The Comfort of Neurodivergent Friendships

For me, neurodivergent friendships feel different, somehow more whole, than neurotypical friendships. It’s not that neurotypical friendships can’t be meaningful, but there’s something uniquely comforting about being around people whose minds feel familiar. People whose energy feels safe.

I’ve always been the “quiet friend,” the “deep one,” the one who listened more than she spoke. People liked me, sure, but they didn’t quite get me. I felt the constant need to explain myself or apologize for myself.

I’ve always had at least one or two neurodivergent friends. My very first friend from pre-school is neurodivergent, and we’ve continued a friendship ever since then. Which in my opinion is remarkable — to be friends with someone from such an early age. But I remember us meeting that first day of school. It was as though we both recognized something similar within each other. We grabbed hands and walked in, and the rest is history.

I get together with her at least once a week. I feel so safe, so comfortable, and so much more myself around her. She just gets me. I don’t need to explain myself when I’m having anxiety, overwhelm, meltdowns, shutdowns, scattered thoughts — anything and everything, pretty much. We don’t need to mask around one another. It’s freeing to let your guard down fully around someone you trust. We support each other in ways that neurotypical friends often can’t.

I also have a best friend I consider my sister. We’ve known each other since elementary school and have shared countless secrets, memories, and stories over the years. She’s neurodivergent too, and she has an autistic son, my godson, who brings so much joy into my life. The bond I share with them feels irreplaceable. We laugh together, play pretend games, and share silly moments on Snapchat. They are essentially the glue that keeps my nervous system steady and cared for.

This is why neurodivergent friendships hit differently.

When I’m with neurodivergent friends:

• There’s no pressure to perform. I don’t have to mask, pretend, or be someone I’m not. I can exist fully as myself, quiet and reflective, without fear of judgment.
• We skip the small talk. We dive straight into feelings, identity, creativity, trauma, healing, fears, and dreams. When we don’t feel like talking, that’s okay too. No one expects words for the sake of words.
• Shared silence is comforting. We can sit together, doing our own thing, and the silence feels warm, safe, and unforced.
• Sensory overwhelm is understood. I don’t have to act fine when I’m overstimulated. Bright lights, loud noises, strong scents, textures, sudden shutdowns — none of it requires explanation or apology.
• Communication is gentle and honest. We check in with questions like, “Are you tired?” “Do you need space?” “Wanna go home?” Interruptions, long paragraphs, short replies — all are normal and accepted.
• Emotional intensity is embraced. We care deeply, attach strongly, and feel everything profoundly. Even if months pass without seeing each other, reconnecting is seamless — no guilt, no distance, no awkwardness.
• We see each other fully. Depth, sensitivity, thoughtfulness, quirks — nothing goes unnoticed. With them, I don’t feel like a burden or a misfit. I feel seen. The whole me.

Neurodivergent friendships feel like home. They are spaces where I can exist fully, without apology, without fear, without pretending. They nourish my heart, soothe my nervous system, and honor my quiet, reflective energy.

And while I deeply treasure my neurotypical friends too, these connections with fellow neurodivergents have a layer of understanding and belonging that feels almost intuitive. They just get it — the way my brain works, the way I experience the world, the way I care and feel. That’s what makes these friendships feel so different, and so vital to my life.