How Do I Human? And Other Questions I Can't Answer

For the last few years, I’ve been on a mission to figure out how my brain works. I like answers—clear, concrete, and definitive answers to any challenge I face. Unfortunately, this journey doesn’t come with many of those.

Since my teenage years, I’ve been a tightly wound ball of anxiety and stress. It’s as though I’ve spent decades feeling everything all at once and yet not being able to pinpoint a single emotion. When you’re constantly overwhelmed, it becomes nearly impossible to recognise how you feel—or even acknowledge that you’re feeling anything at all.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been plagued by sudden, intense waves of what feels like anxiety. It starts with a pit of dread in my stomach, an overwhelming sense that something is very, very wrong. My body goes on high alert, convinced that danger is imminent.

That reaction makes sense when there’s an actual threat. But for me, it happens out of nowhere—no clear cause, no visible danger. It’s as if my body is preparing for an invisible attack.

Chasing an Invisible Enemy

For years, I believed these episodes were triggered by a specific source of anxiety that I just couldn’t identify. I would analyse every aspect of my life, obsessively searching for the thing that was “wrong.” Was it work? Family? Money? Social obligations?

The worst part? Even when I couldn’t find the source, I couldn’t let it go. The anxiety would last for days or even weeks, leaving me in a heightened state of fear. Then, seemingly without reason, it would pass.

The relief when it subsides is immense, but the confusion remains. What caused it? How can I stop it from happening again? What’s wrong with me?

A Revelation in the Chaos

Today, I had one of those moments—and for the first time, I understood it for what it truly was.

It was a busy day: a trip to the shops, house renovations in full swing, kids screaming at full pelt with jingle bells in hand, and the looming intention of putting up the Christmas decorations. I was already running on fumes when, suddenly, I was struck by that familiar and terrifying sensation that I was under attack.

I panicked. This can’t be happening now. I’ve got so much to do. There’s nothing wrong, nothing that warrants this anxiety.

And then it hit me: I was overwhelmed.

This wasn’t my usual overstimulation—the kind I’ve learned to recognize. Overstimulation for me feels like losing focus, getting grumpy, snappy, wanting to be left alone, and hiding under a duvet. This was deeper, more intense. I’d pushed myself far beyond my usual point of discomfort, and when my husband casually asked me to think about what color tiles I wanted for the kitchen, it was the final straw.

There was too much thinking to be done, too many choices, so much noise, and an unbearable amount of pressure to get things done.

Realizing I was just completely overwhelmed instead of facing some unseen evil was a shock. I almost burst into tears.

I’ve been so conditioned to ignore my needs and emotions that I’ve spent years not realising that the reason for these horrible experiences has been staring me in the face all along. Suddenly, so much pressure lifted.

I’m not mad. I’m not so detached from my emotions that I can’t identify anything. My nervous system was simply having a wobble, and retreating for a little while helped me feel better.

Thirty minutes after the feeling started, it was gone. I was okay. I took a break, calmed myself down, and carried on with the day. That simple realization felt like a game changer.

Understanding Overwhelm

What I’ve come to realize is that these intense episodes might not be traditional anxiety at all—they could be autistic overwhelm.

Autistic overwhelm happens when sensory input, emotions, or demands pile up until they become too much to process. It’s not always triggered by one big, obvious stressor. Instead, it’s often a buildup of smaller things—background noise, bright lights, unspoken expectations, or just the effort of navigating a neurotypical world.

For me, it feels like my body is sounding an alarm, but no one bothered to tell me what’s on fire. It’s frustrating, terrifying, and utterly exhausting.

A Work in Progress

I’m still learning to recognise what overwhelm looks like for me and how to differentiate it from anxiety. It’s not easy. When you’ve spent decades in a state of constant emotional chaos, it takes time to unpick the threads and identify patterns.

But what I do know is this: the feelings I experience aren’t random or meaningless. My body is trying to communicate something, even if I don’t always understand what that is.

This journey isn’t over, and I don’t have all the answers yet. But every small realisation brings me closer to understanding myself—and, hopefully, to finding a little more peace.