Over the years, I’ve worked with a lot of neurodivergent people carrying the same fear: that their struggles meant something was fundamentally wrong with them.
They spent years being treated like their differences were problems to fix, hide, overcome, or apologize for.
People pushing themselves to exhaustion trying to seem “normal.”
People becoming experts at looking “fine.”
People hiding overwhelm, confusion, sensory pain, emotional intensity, or support needs because they were afraid of how others would react.
After enough conversations like these, I started writing something that eventually became The Neurodivergent Manifesto.
Part of it reads:
“We are not failed neurotypical people.”
“A person can struggle and still deserve dignity.”
“We deserve lives that do not require self-erasure.”
A lot of neurodivergent people learn early that authenticity comes with consequences.
As a result, they adapt.
They monitor themselves constantly. Rehearse conversations. Hide stress. Push through overload. Suppress needs. Become whoever other people seem most comfortable with.
And after doing that long enough, many end up carrying a deep sense of shame without fully realizing where it came from.
The problem was never simply being different, but rather existing in environments where difference was treated like failure.
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.
When people hear the word accessibility, they often think of ramps, elevators, wheelchair access, and accessible parking spaces. These accommodations are essential—but they’re also only part of the picture.
What often gets overlooked are the needs of people with invisible disabilities, including autistic and ADHD individuals.
You can walk into a space that appears inclusive on paper and still find yourself completely shut out of the experience.
Maybe the room acoustics are terrible, making it impossible to hear someone speaking. Maybe multiple conversations happening at once create sensory overload. Maybe fluorescent lighting feels physically painful. Maybe there’s no quiet space to decompress when things become overwhelming.
For someone with auditory processing challenges, ADHD, autism, sensory sensitivities—or a combination of these—these barriers can make participation exhausting.
I recently found myself in a community setting that was technically accessible. It had clear accommodations for physical disabilities, which was genuinely great to see.
But every time someone spoke into a microphone, they stood too far away for their voice to be heard clearly. Instead of hearing words, I heard muffled echoes and background noise.
Then came the social portion of the event, which was crowded, loud, and acoustically chaotic.
I wanted connection. I wanted community.
Pexels/Ekaterina Belinskaya
Instead, I found myself overwhelmed and frustrated.
And this is where many institutions miss the mark: accessibility often focuses on what can be easily seen while ignoring what can’t.
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.
One of the more confusing realities of being neurodivergent is realizing you can genuinely enjoy people while also feeling completely depleted by them.
For years, I interpreted this contradiction as a personality flaw.
I’d spend large chunks of my week surrounded by people—clients, classmates, colleagues, friends, family members—and often enjoy those interactions. I like meaningful conversations. I value community. I want connection.
And yet there would inevitably come a point where even the smallest social interaction would begin to feel unbearable.
A text message would come through and I’d feel irritated.
Someone would try making small talk and I’d immediately want to escape.
I’d attend a social event with every intention of staying, only to find myself mentally planning my exit within the first hour.
At my worst, even making eye contact can feel like too much effort.
This used to leave me feeling ashamed.
How could I claim to care about people while simultaneously feeling so overwhelmed by them?
Was I antisocial? Selfish? Secretly a misanthrope?
The answer, I eventually realized, was much simpler: my neurodivergent social battery was depleted.
For many autistics and ADHDers, social interaction involves far more effort than others realize.
We may be masking our natural communication style. We may be monitoring our facial expressions to appear engaged. We may be suppressing stims, navigating sensory overwhelm, interpreting vague social cues, and carefully filtering our words to avoid being misunderstood.
And when life already demands constant interaction—whether through work, school, caregiving responsibilities, friendships, or community obligations—our social battery can burn out quickly.
This is where things can feel especially frustrating.
Many neurodivergent people genuinely want connection. We may want close friendships, romantic relationships, community spaces, and meaningful conversations.
But wanting connection doesn’t mean we always have the capacity for it. That distinction matters.
Unfortunately, many of us compare ourselves to neurotypical people who seem able to maintain packed social calendars with little visible effort. They work full-time, attend gatherings, reply to messages instantly, maintain friendships, and somehow still seem energized.
Meanwhile, we may need an entire weekend alone just to feel remotely functional again. That comparison can trigger intense shame.
We tell ourselves we should push harder. Stay longer. Be more available. Try harder to seem engaged.
But shaming yourself into social performance rarely works. It usually just accelerates burnout.
Learning to respect your social limits can feel deeply uncomfortable, especially if you’ve spent years measuring your worth through productivity or availability.
Sometimes respecting your needs looks like leaving an event early. Sometimes it means declining invitations.
Sometimes it means spending your weekend gaming, reading, lying in bed, or sitting in complete silence while your nervous system recalibrates.
That isn’t laziness or avoidance, but self-awareness. And the more you honor your limits, the more sustainable connection becomes.
Have you ever found yourself craving connection while also feeling completely overwhelmed by people?
What helps you recharge when your neurodivergent social battery runs low?
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.
