This post was hard to write because it’s hard to explain—but I need to try.
People often ask if I’m okay.
Usually, the answer is no—but not in the way they think. I’m not sick, not injured, not recovering from surgery or fighting off a cold. My body just… hurts. All the time. Not in a dramatic or even easily explainable way. Just in this persistent, buzzing, exhausting way that lives in my shoulders, my jaw, my stomach, my spine.
And no, it’s not “just anxiety.”
(Though sure, anxiety shows up too. It’s got VIP access at this point.)
What I’m trying to say is: I’m autistic. I have ADHD. And I carry pain—literal, physical pain—in my body almost every single day. It builds up in places I can’t always stretch out or rest away. I hold tension in my neck like I’m bracing for a crash that never happens. I clench my jaw until it aches. My back is a battlefield. And don’t even get me started on my digestive system.
But here’s the thing:
I didn’t get into a car accident. I didn’t pull something.
I didn’t do anything to deserve this pain.
I just am—sensitive.
Too Much, All the Time
Autistic and ADHD bodies often feel like they’re tuned to a different frequency. The world that others experience as background noise can feel like a full-blown rock concert in my nervous system.
Loud sounds? Tension.
Bright lights? Tension.
An unexpected comment, a small conflict, a passive-aggressive email? Yep, tension.
Even when something good happens—something exciting or beautiful—my body reacts. Because emotion, for me, is physical. Joy floods my chest. Grief sinks into my hips. Shame slithers into my stomach. I don’t just think or feel emotions—I store them. I wear them.
And that would be fine if my body were some kind of emotional Tupperware container. But it’s not. It leaks. It overflows. It breaks down.
My 20s Were a Blur of Pain
Through most of my 20s, I had terrible, unexplained pain—especially in my neck, shoulders, and traps. No injury, no diagnosis. Just a kind of constant body-scream no one else could hear.
Every time I brought it up to a doctor, they seemed confused. My nurse practitioner once offered me muscle relaxers, but I declined. I was already managing enough meds—ADHD, depression, anxiety—and didn’t want to add another layer.
I tried getting massages. They felt great in the moment, but the pain always came back. Same with chiropractors. I saw a couple, even committed to a full treatment plan. Each time, they’d say something like, “Have you been in a car accident recently?”
Nope. Never.
They couldn’t understand how my neck could carry that much stored trauma unless something had physically happened to me. But something had happened—just not in the way they expected. I’ve been living in a body that reacts to the world like it’s too much, too fast, too loud. Because for me, it is.
Yoga, stretching, and meditation help. They really do. But the relief is temporary, because the world doesn’t pause. The moment I reenter it—back into the bright lights, clashing sounds, sudden emotions, and social expectations—the pain starts crawling back in.
My ex-husband used to give me back massages, trying to help. He’d say it felt like bubble wrap back there—except not the kind you can pop. Just these crunchy, stuck little knots of tension. That’s what I carried. Still do.
Hypersensitivity Isn’t a Metaphor—It’s Neurological
There’s research out there that explains this better than I can. Studies show that autistic individuals often have increased sensitivity to pain, altered pain thresholds, and heightened interoception—meaning we feel internal sensations (like heartbeat, muscle tension, or digestive discomfort) more intensely.¹ ADHD adds its own chaos: constant scanning, restlessness, hyperawareness, and the never-ending effort to regulate.
And then there’s emotional pain, which doesn’t stay in my mind—it lives in my body. Especially when I’ve masked all day, ignored my own needs, or absorbed the feelings of everyone around me like a walking sponge.
When It’s Invisible, It’s Dismissed
This is what people don’t see when they ask if I’m okay.
They don’t see the full-body effort it takes to not fidget or cry or shut down in public. They don’t see the internal screaming when a light flickers or someone interrupts me four times in a row. They don’t see the pain that comes from trying to seem “normal.”
Because it’s not just the sensory overload—it’s the masking. It’s the people-pleasing. It’s the emotional labor of trying to be less “too much.”
I’m not saying all autistic or ADHD people experience pain like this—but I am saying many of us do. And I’m one of them.
So If You’re Reading This…
Maybe you’re one of those people who never understood why I cancel plans last-minute. Or why I seem so tired all the time. Or why I talk like I’m on fire, but move like I’m underwater. Maybe you’ve never realized how much pain a body can hold when the world keeps pushing too hard, too fast, too loud.
Or maybe you do know what I mean. Maybe your body hurts too, for reasons no one else sees or believes.
To you, I say: you’re not imagining it.
And you’re not alone.
We are bodies that feel too much in a world that demands we feel nothing. But our pain is real. And it matters.
🧠 Research & Footnotes
- Autistic People and Pain Perception
- Research shows altered pain thresholds and heightened pain responses in autistic individuals. Some report being more sensitive to certain types of pain, while others may under-report it due to interoception difficulties or alexithymia.
- Source: Failla, M. D., et al. (2020). “Pain Perception in Autism Spectrum Disorder: A Review.” Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders.
- ADHD and Somatic Complaints
- Individuals with ADHD are more likely to report chronic pain, headaches, and somatic symptoms, likely tied to nervous system dysregulation.
- Source: Mikita, N., et al. (2015). “Somatic symptoms and their association with anxiety and depression in children and adolescents with ADHD.” European Child & Adolescent Psychiatry.
- Interoception and Emotional Pain
- Neurodivergent individuals often experience interoception differently, which can lead to heightened awareness of internal pain and discomfort, and difficulty identifying or verbalizing these sensations.
- Source: Quattrocki, E., & Friston, K. (2014). “Autism, oxytocin and interoception.” Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews.
