how are you?
Such a simple question. Four little words that roll off the tongue of most humans when they make contact – usually expecting nothing more than a quick “Fine, thanks” in return.
But for me? Those four words might as well be asking me to unravel the mysteries of the universe.
Because I’m not fine.
And yet, I also am fine.
I am everything and nothing, all at once.
I am living my dream and drowning in discomfort with each breath.
A Tale of Two Worlds
Imagine standing with your feet in two different worlds. One foot planted firmly in a lush garden, bursting with color, life bursting through every petal and leaf. The air is sweet, the sun warm on your skin. You feel profoundly, dizzyingly alive.
The other foot? It’s sinking in quicksand. Every movement is a struggle. The air is thick, oppressive. Each breath feels like it might be your last.
Now imagine experiencing both of these realities simultaneously, every single moment of every single day.
Welcome to my world.
Hi! I’m Steve. And, “how am I doing?” you ask?
I’m absolutely amazing. Life couldn’t be any better.
Oh, and, I’m struggling with being alive… every sensation feels almost painful, and every task feels like it takes the attention and focus of an Olympic athlete.
Both… at the same time. Together. The full spectrum of life in every moment. It’s a LOT.
The Garden: A Life Beyond Dreams
On one hand, I am living a life beyond my wildest dreams.
I wake up in my own space, soft light streaming through the windows of my condo, the trees outside my windows framing the city as its own living, breathing entity. This vibrant urban landscape, with its endless possibilities and constant hum of activity, is the home I’ve always longed for. It allows me to be by myself, while not feeling like I’m alone.
I work for myself, a dream that once seemed impossibly out of reach.
My days are filled with projects that light me up from the inside out – writing that flows from my heart, conversations that spark new ideas, and the thrill of building something meaningful.
The freedom to structure my time according to my own rhythms is a gift I cherish daily.
My furry little buddy, Connick, fills my days with unconditional love and moments of pure joy. His wagging tail and soulful eyes ground me in the present, reminding me of the simple pleasures that make life beautiful. Our quiet evenings together, his warm weight against my legs as I rest, are a balm for my often-overstimulated soul.
Spiritually, I’ve found a depth of connection that sustains and guides me. My practice of Remembrance, a form of meditation that connects me to the Divine, infuses my days with purpose and peace. It’s a lighthouse in the storm of sensory overwhelm, a reminder that there’s something greater than my individual struggles.
I am grateful.
I am fulfilled.
I am, truly, in every way, profoundly happy.
And yet.
Also.
The Quicksand: The Daily Battle of Neurodivergence
Every moment feels like a battle – even when, to any onlookers eyes, I seem absolutely fine.
As you may know, I’m autistic and so, due to excess and hyperactive brain circuits, my every day experience is created through hyper-perception, hyper-attention, hyper-stimulation, etc.
It’s hyper-hard.
My senses are constantly under siege. The world is too loud, too bright, too much.
My brain, bless its overactive little neurons, turns even the simplest tasks into Herculean feats.
Brushing my teeth isn’t just brushing my teeth. It’s a 77-step process (yes, I counted) that requires intense focus and energy. (Don’t even get me started on taking a shower.)
Walking Connick feels like preparing for an expedition to Everest – the mental checklist alone is exhausting: leash, harness, coat?, planning a route that avoids construction noise and crowded areas and traffic, bracing myself for unexpected social interactions. Do I have capacity to not wear my noise-cancelling headphones or earplugs? Will the amount of wind be too stimulating for me or Connick? Am I dressed properly? Do I feel safe in my clothes? Do I need more/less? How far will we go?
A trip to the store can leave me reeling for days. The fluorescent lights buzz like angry hornets in my skull, each product screams for attention with garish packaging, and the constant beeping of checkout scanners feels like needles in my eardrums. By the time I escape, I’m a quivering bundle of overstimulated nerves, barely able to form coherent thoughts.
The constant overstimulation often manifests as physical pain.
Aches wander through my body like a hiker on a mountain trail, from the sheer effort of existing in a world that feels like it wasn’t built for minds like mine.
My muscles tense against invisible threats, and sometimes even gentle touch feels like sandpaper on raw skin.
Certain types of lightbulbs are too loud for me.
Sometimes I can’t eat food because the texture is round, and I don’t like how round feels in my mouth.
But the challenges go beyond just sensory issues.
I struggle with executive function – the mental processes that help us plan, focus, and juggle multiple tasks. For me, this means that organizing my workday can feel like trying to herd cats while juggling flaming torches.
I might hyperfocus on one task for hours, losing track of time and other responsibilities, only to find myself paralyzed by indecision when it’s time to switch gears.
Social interactions, even with people I care about, require intense mental effort. This is because of “masking” – hiding or suppressing my natural autistic traits to fit in socially. This constant performance is exhausting. A simple coffee date with a friend can leave me drained for hours, struggling to process the subtext and unspoken social cues that seem to come so naturally to others.
I happen to have “low support needs” with my autism, so on the outside, I usually look like I function just fine. (there’s that word again)
But, the cognitive dissonance of having low support needs while struggling with basic daily tasks is a special kind of mental anguish.
I can deliver a talk to thousands of people, but afterwards, I might not be able to figure out how to order lunch.
I can design a beautiful website, but deciding what to wear in the morning can send me into a tailspin – unable to make a decision.
And then there’s the constant, low-level angst that comes from navigating a world that often feels alien and unpredictable. Will today be the day my carefully constructed self-care systems fail? Will I miss an important social cue and inadvertently offend someone? Will the cacophony of city life finally overwhelm my fragile sensory defenses?
Living with autism in a neurotypical world is like being a PC trying to run Mac software – possible, with a lot of extra processing power and the occasional system crash, but never quite seamless. I will never have enough RAM to make it totally functional.
Rejection Sensitivity & Demand Avoidance – just for extra spice
On top of all this, I experience Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD), a constant, unwelcome companion that turns even the smallest perceived slight into an emotional tsunami.
A friend doesn’t answer a question I asked in my text message? My brain spirals into a vortex of self-doubt and imagined scenarios where I’ve irreparably damaged the relationship or they just don’t care about me at all.
Something I share doesn’t resonate with a reader? Suddenly I’m questioning my entire business, certain that I’m a fraud about to be exposed and completely unworthy of having my own perspective.
(By the way… I know it doesn’t make sense. I know it doesn’t make sense. And, as a micro expression of this whole piece of writing I’m sharing with you – I both know it isn’t true, but also have the experience of it being true. It’s both. I don’t really believe it, but I also refuse to gaslight my own experience. And it’s not just mental reframing that’ll fix it. Trust me… I’ve heard it all, and tried it all.)
RSD doesn’t just sting – it sears, leaving emotional burn marks that can take days to fade.
If that wasn’t enough good times, I also experience Pathological Demand Avoidance (PDA) which is more often referred to as “Pervasive Demand for Autonomy” which feels much better in my skin.
PDA adds another layer of complexity to my days. It’s not just about avoiding demands – it’s a deep-seated, almost primal need to resist expectations, even ones I’ve set for myself.
It’s not that I don’t WANT to do something… it’s that, when PDA is active, I literally can not.
Some days, the mere thought of having to do something – anything – sends me into a state of turmoil. I might spend hours psyching myself up to make a phone call, only to find myself suddenly engrossed in reorganizing my todo list instead.
It’s not laziness or procrastination; it’s an overwhelming, visceral reaction to demands that feels hardwired into my nervous system.
And it’s not only actual, real, literal demands – this happens even with things that could be subtly perceived as a demand. One time a dear friend tried to offer some help with something I was struggling with, but because of my PDA (and the type of help they were offering), I couldn’t accept it. And, it would have been really helpful had I not perceived the demands on me that would have come along with it.
PDA turns simple tasks into Herculean challenges, adding an extra layer of struggle to everyday life that most people never have to consider.
I mean… just think of all the things that a grown human has to do day to day for their well-being – you know, the normal, typical demands of living: eating, cleaning, shopping, dishes, laundry, animal care, exercise, going to the bathroom, making calls, running errands, taking out the garbage, getting dressed, responding to emails, going to appointments, paying bills, watering plants, getting gas in your car, doing yard work, making food multiple times a day.
How does one live when all these demands take so much energy, attention, focus, and care to actually attend to? It ain’t easy, let me tell ya.
These experiences – the sensory overload, the executive function struggles, the social exhaustion, RSD, and PDA – they’re the flip side of my vibrant, fulfilling life. They’re the price of admission for a brain that sees the world in vivid, intense detail, that finds patterns and connections others miss, that feels everything so deeply.
The Tapestry of Joy and Struggle
But even after all of this… please don’t forget. I’m also really joyful, fulfilled, and full of life!
It’s a package deal, this neurodivergent life of mine. The joy and the struggle, the fulfillment and the overwhelm – they’re all threads in the same tapestry, inseparable and, in their own way, beautiful.
This is my daily reality – a spectrum that spans from profound joy to intense struggle, often within the same breath. It’s beautiful, it’s challenging, it’s exhausting, it’s fulfilling. It’s life, amplified to twelve on every possible dial.
So when you ask me how I’m doing, what do I say?
Do I tell you about the garden or the quicksand?
The truth is, I can’t separate them. They are interwoven, a tapestry of joy and struggle, fulfillment and frustration. To speak of one without the other feels dishonest, a disservice to the complexity of my lived experience.
But who has time for all that when they’re just making small talk in the elevator?
So I smile and say, “I’m fine,” all the while feeling like a fraud. Because “fine” doesn’t begin to capture the wildly oscillating spectrum of my daily existence. Yet, I prefer saying how amazing I am because people enjoy hearing that more than the litany of struggles I’m facing in any given moment.
Saying, “I’m good,” feels like it liberates both me and others from having to face the reality of life, and allows us to move on to more pressing matters. (If “gag me with a spoon” was still a phrase, this is where I’d write it. But I won’t because it’s not the 80s anymore. Man oh man do I miss the 80s.)
I wish I could tell you that I’m simultaneously on top of the world AND crushed under its weight. That I’m deeply grateful for this life AND also find it profoundly challenging. That I can feel utterly content AND completely overwhelmed in the same breath.
Most people don’t have the capacity (or desire) to hold all of that with me.
And if I’m being completely transparent (which, I am), I simply feel diminished without telling the whole story.
Being on top of the world seems kinda meaningless without the struggles of having gotten there.
Feeling incredibly grateful for the fulfilling and wonderful life I live seems a bit hollow without the context of the intense darkeness of challenge and discomfort through which that gratitude shines.
The beautiful contentedness I experience with life seems one dimensional without understanding the additional axes of pain and overwhelm that give it three dimensional shape.
I wish I could help you understand that, for me, happiness isn’t the absence of struggle – it’s learning to embrace the whole messy, beautiful spectrum of my human experience.
For me, loving life isn’t conditional.
It used to be.
Loving life used to be based on how many “good” moments I had.
But it’s not like that anymore. Because every moment includes the whole spectrum of my experience – and for me – that’s always welcome – even when it hurts.
Because here’s the thing: I wouldn’t trade this life for anything.
Yes, it’s hard.
Yes, there are days when the sensory overload and constant mental gymnastics leave me exhausted to my core, sometimes broken in autistic shutdown.
But still, it’s also rich, and full, and brimming with purpose.
I am acutely aware of every moment, every sensation, every stimulating input. I don’t just live my life; I experience it with an intensity that takes my breath away.
So how am I doing?
I’m struggling. I’m thriving. I’m both and neither and everything in between.
I am human, in all its glorious complexity.
And that, my friend, is anything but fine.