The Time I Wanted to Write About Neurodivergence — But the Words Wouldn’t Come

I usually plan my posts, and more often than not, they turn out just as I intended. But sometimes, they don’t. This is the second time now that I’ve faced a strong resistance to writing on the topic I originally planned. This time, the resistance was so strong I put off writing for almost two weeks. Maybe that’s one form of writer’s block — when the energy just won’t flow because what your head wants to create doesn’t quite align with what your heart needs to say. Who knows.

Originally, I wanted to write about neurodivergence and how it compares to trauma. It seemed like a reasonable topic — there are some clear parallels in how both can express themselves. Trauma can make life even harder when you’re neurodivergent. And neurodivergence, in its own way, is a trauma, too. But that’s where it pretty much ends.

What stopped me from going deeper is this: I don’t think many people would really care. I’ve moved through both spheres — the trauma-informed world and the neurodivergence-aware communities — and what I’ve noticed is that people tend to stay in their chosen bubble. It’s how they define themselves. They wouldn’t be interested in hearing that their experience might be shaped by both trauma and neurodivergence, or that their symptoms could actually be more trauma-related than neurodivergence-related. Because in the end, the symptoms — the language of the nervous system, the shortcomings — can look the same. And they may or may not all originate in trauma after all: the kind we’ve endured since conception, and the kind we’ve inherited. But it doesn’t matter how much you dissect the similarities and differences — people need these labels to define themselves. They don’t care to grow from them.

I’ve met so many people who wear trauma like a badge — stuck in misery over the lost chances of a perfect childhood, blaming parents for setting them up to fail. And don’t get me wrong, we all have to get to that place briefly to heal. Our parents might have been and still are less than ideal, and life might have started out unfairly. But eventually, we have to move on. It’s how we do it that defines who we are. Not the trauma itself.

The same is true for neurodivergence. You have to understand how your life has shaped out the way it has because you’ve always been the odd one out — not by choice, but because the way you perceive and process the world made it hard for those around you to truly understand who you are: your parents, your social circles at school, the teachers…

Lately, I’ve felt disappointed by both those worlds. By the people in them. The people who were still self-absorbesd, still not curious about life, still not community-ready. So I’ve decided to stop identifying with either. I don’t want any of it.

I am neurodivergent — with signs of ADHD that could very well stem from a dysregulated childhood, autistic traits that show up in my inability to truly understand people, despite being able to read them just fine, and some unusual brain wiring that others liken to giftedness. I’m also highly sensitive, though whether that’s neurodivergent or not, people will probably never agree.

Even within the highly sensitive person community, there seem to be different kinds. Some feel everything deeply and crave connection. Others get overwhelmed easily, take in more than they choose and shut down with too much input. I’m not that type. I crave stimulation. I do need breaks, sure — but I don’t avoid crowds. I celebrate them. I could stand in Piccadilly Circus at night, be soaking up the flashy colours, and have a picnic right there while enjoying the people celebrating life itself.

The same goes for trauma. Yes, I am surely traumatised. My body speaks that language. But I’m not someone who acts out of it. I’m not entitled, ignorant, insecure, or destructive. Though for me, too, it was a process to get there. Over time, I’ve shifted my perspective — and now I see trauma most clearly in those who avoid self-reflection at all costs. They are the truly traumatised. To put trauma into perspective: by this definition, the vast majority of the population is traumatised and unconsciously acting from it. Or, as I sometimes say: the people who most need therapy are rarely the ones who go, while those of us who do are usually the ones ready to do the work and make repairs. So in that sense — no, I’m not traumatised. Even though I am.

Honestly, I wish we didn’t have all these narratives, all these labels to get lost in. I want to unlearn the theory, the boxes that don’t quite fit. Because none of those labels fully capture who I am. I’m a little traumatised, definitely neurodivergent, highly sensitive but not overstimulated. I’m all of those things, and none of them.

After all the experiences I’ve had with people who define themselves by their labels, I can say this: I don’t want to identify with any of it anymore. I am me. Sensitive and caring. A bit weird. Curious to a fault. I don’t manage life well like others do — but then, does anyone really? Or do we all just use coping mechanisms that make it look like we do?

What I do identify with is this: I am a community person. I care deeply for others who care for others in return. I want to create a life worth living — not just adjust to the broken standards of the times we live in. I know I have potential, still untapped, and I don’t quite know what to do with it yet. I identify as sad, too, because I’m still searching for my home. Not just inside myself, but out there too.

Now my energy is flowing the right way. The words bubbled up and out. And finally, I’ve written the article about neurodivergence and trauma that I’ve been trying to write for two weeks. Maybe not the one I planned — but the one that needed to be written.

How about that? I’d love to hear what you think.