Neurodivergent Space

Diagnosed with autism at the age of five, Addie began her journey of self-discovery at thirteen, when she became more aware of her condition. Rather than viewing her diagnosis as a limitation, she embraced it as an opportunity to build resilience and reshape her perspective. Now a Life Coach with over 700 clients, she is dedicated to guiding others through their challenges. She is also pursuing her master’s degree to become an Art Psychotherapist, aiming to create meaningful mental health spaces where everyone feels understood and supported.

Do I Sink or Swim?

As a child, I often felt like I was drowning in the experience of my autism. The world easily overwhelmed me, and I felt an almost constant need to keep moving, fearing that if I stayed still, I wouldn’t be able to fully grasp how life worked around me. When people spoke to me, it was as though their voices were muffled, as if they were underwater. I struggled to understand not only their words but also the meaning behind their expressions. This left me feeling disconnected, as if I were sinking in an ocean of confusion from an early age.

It wasn’t just words or conversations that overwhelmed me. It was everything—the colors, the sounds, the emotions that seemed to fill every space I occupied. When I walked into a room, I felt like I was stepping into a storm of sensations, all crashing against each other. It was hard to know where to focus, what to prioritize, or how to make sense of the chaos. My mind races constantly, trying to put the pieces together in a way that made sense, but often it just felt like I was missing something essential that everyone else seemed to understand without trying.

Growing up, it felt like I was navigating a world that wasn’t made for me. Every interaction felt like trying to breathe in a space where the air didn’t quite reach. I had to work twice as hard to interpret conversations, to make sense of social cues, and to understand what others seemed to grasp so effortlessly. I was always searching for a way in, a way to connect, but I often felt like I was just watching life happen from the outside. I watched the other kids from a distance, trying to decode their games, their conversations, their seemingly effortless interactions. It felt like they were all swimming together, perfectly in sync, while I was stuck in a separate pool, trying to figure out the basics of staying afloat. I’d mimic their behavior, but it never felt natural. I’d smile when they smiled, laugh when they laughed, but it wasn’t real—at least, not in the way I thought it should be. I always wondered what I was missing.

My parents believed in me and loved me deeply, even when others doubted I’d ever “get it.” They were like my floaties, supporting me and lifting me up. But they knew they couldn’t always hold me above water, and that I’d need to learn to swim on my own.

The Waters of Adolescence

Adolescence was a time when I felt like I was slipping beneath the surface again. It was no longer just about understanding the world around me—it became about trying to fit into a world that demanded I be something I wasn’t. School was a minefield of social expectations, and I felt like I was constantly walking on eggshells, trying not to step out of line.

The bullying was relentless, not just because I was different, but because I didn’t fit the script. It wasn’t always obvious—sometimes it was just the subtle looks or the whispered comments that stung the most. But there were also moments when the cruelty was direct, like when kids would mock the way I spoke or acted. My movements, which were a natural response to feeling overwhelmed, were seen as weird or robotic. 

Then while others picked up on humor and sarcasm with ease, I struggled. I couldn’t respond fast enough, and when I finally did, the moment had passed. I was seen as the odd one, the one who didn’t quite get it. Their laughter felt sharp, and I couldn’t help but feel isolated in a world where I was always out of sync.

I was labeled as robotic, not because I was emotionless, but because I couldn’t make eye contact or stop the movements that came from my overwhelm. I knew they didn’t understand me, but it hurt that they didn’t try. People thought I was isolating myself, or worse, that I was too strange to fit in. And when I tried to speak up, I often said the wrong thing—or so it seemed. The more I tried, the more I flailed, like I was sinking deeper, lost in panic, feeling like I might never belong. It wasn’t just the external pressures, though. Internally, I was battling the same question over and over: Why couldn’t I be like everyone else?

But then something clicked: How could I expect anyone to understand me when I didn’t even understand myself?

Finding Myself and My Rhythm to Stay Afloat

It wasn’t until much later in life that I started to realize that I didn’t have to swim like everyone else. For years, I had been fighting against myself, trying to fit into a mold that wasn’t designed for me. But slowly, I began to see that there was another way. I didn’t have to follow the same strokes as everyone else—I could find my own rhythm. I had to come to terms with who I am and how autism affects my ability to navigate life. I had to learn about me—how my autism shaped my capacity to adapt and thrive. I had to acknowledge the discomfort I felt, and to accept that overstimulation, frustration, and the endless circle of “Why am I different? Why can’t I just be like everyone else?” shouldn’t limit me in life.

It took time—years, really—But the moment of relief came when I finally looked myself in the eye and accepted that I am different, that I won’t ever be like anyone else, and that’s okay. At first, it felt like defeat, but as I matured, it became an epiphany: “If I’m not going to be like everyone else, why try so hard to be? Why not just be myself?”

I used to try hard to blend in, to move with the current. But the more I forced myself into those expectations, the more I sank. It wasn’t until I began to embrace my own rhythm, my own way of moving through life, that I started to stay afloat.

I had to accept that I’d always be different, and that overstimulation was part of my reality. But instead of seeing them as weights pulling me down, I began to see them as the currents that shaped who I was. Accepting myself was the key to survival. It wasn’t about fighting the water—it was about learning to move with it, to let it carry me where I needed to go.

That realization freed me. Instead of just surviving, I began to embrace living—swimming through life in my own way.

Learning to Swim, Even When I Felt Like Sinking

The first rule of swimming is to relax in the water, but that’s easier said than done. For someone like me, the idea of “relaxing” feels counterintuitive. My mind translates that instruction into something like: “This process will be uncomfortable, but do it anyway because we don’t deserve to be buried underwater.” And so, I swam—not because I had to, but because I genuinely wanted to.

I learned that it’s not just external pressures that make us sink—it’s the inner fears too. I had to stop letting those fears take over and start trusting myself, piece by piece, to keep moving forward. It wasn’t easy, but with time, practice, and patience, I built the confidence to stay afloat, even when the water felt too deep and once felt suffocating.

Navigating the Deep End

Social situations were like jumping into the deep end, with no floaties, and life vests. Every conversation felt like I was treading water, overthinking every word, every expression, every gesture. What did they really mean? What should my face be doing? Was I standing the right way? Am I saying the right thing? It was exhausting, and I often felt like I was sinking under the weight of trying to fit in.

But instead of drowning in that pressure, I learned that I didn’t have to do it all at once. I started focusing on one thing at a time, going at my own pace, and being okay with not understanding everything right away. I started to focus on small victories. One conversation where I didn’t overanalyze every detail. One social event where I could just be myself, without worrying about whether I was doing it “right.” I stopped trying to follow everyone else’s stroke and found my own pace. Little by little, I learned how to navigate those moments without losing myself and that being uncomfortable was part of the journey.

One Stroke at a Time

Learning to swim with autism didn’t happen all at once. It was a series of small strokes—tiny moments of progress. In school, it meant surviving day by day, despite the bullying. At social events, it meant trial and error—finding people I connected with and realizing I didn’t have to please everyone. In my career, it meant advocating for myself and proving my worth, even when I felt small.

Every small success mattered. Each small victory was a stroke that kept me moving forward, I celebrated, because they were moments I never thought I’d reach. They reminded me just how far I’d come. Each stroke brought me closer to feeling like I could stay afloat in this world.

Redefining the Water

In the beginning, water felt like this overwhelming force, always threatening to drown me, always trying to pull me under—something I had to fight against just to survive. It represented fear, the unknown, and a world I couldn’t fully understand. But over time, my perspective shifted. The water didn’t have to suffocate me—it could also support me. I began to realize that this same water could make me feel buoyant, free, and weightless. The water didn’t have to be my enemy. It could be something that supported me, to find my own way.

Now, the water feels different. It no longer represents fear or being overwhelmed. Instead, it feels refreshing, like a space where I can move at my own pace.

It’s no longer about sinking or swimming like everyone else—it’s about finding my own rhythm, and letting the water carry me as I navigate my life.