Stimming. The word sounds clinical, sterile—like something you’d find in a psychology textbook. But in reality, stimming is alive. It’s joyful, chaotic, soothing, and deeply personal. For me, stimming is like breathing: it happens without thinking, but when I stop, the world feels sharper, harsher, less bearable.
The First Stim I Remember
I was seven, sitting on the carpet in our living room, rocking back and forth while watching The Magic School Bus. I didn’t know why I rocked; I just knew it felt good. My mom would glance over occasionally and say, “You’re going to wear out the carpet,” but she never made me stop.
By the time I was 12, though, I’d learned to hide it. The kids at school teased me for bouncing my leg under the desk, for tapping my pencil rhythmically during tests. “What’s wrong with you?” one boy asked after I spent an entire lunch period drumming my fingers on the table.
So I stopped. Or, more accurately, I got better at masking. I replaced my obvious stims—rocking, tapping, bouncing—with subtler ones, like picking at my cuticles or twirling a strand of hair around my finger. It wasn’t the same, though. Masked stims didn’t give me the same release, and by the end of the day, I’d be so tense I’d cry over nothing.
What Stimming Looks Like for Me Now
Fast forward to today, at 33, and stimming has become my lifeline again. I rock in my chair when I’m overwhelmed, flap my hands when I’m excited, and tap my fingertips together when I need to think. My desk is a shrine to stim toys: a smooth obsidian stone, a silicone chew necklace, and a fidget cube with buttons that click oh-so-satisfyingly.
One of my favorite stims is spinning. There’s something hypnotic about twirling in circles, feeling the ground blur beneath me. My neighbors probably think I’m odd when they see me spinning in the backyard, but honestly? I don’t care.
Why Do We Stim?
Stimming serves a purpose. For me, it’s a way to regulate my emotions and process sensory input. When the world feels overwhelming—too loud, too bright, too fast—stimming helps me find my center.
Scientists agree. According to the Autism Research Institute, stimming can help autistic people self-regulate in a chaotic environment. It’s also a form of communication. Flapping my hands, for instance, might say, “I’m excited!” while pacing back and forth says, “I need to think.”
And guess what? Neurotypical people stim too. Ever clicked a pen, tapped your foot, or chewed on a straw? That’s stimming. The difference is that when autistic people stim, it’s often bigger, bolder, and more noticeable.
The Stigma Around Stimming
Here’s where it gets frustrating: society loves to judge what it doesn’t understand. Stimming, especially in adults, is often seen as “weird” or “childish.” I can’t count the number of times someone’s asked me, “Why can’t you just sit still?”
When I was 19, I had a manager pull me aside at work and say, “Your fidgeting makes you look nervous. You need to be more professional.” I nodded and apologized, but inside, I felt like I was suffocating. Sitting still wasn’t an option—not if I wanted to stay sane.
The worst part? That stigma often makes us hide the very things that help us cope. It’s a vicious cycle: we mask our stims to fit in, but masking leads to burnout, which makes us stim more, which brings on more judgment.
Let’s Talk About Stim Toys
If you’re new to stimming—or just looking for ways to stim more freely—stim toys are a game-changer. Here are a few of my favorites:
- Chewable Necklaces: These silicone pendants are lifesavers when I need oral stimulation. Ark Therapeutic has some great options.
- Fidget Cubes: Each side has a different tactile feature—clicking, spinning, flipping. Perfect for keeping my hands busy during Zoom calls.
- Tangle Toys: They’re twisty, flexible, and endlessly satisfying to manipulate.
- Weighted Blankets: Not a “toy,” per se, but the deep pressure helps me feel grounded when I’m overstimulated.
Visual Snapshot
As I type this, I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch, rocking slightly as I tap out each word. The afternoon sunlight filters through the curtains, casting soft, dappled shadows on the floor. My obsidian stone rests in my lap, warm from my hands.
There’s a soft hum of traffic outside, and in the corner of the room, my cat is batting lazily at a string. It’s a peaceful moment, one where the world feels manageable.
FAQ
Q: Is stimming only for autistic people?
A: Nope! Everyone stims to some extent, but it’s more pronounced in autistic people. Neurotypical stims, like tapping or fidgeting, are just more socially accepted.
Q: Can stimming be harmful?
A: Sometimes. For example, I used to bite my nails until they bled—a stim I’ve since replaced with chewing necklaces. If your stim is causing harm, consider finding a safer alternative.
Q: How can I support someone who stims?
A: Don’t judge or ask them to stop. Instead, ask if there’s anything they need to feel more comfortable. If you’re in a public setting, help create a safe, judgment-free space.
Final Thoughts
Stimming isn’t weird or childish—it’s human. For autistic people like me, it’s a lifeline, a language, a way of navigating a world that often feels overwhelming.
So the next time you see someone flapping their hands or bouncing their leg, remember: they’re not being disruptive. They’re surviving. They’re thriving. They’re stimming.
And if you need me, I’ll be in the backyard, spinning under the sky until the static in my brain fades into peace.
