In this blog, our Trauma Ambassador Georgina shares the things she doesn’t always understand due to neurodiversity and the things she does: “There are so many things I don’t always understand. Not because I’m not trying. Not because I’m not aware. And definitely not because I don’t care — but because I see and feel the world differently. That difference doesn’t just live on the surface. It lives deep, in the mechanics of how I process, how I interpret, how I cope, and how I survive.
I spend a lot of time trying to make sense of things that seem to come so easily to others — things invisible to them but colossal to me. Here’s what it feels like from where I’m standing.
Things I Don’t Always Understand
- Social expectations. I watch people move through conversations like they’ve got a script I was never handed. Small talk feels like a foreign language I only half-learned. I worry about getting it wrong — saying too much, not enough, speaking out of turn, missing a cue. I try to follow. I try to copy. But I never quite get it right. Sometimes, I just want to speak honestly — not perform connection, but feel it.
- Why people can’t see what I’m carrying. Just because I’m standing doesn’t mean I’m not breaking. Just because I smile doesn’t mean I’m okay. There’s a whole world behind my eyes — the overwhelm, the shutdowns, the exhaustion — and sometimes I wish people could see that.
- Why we’re expected to bend into neurotypical shapes. I know how to tick the boxes. I know how to say the right things. But none of it feels safe. None of it feels mine. Why is the world built to reward conformity instead of authenticity?
- Emotions I feel strongly but can’t name. I can be overflowing inside and completely silent outside. I can want connection but not know how to reach for it. I’ve learned to press feelings down, but they erupt later — bigger, messier, harder to hide.
- Why empathy is selective. Why do people only believe pain they can see? I’ve tried to explain, to share, to educate — and too often I’m met with confusion, dismissal, or silence. Being misunderstood is lonely. Being ignored is worse.
- Why small things feel so big. A phone call. A loud shop. A change of plan. My system gets flooded — too much noise, too many inputs, too many things I’m supposed to juggle. I can’t always explain it in the moment. But it’s real. It’s heavy. And it’s exhausting.
- The unpredictability of my reactions. One minute I’m coping. The next, I’m spiralling. Sometimes my senses crash all at once — sound, light, emotion, everything. I wish people would understand it’s not “just a mood.” It’s survival.
- Ambiguity of social signals. Words don’t always match tone. Tone doesn’t always match intention. Body language contradicts everything. I second-guess. I overthink. I replay conversations, picking apart every glance, every pause.
- Logic of some conversations. Small talk confuses me. Sarcasm confuses me. Polite lies, hidden meanings, saying one thing and meaning another — it’s a puzzle I didn’t sign up to solve.
- Balancing self-advocacy with energy. Advocating is hard, especially when you’re already tired from masking, from surviving, from trying to explain the same things over and over again. I want to be understood — but I don’t always have the energy to keep fighting for that understanding.
- Why change feels jarring. Even good change. Even planned change. It’s like my brain needs time to catch up. But the world doesn’t slow down. People expect immediate adaptation. I can’t always give that — it’s not resistance. It’s regulation.
- Being myself in a world that rewards pretending. Masking kept me safe — but it also fractured my sense of who I am. I’m still learning how to unmask, and it’s both freeing and terrifying.
Things I Understand — That You Might Not
- Details and patterns. I notice the tiniest shifts — a shadow moving, a tone changing, a room feeling different before anyone else enters. It can feel exhausting, but it means I see what others don’t.
- The unspoken. I feel what’s not said, what’s implied, what’s left hanging in the air. Others might ignore it, or take it lightly. I notice it. I hold it.
- Consistency and routine. To some, it seems rigid. To me, it’s survival, it’s comfort, it’s the scaffolding that keeps the world from collapsing.
- Intensity of feeling. Many people downplay emotions or avoid them. I live them fully — pain, joy, wonder — all vivid, alive, undeniable.
- The fatigue of masking. Few notice it, but I live it every day. Every effort to appear “normal” carries victories and small betrayals of self.
- Thinking differently. I see connections others miss, solve puzzles from angles they wouldn’t consider, create solutions from chaos. Neurodivergence is perspective, not deficit.
- The language of silence. Silence can speak louder than words. Not everyone sees it. Not everyone listens. But I do.
- Depth of empathy. I notice what others might call “too much” — the suffering, the joy, the nuance — and I feel it deeply. That awareness is a gift, not a burden.
- Adaptation in ways invisible. While change can feel jarring, I also notice opportunities others miss. I can recalibrate, pivot, and perceive what’s necessary to survive and thrive.
- The value of authenticity. I understand that being myself — even when it feels risky or fractured — is worth more than a polished mask ever could be.
Even when the world feels confusing, even when I’m overwhelmed, I know this:
I see things others don’t. I feel things others can’t. I live fully, fiercely, differently — and that difference is not a flaw. It’s a perspective, a strength, a way of being that matters.
If you’ve ever felt the world doesn’t quite make sense to you, maybe you’ll see yourself somewhere in this too.
You’re not alone — in not understanding, or in understanding more than you realize.”
Georgina, Trauma Ambassador