We Don’t Have to Fit In to Belong | Rethinking Belonging as a Neurodivergent Person

Belonging can be tricky for some neurodivergent people. This post shows why we don’t have to fit in to truly belong and how affirming spaces support social well-being.

Belonging isn’t about learning to fit in.

It’s about finding the people and places where we can show up as ourselves… without needing to perform, mask, or explain.

For many of us who are neurodivergent – whether autistic, ADHD, sensory-sensitive, or shaped by experiences like PTSD, OCD, or depression – “fitting in” has often meant trying to pass as someone we’re not. It’s meant enduring discomfort, suppressing our needs, and navigating environments that overwhelm our systems.

But what if the problem isn’t us?

What if some environments just aren’t designed with our needs in mind?

When we begin to see our differences as real needs – not flaws or parts of us to hide – the story starts to shift. We can move from isolation to connection. From burnout to a more sustainable kind of belonging.

This post is a personal reflection on that shift.

I’ll share what it’s looked like in my own life, and what I’m learning about belonging through parenting neurodivergent kids. My hope isn’t to speak for everyone, but to offer an invitation. To explore how belonging might feel different when we stop trying to fit in.

When Feelings of Isolation and Social Exhaustion Creep In

I must have been around 20 when I said it out loud for the first time: “I feel isolated in a room full of people.”

At the edge of a group

I was trying to explain why I didn’t want to go to a party where I didn’t know anyone. But the woman I was speaking to didn’t hesitate before cutting me off:

“Well, you’ll never get anywhere in life with that attitude.”

I nodded. Tried to smile. Stuffed the feeling down.

But that feeling never really went away.

From childhood birthday parties to work conferences, I’ve often felt like I was on the outside, even when surrounded by people. Loud events, busy rooms, bright lights, long days of processing new information… they don’t energize me. They drain me – mentally, emotionally, and physically.

Social exhaustion isn’t just being tired.

It’s the labor of translating your racing thoughts into what’s socially acceptable.

It’s the headache from fluorescent lights and loud background music.

It’s the invisible effort of wondering when to speak up. The disorientation of trying to access belonging while masking neurodivergent traits.

In many social spaces, I wasn’t connecting. I was performing.

And when I didn’t get the performance “right,” I was called a snob. Or awkward. Or shy.

Even in the moments when I did perform well – like during workshops I taught or public speaking events – there was often a crash afterward. I’d replay conversations in my head, second-guessing how I responded. Changing my answers mentally. Confusing myself about what I had really wanted to say.

Most people didn’t see that side of me.

But those who got to know me more deeply would often say, “You’re not what you seem.”

I’ve heard that phrase so many times that I’ve lost count.

Sometimes it’s said with affection. Sometimes with confusion.

But always with the implication that I was somehow hiding in plain sight.

The Contradictions of Showing Up

I’ve been told I’m too quiet.

I’ve also been told I talk too much.

I’ve been labeled shy and way too sensitive, and I’ve also been mistaken for being rude and aloof.

I’ve been praised for being “professional” and criticized for being “distant” – often in the same setting.

Sometimes I show up in spaces where I clearly don’t fit, and I find myself becoming overly chatty – almost manic – trying to prove I do belong.

Other times, I barely speak at all.

One of the biggest contradictions shows up in teaching self-defense classes.

When I’m in that role – passionate, prepared, confident, knowledgeable – I light up.

And yet, several times, I’ve had new students look surprised or even laugh when they found out I was the instructor. They expected someone else. Someone who “fit the role” better.

But after a few sessions, that disconnect fades.

Because in that space, I do belong – even if I don’t look like what people expect.

All of these contradictions used to make me feel insecure, like I couldn’t be one cohesive version of myself.

But I’ve come to understand it differently:

How I show up depends on whether the environment supports me.

Whether I’m safe. Whether I’m regulated. Whether, as a neurodivergent person, I feel like I belong.

(For more information on honoring needs and strengths, check out this self-advocacy post).

Supporting Belonging in Our Neurodivergent Kids

Sometimes I think back to that moment in my early 20s… the first time I said out loud that I felt isolated in a room full of people, and how quickly I was told that it was my attitude that was the problem.

If I could go back, I’d tell myself something simple:

Maybe that room just wasn’t for you. And that’s okay.

There are other rooms... where I do feel connected.

A yoga room. A painting studio. A quiet night in with a friend and a movie.

Or even stepping into the role of a confident self-defense instructor, shoulder-throwing a man nearly twice my size onto a padded floor.

Those are rooms where I belong.

Not because I’ve learned how to fit in – but because I can show up fully, without shrinking or pretending.

I see similar patterns in my kids.

Watching my kids helps me unlearn the idea that belonging should come from conformity, especially for neurodivergent children whose needs are often misunderstood.

One of my children prefers the company of adults and often avoids peer group settings. When he’s placed in loud, unstructured environments with other kids, he shuts down. Silent. Withdrawn. Not making eye contact.

So we don’t force it.

Instead, we look for spaces that actually support who he is.

One of those spaces is a painting class where he paints miniature figures alongside mostly adults. They talk to him about the universe, comics, Harry Potter, and geology. He lights up in those conversations. He’s focused. Engaged. Confident. He belongs there.

Another one of my kids struggles with environments where sitting still is the expectation. But in a boxing class – where movement and focus go hand-in-hand – he thrives.

It’s the same pattern I’ve noticed in myself: when the environment aligns, something unlocks.

The environment matters.

Belonging isn’t about pushing ourselves – or our kids – into uncomfortable spaces.

It’s not about changing who we are to be acceptable.

It’s about recognizing what makes us feel safe enough to show up fully.

I’ve had to learn – for myself and for my kids – that it’s okay not to “fit in” everywhere.

It’s okay to need something different.

And it’s okay if that difference is confusing to others. They probably don’t know the full picture.

The more we recognize and honor what we need – and what our kids need – the easier it becomes to find (or create!) the spaces where we can truly belong.

Reframing Neurodivergent Belonging as Affirmation, Not Performance

It’s taken me years – maybe decades – to learn that belonging isn’t something we earn by performing.

It’s not about proving ourselves. It’s not about shrinking to fit a mold or stretching beyond what feels sustainable.

True belonging doesn’t ask us to be different than we are.

It asks us to be honest… about what we need, what overwhelms us, and what helps us feel safe enough to connect.

Fitting in, for me, often meant forcing myself into roles or rooms that left me disconnected and anxious.

That’s where the loneliness came in. Not from being alone, but from being misunderstood while performing.

Now, I still find myself in spaces where I don’t quite fit.

I can navigate them when needed, and if there’s a dog or cat in the room, you’ll probably find me sitting on the floor beside it, grounding myself in something familiar.

But I no longer take “not fitting in” as a personal flaw.

I see it as information. As a signal that the space may not be built with me in mind. And that’s not a reflection of my worth.

When the environment doesn't align well, I scan the room for a dog

Because I do belong – in the spaces where I can show up as myself.

And my kids belong, too – in the spaces where their needs are honored, not questioned.

We don’t have to fit in to belong. For many neurodivergent people, belonging may begin with unlearning the idea that we need to earn acceptance by being less of who we are.

But when we stop performing and start listening – to ourselves, to our kids – we can gain a quiet clarity that tells us when a space is right.

Belonging might not look the way we may have been taught it should. But once we find it – or create it – it feels deeply affirming.

Jen with Cool Wiring