If I could hand you my brain for just a minute, I would. Not out of frustration (though some days it’s tempting), but because there are no perfect words to describe what it feels like to be autistic. But if I had to try? It’s like static, silence, and sensory fireworks all at once—a chaotic symphony that never quite stops.
The Static
Imagine you’re listening to the radio, but the station isn’t tuned properly. There’s music, faint and distant, but it’s drowned out by a constant hiss of static. That’s what it feels like in my head on a bad day.
It’s not that I can’t hear or see or think—it’s that everything happens all at once. The lights are too bright, the clock is ticking too loudly, and someone across the room is chewing their gum like it’s a personal attack. My brain tries to process it all, but the signals get tangled, and suddenly, I’m overwhelmed.
Here’s a story: last month, I went to a coffee shop to write. Within five minutes, I was drowning. The espresso machine hissed like a snake, the barista called out orders like a drill sergeant, and the guy next to me was clacking away on his laptop like he was trying to destroy the keyboard. I left without ordering, sat in my car, and cried.
It’s not just noise. It’s everything. And on days like that, the world feels unbearable.
The Silence
But then there are the quiet days. The ones where I can hyperfocus so deeply that the static disappears.
When I was a kid, I spent hours building elaborate Lego cities in my room. I didn’t hear my mom calling me for dinner. I didn’t notice the sun setting outside my window. I was lost in the flow, completely consumed by the task at hand.
As an adult, that hyperfocus has become my superpower and my downfall. It’s how I’ve spent entire weekends perfecting a single paragraph of writing, but it’s also why I sometimes forget to eat or sleep or text people back.
The silence isn’t peace—it’s tunnel vision. And while it’s exhilarating, it comes with a price: exhaustion, burnout, and sometimes the crushing realization that I’ve neglected everything else in my life.
The Fireworks
And then there are the fireworks—the bursts of joy, fascination, and awe that come from simply being alive.
I once spent three hours staring at the waves during a beach trip, mesmerized by the way the sunlight danced on the water. Another time, I cried in the middle of a museum because I was so moved by the texture of a painting.
This is the part of autism that people don’t talk about enough. The beauty of noticing the things most people overlook. The thrill of diving headfirst into a passion and discovering layers of joy you didn’t know existed. The way the world feels both bigger and smaller, stranger and more familiar, all at the same time.
