The Invisibility of Unseen Challenges
Do you ever feel invisible because of the learning challenges you live with—or because you have emotions you struggle to express? Maybe you’ve felt misunderstood because it’s hard to explain what it’s like to be you. If so, I want you to know you are not alone.
I’ve felt invisible more times than I can count. Part of it is because my learning challenges aren’t always obvious. I’ve learned to mask them well. The same is true of my chronic migraine condition. I’ve gotten so good at hiding them that people often have no idea I’m in pain. On the outside, I may appear fine; inside, I might be counting the minutes until I can rest.
While I’ve improved in some areas—especially in handling social situations—I still have a long way to go. Social problems haven’t vanished from my life; they just show up differently now. And sometimes, the hardest part is when the people around me minimize what I’m going through.
When Others Don’t See What You See
One example that sticks with me happened in my spiritual community. I was trying to explain my struggles with math, and someone responded, “Oh, I have the same issue!” They were neurotypical. Another person said, “But you can drive, right?” As if driving cancels out my challenges with numbers.
The truth is, I struggle with mental math, abstract concepts, and managing my budget. I rely on a calculator for even simple checks. I write numbers out on paper to make adding faster. My family often steps in to help me understand complex topics—math, politics, finances. These are not small hurdles for me.
Sometimes I’ve felt like a screw-up because of mistakes I’ve made in life. But I’m learning to remember that everyone makes mistakes. Beating myself up about them doesn’t help anyone—not me, not the people around me. When I remind myself that I’m not the only one who’s made that mistake before, I feel less alone.
One thing I’m grateful for is that my family and friends don’t minimize my challenges. They see me, even when the world doesn’t. And I want you to know—you’re not alone in your challenges either. Whether they show up in school, at work, or in dating, your experiences are valid.
School, Dating, and the Long Road of Self-Discovery
When I was in school, I was still figuring myself out—learning what NLD meant for me and how to navigate life with it. I didn’t date much in college. Part of that was because of my childhood trauma; I didn’t know if I could trust men outside of my close circle of family and friends. I did date one guy, but that’s hardly a dating history.
At the same time, I was dealing with being homesick and working through family issues and past abuse. And then there were the migraines. I didn’t realize how serious they were until after graduation. Back then, they were constant—only disappearing when I managed to sleep. Sixteen years later, that’s still true. When migraines hit, I can become irritable, short-tempered, and easily agitated. They change me.
Finding the Missing Puzzle Piece
I want to share something from Wanda DeChamps, founder and principal at the Liberty Company, who discovered she was autistic at age 46:
“My diagnosis was like discovering a piece of my brain, picking it up, putting it in place, and feeling whole for the first time. This was also like receiving the key to unlocking my life and living for the first time according to my values, principles, beliefs, and choices instead of being weighed down by the expectations and assumptions of others.”
I don’t have autism, but I relate deeply to her words. When I learned I had NLD, it felt like a lightbulb switched on. Finally, I understood why I was different from the rest of my family. I could identify my needs and find ways to work through my challenges. That knowledge brought relief—and a path forward.
Speaking a Different Language
Another article I read, “Very Grand Emotions,” by Tara Vance, explores how autistic and neurotypical people often experience emotions differently. Tara described being misunderstood in a heated online discussion. She had focused on factual accuracy rather than the emotional tone of the topic, and people accused her of being cold, manipulative, and emotionless.
Her experience reminded me of moments in college, like when I tried to contribute in sociology class. I thought I was adding to the conversation, but later my professor told me my point didn’t quite fit. He didn’t know I had NLD, and I didn’t know how to explain why my communication sometimes misses the mark. Those moments can be discouraging. Sometimes they make me go quiet in future discussions, which helps avoid awkwardness but also means losing the chance to practice social skills.
What Matters to Talk About
Another quote from the same article described how, for some neurodivergent people, small talk and traditional social gestures—like birthday cards or casual questions about your day—don’t feel necessary unless they’re relevant. I relate to that.
Sometimes I want to talk about my emotions. Other times, I avoid them entirely. I don’t always want to focus on the past because I’m afraid I won’t know how to stop once I start. My view of what’s worth discussing can be different from others’, and I’ve learned that’s okay.
Different, Not Less
Whether you’re neurodivergent or neurotypical, we all process life in our ways. We ask different questions. We prioritize different things. That uniqueness is part of what makes each of us valuable.
If you take anything from this chapter, I hope it’s this: You are not invisible. Your experiences matter. Your way of processing the world—whether it’s more analytical, more emotional, or a mix of both—is valid.
And if you can, try journaling about your differences and strengths. Think about ways to make those differences easier to live with, rather than wishing them away. That’s what I strive to do every day.
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