Moving through this world as someone with autism is challenging and overwhelming. It often feels like I am living in a world that was not designed for me.

I have found many articles written by parents of autistic children, but not many by autistic Jews ourselves. I want to share some thoughts that may shed light on what autism looks and feels like in Jewish life, at least from my perspective, specifically as it pertains to sensory processing.

You might not be cognizant of it, but at every moment your senses are breaking down the data around you for your brain to receive and process, determining what is valuable to you at that moment and filtering out the rest. What makes people with autism so interesting is that our senses are not separating out the valuable data for processing, but taking in much more than necessary! For example, that little tick-tick-tick sound the ceiling fan makes that my husband doesn’t seem to notice might as well be a train driving by the window for me.

In case you’re thinking, “She should really just get over it,” there is nothing to get over! It’s a literal, physical response to the environment. When the brain is overstimulated, there are physical reactions (observable via MRI), particularly in the amygdala, which is responsible for emotional processing. When that area of the brain is hyper-activated, the body is flooded with adrenaline and cortisol—chemicals responsible for the fight-or-flight response.

For example, on Shabbat I would like to stay and enjoy the shul kiddush after learning Torah and praying for hours, but it is crowded with people (thank G‑d, we have so many Jews at shul today!), loud (thank G‑d, we are sharing our lives with each other!), it smells (amazing, we are blessed with food to eat! But why is it always fish?), and everyone wants to talk to me (thank G‑d, I am a part of a community of people that want to connect with me!).

On one hand, how blessed am I to be here?! On the other hand, it is physically painful to participate.

I try my very best, but I am only able to manage for a short time before I start to shut down. That’s about the point my husband (thank you, G‑d, for my compassionate and attentive husband) starts speeding through Grace After Meals so we can leave and go back to our calm, quiet home where I can recalibrate—and eat something that doesn’t come from the ocean.

It’s easy to be confused, even angry: Why can’t I happily engage in the chaos everyone else seems to be thriving in? I have a friend who loves crowded places: the people, the chatter, the bumping into each other—she loves all of it! I marvel that people can not only survive the frenzy, but come out of it energized.

As I learned more about the Rebbe and positivity bias, I asked myself: What’s positive about being aware of so much simultaneous sensory input to the point that my body hurts? I deal with chronic back pain from tensing my muscles, tummy troubles from anxiety, and TMJ from constantly clenching my jaw. Grocery shopping can be a nightmare, errands are exhausting, going for walks by myself is intimidating; what is there to be positive about?!

So I sat down, took a deep breath and really thought about it.

I realized that because my senses are so finely tuned, I also deeply feel the beauty in this world: the soul-stirring words of Psalms, the dark and musky scent of roses, an energizing musical score, imperfectly toothy smiles, eyes wrinkled with life, warm and snuggly hugs.

I see and feel all of that on an intrinsic, cellular level that vibrates through my very being and ignites my soul. I feel Creation deep, deep inside my heart and my soul, down to the essence of who I am. The words, sounds, and smells that overload me also inspire me and lift me up high. I feel connected to G‑d with a unique intensity that is difficult to explain. Instead of feeling victimized in a coarse world, I try to focus on my unique gifts.

Because it’s important to me to participate in my community and not shut myself away entirely, I have processes in place to assist me: ear plugs to dull the noise, snack breaks outside for some solitary re-charge and fresh air, a shawl to keep me warm that doubles as a soft sensory item to touch. I sit up front so I don’t see the crowd behind me, or sometimes I sit in the back so I’m not self-conscious when rocking or fidgeting. My husband is my number one supporter who keeps an eye on me, providing reassurance and comfort. And I rely on my Book of Psalms—I find the words comforting, and when it looks like I’m reading, people will usually leave me alone.

I have learned to say “no” to events that I know will be too much, especially when there are several events in a row. Because I also volunteer at events and holiday gatherings at our shul, I am often already pushed to my limit. So after a frenzied day or two of chaotic celebrations, my husband knows I am down for the count for a few days and encourages me to stay home and recharge while he marches right back into the thick of it.

Being unable to keep up with everyone else—and having to endure questioning and disappointed looks when I say I am tired and unable to stay—can be very frustrating. But I have learned that there is a fine line between growth and damage.

Growing includes confidently using my support systems in public spaces and being self-aware enough to notice the signs and take breaks when needed. Pushing myself to participate, staying to the point of melting down or becoming numb, and saying yes to everything despite what it will do to my physical health would be damaging.

We all have a mission in life, and if you are reading this as a person who does not struggle with processing sensory input, perhaps part of your mission includes supporting a family member, friend, or community member who does. That support could be as simple as ignoring a coping behavior (e.g. not questioning or drawing attention to someone who is rocking or fidgeting), or asking, “Do you want to take a break outside with me?” Often, I’m so inundated by my surroundings that taking a break doesn’t even cross my mind, despite being the best thing for me to do at that moment.

Being unable to keep up with others does not mean I am lazy or that there is something wrong with me. In fact, it is very much the opposite of wrong—I am made just right! G‑d gave me a super-sensory system, and I am learning to use it for worthwhile pursuits that include praying, writing, painting, studying Torah, offering an empathetic heart for others, giving hugs, and appreciating the minutiae of Creation.

When I am overwhelmed by my surroundings, I remind myself: this is my avodah, my spiritual work. My connection to G‑d is greater than my discomfort, stronger than my pain. It is the strongest thing I can possibly have. Thank You, G‑d, for putting me in a position to strengthen our bond. Thank You for making me exactly the way You want me to be.