When the Bubble Never Included You
Misdiagnosis, Memory, & the Journey Toward Self-Compassion
When the Bubble Never Included You: Misdiagnosis, Memory, & the Journey Toward Self-Compassion
Do you ever feel like if you speak your truth too clearly, people might walk away? Like if you open the most tender, hidden parts of yourself, you’ll be too much for someone to hold? Too sensitive. Too complicated. Too scarred.
Do you ever find yourself worrying more than writing—your thoughts trapped in the quiet corners of your mind, waiting to be understood but afraid to be seen?
Do you wonder what would happen if you went there alone?
And yet—we must go there. Because the hardest stories are often the ones that most need to be told.
This isn’t the first time I’ve written about my differences, and I know it won’t be the last. I’ve never been formally diagnosed with autism, sensory processing disorder, or any specific neurodivergent trait but now that my children have been diagnosed and I see these traits so clearly, so vividly—I see them in myself, too.
And for the first time, I can offer that child I once was something radical:
Not more self-hate or doubt. Not correction. Not explanation.
But compassion.
Understanding.
And maybe most importantly—love.
Growing Up Outside the Bubble
I wasn’t diagnosed with anything as a child. My grades were excellent, even as I quietly struggled in nearly every social situation. Teachers noticed something was different. I needed speech therapy in second grade. After first grade, there was talk of holding me back, not because of academics, but because I was behind socially. My test scores were at the top of the class, so I kept moving forward.
I couldn’t explain what was hard for me back then, and the truth is, no one asked. I was seen as shy, quiet, maybe awkward—but capable. And so, the struggle remained hidden beneath the surface.
But I remember.
I remember hearing my teacher speak and not being able to make sense of her words. It all sounded like noise, like something I should understand—but didn’t.
I remember the anxiety that caused my stomach to be tied in knots because I didn’t understand what was happening around me.
I remember girls whispering secrets to me and getting frustrated when I couldn’t respond the right way, because I couldn’t understand what they were saying.
I remember the playground—how it always felt like a blur of children bobbing along inside a bubble, one I was never quite part of. I could see the bubble. I could see the joy inside of it but I was always outside, watching, with sound and meaning distorted by some invisible wall.
And because I couldn’t navigate the world through typical cues and conversations, I learned to feel.
An Empath in a Confusing World
When spoken language failed me, feeling didn’t.
I became fluent in emotion—reading energy, sensing intention.
This is likely why I’ve become such a deep empath. I learned to survive by sensing energy, feeling the undercurrent beneath words when the words themselves made no sense. I could feel the intention behind someone’s voice even when I couldn’t decode the message. I could sense kindness, cruelty, hesitation, warmth.
I felt exclusion—especially from adults who didn’t understand me, and from children who were unkind to what they couldn’t name. Though I didn’t always know what people were saying, I always knew whether they were saying it with love or with harm. With time, I’ve learned that many times people project energy due to other life circumstances or psychology that they may not even be aware of, but that is a conversation I’ll dig further into at another time.
Because social situations proved to be so challenging, reading and writing became my sanctuary. I spoke and read well from an early age. I found safety in books and comfort in writing. Nature, animals, music, and art became my first friends. They made sense when people didn’t. Time spent in nature and in the library meant inner calm and happiness. Everything made sense in nature. I could feel the earth’s energy and easily connect, even sensing music in nature’s eternal rhythms. It’s often inspired my writing.
Academically, I excelled. I graduated at 17. But emotionally and socially, I often felt years behind. Even in high school, with a circle of friends who genuinely liked me, I often felt like I was inside my own private, silent sphere.
The thing is—when you grow up with your needs unseen and unnamed, you start to wonder if maybe you’re not just different… maybe you’re invisible.
I recently came across this helpful visual that explores the overlapping traits of Highly Sensitive Children and Autistic Children. It gave me language for things I felt but couldn’t name—especially the overlap in sensory sensitivity, emotional intensity, and difficulty with change. If you’ve ever felt caught between these identities, or unsure of where you belong, this might help you feel a little more seen.
This graphic from Neurodivergent Insights beautifully lays out where highly sensitive children and autistic children overlap—and where they diverge. It’s important to note that being sensitive doesn’t always mean being autistic. But the confusion between the two can lead to misdiagnosis—or worse, no diagnosis at all.
And without naming what you're experiencing, how can you ever learn to love yourself through it?
The Power of Naming
It’s taken me 47 years to begin naming what makes me different. Not broken. Not incapable. Just different.
And real—every sensory overload, every missed cue, every emotional overwhelm. Not imagined. Not overreacting. Just real.
To realize that those early struggles weren’t just quirks or moments of immaturity—they were signs of autistic traits, auditory processing challenges, sensory sensitivities. All of it was real, even if it wasn’t recognized.
Now, I can trace the roots clearly:
My intense reaction to violent images or stories.
The emotional exhaustion I feel after social events.
The way I forget words mid-conversation, even when I know what I want to say.
The tendency to overthink everything and assume I’ve done something wrong.
The way I mirror the emotions of others or shift my behavior based on my environment.
The constant, quiet pressure to act normal, despite never quite understanding what that meant.
If You Felt Alone Too, You Weren’t
If any part of this feels familiar to you, I want you to hear me: You are not too much. You are not broken. You are not invisible.
To anyone who was bullied, silenced, or told to shrink: You deserved kindness then. You deserve compassion now. You are not late. You are not behind. You are still becoming.
Whether or not you were ever diagnosed, your pain is valid. You matter.
Whether or not someone saw you, your story is worth telling. You matter.
If no one ever asked how you felt, I’m asking now. You matter.
Our Differences Are Our Superpowers
For a long time, I thought my differences were something to hide. But now I see them, especially through the lens of parenting my neurodivergent children—as something sacred and powerful.
When you see the world differently, you bring a different kind of wisdom to it. You notice what others miss. You create new ways of thinking, new ways of being.
Yes, this can come with resistance. New ideas, especially when spoken by people who seem different—and especially by women—are often dismissed or opposed but that’s when we must be brave. That’s when we must learn to speak with confidence and clarity, knowing that we’ve earned the right to be heard.
We must do the work. We must study, prepare, reflect, and when the time comes, we must speak with power and purpose.
Bullies, whether on the playground or in positions of power, are often just overinflated people who were never told they had limits. Many of us, on the other hand, have been told nothing but our limits.
But we don’t have to accept that narrative.
Being different doesn’t make us less. It makes us essential.
We see what others miss. We hold space where others rush past.
The world needs that. The world needs us.
And yes—this can come with resistance. Especially when we refuse to shrink. But that’s when we must be brave.
Claiming My Voice, & My Place
I’m still learning how to show up in the world as my full self. Socializing has become easier, but words still escape me sometimes. I still freeze. I still feel awkward.
But being bullied as a child no longer scares me. I’ve already survived it. I’ve already lived through invisibility, and I refuse to return to it.
Now, I’m claiming my place.
I’m writing more and preparing to publish. I’m standing beside those who’ve felt left behind, offering warmth and presence.
Sometimes, that means just sitting beside someone in silence, letting them know they’re not alone. I know what alone feels like, and now—I refuse to return to it.
It’s time to claim my place and use my voice. I’m not afraid to say it anymore, ready or not, here I come.
And if you’re ready to do the same—
I’ll walk with you.
Explore the Series:
· Part 1: When the Bubble Never Included You
· Part 2: Difference Is Not a Deficit
· Part 3: Inclusion is Innovation
· Main Page: Michelle Ried on Substack
Thank you for sharing your personal story. I believe that telling our stories is important for healing ourselves and helping others to heal. Making deep connections has always been a source of happiness for me, rather than having many superficial relationships.
I can recognize from your description that I was a very sensitive child and being empathetic was very valuable in my career as a teacher of young children. I always connected with those who were ‘outside the bubble’.
Again thanks for sharing.
Bravo, Michelle. 👏👏 I loved this. As a Highly Sensitive Child/Person, I can relate to much of what you shared. I too grew up outside the bubble. I always have felt apart from, rather than part of. And there were definitely things kids discussed that I just didn't comprehend. Like you, as one of the youngest in my class,I was academically advanced, but emotionally and socially behind.
You've presented yourself and your experiences so beautifully and in a way I think many can relate to. You contribute to this online community in unique and special ways. Keep it up!