about what they do that helps. Perhaps they take your questions at face value, or tell you plainly when something bothers them. That can give you a clearer sense of what to ask for in other relationships.

Wrap Up

It takes practice to leave a conversation alone when you’re used to reviewing everything you said. You may still feel the urge to send another explanation, even with people who have given you no reason to worry.

You can take that slowly. Start with someone who has shown they’ll ask when they’re unsure, and give them a chance to follow through. Being understood becomes a little less exhausting when you can trust the other person to participate.

Do you find yourself explaining more than you wanted to because you’re afraid of being misunderstood?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD

When a hug doesn’t feel comforting: Neurodivergence, touch, and consent

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 3 minutes

Someone leans in and asks, “Can I give you a hug?” It’s meant to be comforting, maybe even healing.

But instead of warmth, your nervous system responds with alarm.

Do I have to? Will I seem rude if I say no? What if they think I don’t care about them?

For many autistic and ADHD people, seemingly simple gestures like hugs, handshakes, and pats on the back come with sensory discomfort, social expectations, and a lifetime of pressure to respond the “right” way.

When Touch Comes With an Invisible Social Script

Hugs and handshakes carry meaning.

A hug might communicate affection, reassurance, or connection. A handshake might signal politeness or respect.

Because these gestures are so normalized, declining them can feel surprisingly difficult.

You may not actually want the hug—but you also don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings. Which is why you might want to say yes.

You tense your body, endure the contact, smile afterward, and hope nobody notices how uncomfortable you were.

For some neurodivergent people, this becomes another form of masking: suppressing your natural response so other people remain comfortable.

Touch Can Feel Very Different in a Neurodivergent Body

Sensory experiences vary enormously from person to person.

A hug that feels soothing to someone else might feel irritating, invasive, or overwhelming to you. A handshake introduces all kinds of unpredictable and uncomfortable sensations, such as pressure or moisture.

Even an unexpected pat on the shoulder can leave some people feeling unsettled long after the other person has forgotten it happened.

At the same time, being touch-sensitive doesn’t necessarily mean disliking all touch.

You might dislike light touch but enjoy firm pressure. You might love hugs from someone you trust but dislike being hugged unexpectedly. Or you might enjoy touch one day and find the exact same gesture unbearable when you’re already overstimulated.

The important distinction is choice.

Touch tends to feel very different when you want it, expect it, and have some control over how it happens.

The Cost of Always Saying Yes

Many neurodivergent people learn early that their boundaries will not always be understood.

We hear messages like: “It’s only a hug.” “Don’t be so sensitive.” “They’re just trying to be nice.”

Eventually, those messages can become internal ones. You may start telling yourself that refusing physical affection makes you difficult, cold, or ungrateful.

So instead of asking, What does my body actually want? you ask, What response will make everyone else comfortable?

Repeatedly overriding yourself can make it harder to recognize your own preferences at all.

That’s one of the hidden costs of masking: you can become so practiced at performing comfort that you lose touch with whether you actually feel comfortable.

Try Modulating Instead of Masking

There is another option. I call it modulating.

Masking means suppressing yourself to meet someone else’s expectations. Modulating means finding a way to participate in connection while still respecting your own needs.

Instead of enduring a hug you don’t want, you might say: “I’m not much of a hug person, but I’m really happy to see you.”

You might offer a fist bump instead of a handshake. You might prefer a side hug. Or, with someone you trust, you might explain that firm pressure feels much better than a light embrace.

Modulation gives you permission to move away from an all-or-nothing choice between complete compliance and complete withdrawal.

You can still connect. You just get to have some say in how that connection happens.

Essy Knopf neurodivergent touch sensitivity

Consent Means the Answer Can Be No

Asking “Would you like a hug?” is only meaningful if saying no is genuinely acceptable.

Consent isn’t just about asking the question. It’s about respecting the answer without sulking, demanding an explanation, or treating someone’s boundary as rejection.

“No thanks.” “Not today.” “I’d rather fist bump.” Those should all be complete answers.

For neurodivergent people, creating this kind of consent culture can make relationships feel far safer.

It communicates something important: You don’t have to override your nervous system to prove that you care about me.

And that can create much more genuine intimacy than automatically performing a social ritual ever could.

Wrap Up

There is nothing inherently more loving about a hug than a wave, fist bump, smile, or heartfelt conversation.

The most meaningful form of connection is one both people can actually participate in comfortably.

Learning to identify your neurodivergent touch sensitivity—and communicate what does and doesn’t work for you—can take practice, especially after years of automatically putting other people’s comfort first.

But the people who care about you may appreciate being shown how to connect with you in a way that actually feels good.

What kind of touch feels comfortable to you—and which social gestures do you wish you felt more able to decline?

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.

www.essyknopf.com

Autism/ADHD

Finding connection when you’re neurodivergent

Essy Knopf Leave a comment

Reading time: 3 minutes

Before attending the event, you prepare a few questions in advance.

Once you’re there, you remind yourself not to interrupt, talk too much, or get carried away discussing something that interests you.

Even with all that preparation, the interaction may still feel strained.

Perhaps the other person becomes distracted or gives shorter responses. Maybe they change the subject abruptly or seem eager to end the conversation.

Afterward, it can be difficult not to wonder what went wrong.

When Rejection Turns into Self-Criticism

Repeated social difficulties can leave a lasting impression.

You may begin thinking: I talked too much. I was too intense. They must’ve thought I was strange.

These conclusions can feel convincing, particularly when they echo messages you have received over many years. Being corrected, excluded, misunderstood, or treated as socially inappropriate can gradually shape the way you as a neurodivergent person interpret later interactions.

This can also lead to you repeatedly replaying conversations. You might find yourself perseverating over others’ facial expressions, pauses, changes in tone, or particular words and trying to determine what they meant.

Although this may feel like an attempt to learn from the experience, it can easily become exhausting self-monitoring rather than useful reflection.

Social Difficulties Do Not Happen In Isolation

Neurodivergent people may be quick to assume that a difficult interaction reflects something they did wrong. But social communication is shaped by both people.

Your direct question may be interpreted as confrontational. Your enthusiasm may be read as being overly intense. A neurodivergent person’s indirect communication may be difficult to follow. Two people may also simply have different expectations around humor, openness, pacing, or emotional expression.

The double empathy problem offers one way of understanding this. Misunderstanding between neurodivergents and neurotypicals can be mutual rather than the result of a deficit on one side.

Not every unsuccessful interaction needs to be treated as a mistake that must be identified and corrected.

Sometimes the issue is simply a poor interpersonal fit.

Masking Can Complicate Belonging

For people who have experienced frequent rejection, masking may become a form of protection.

As neurodivergents, we often learn to speak less, suppress stimming, avoid discussing your interests, or carefully monitor how we are coming across to avoid being socially punished.

These strategies can certainly reduce social risk, but they can also make genuine connection more difficult, because other people are interacting with a highly managed version of you.

Not that one should abandon caution or disclosing everything immediately. What I’m suggesting is that it might be possible to allow more room, gradually and selectively, for your natural communication style, interests, and preferences to be visible.

Neurodivergent belonging can prove even more difficult to build when acceptance depends entirely on concealment.

Pay Attention To Compatibility

It can be useful to shift attention away from whether you successfully impressed someone and toward what the interaction was actually like for you.

Were you able to speak without monitoring every sentence? Did the other person show genuine interest? Could a misunderstanding be clarified without becoming a major rupture? Did you feel respected, even when your communication styles differed?

These questions offer information about compatibility rather than social performance.

You don’t need to be equally comfortable with everyone to belong. What is needed, rather, is relationships in which difference can exist without becoming a constant source of tension or judgment.

Wrap Up

After years of difficult social experiences, an awkward interaction can easily feel like confirmation of an old belief about yourself.

It may be more useful to consider a wider range of explanations, such as anxiety, incompatible communication styles, misunderstanding, the social setting, or simply a lack of mutual connection.

Finding meaningful relationships is not only a matter of improving social skill; it also involves finding people with whom understanding, respect, and reciprocity are possible.

Essy Knopf

Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.