There are people who tell their story with tears.
Others with anger.
Others with a choked voice.
And then there are some of us who tell it with a calm that is disconcerting.
Very tough episodes.
Moments that, seen from the outside, seem impossible to sustain.
And yet, they come out of my mouth as if I were talking about another person.
Without trembling.
Without breaking.
Without apparent emotion.
For a long time I thought this was strength.
Or maturity.
Or even a kind of coldness that I had learned to normalize.
Until, talking with my therapist, I understood what was really happening.
And I understood it because she explained it to me in my language.
The brain as an electrical panel
My therapist told me something like:
Imagine that your brain is an electrical panel.
Each emotion is a line.
Each experience, a circuit.
And when something happens that you can't hold —due to pain, intensity, threat— the system does the only thing it can do to not completely collapse:
it trips the breaker.
This automatic, protective, intelligent gesture… is the dissociation.
Not because you are weak.
Not because you don't want to feel.
But because feeling this, at that moment, would break you.
So the brain cuts this line so the rest of the house doesn't stay in the dark.
So you can keep functioning.
Working. Parenting. Living.
“Dissociation is not a system failure, it is an adaptive response to a perceived threat that is unbearable.”
— Bessel van der Kolk, The body keeps the score
Why neurodivergent individuals dissociate more frequently
In neurodivergent individuals, this mechanism often appears earlier and with greater intensity.
Not because we are more fragile.
But because we process experience with a greater sensory, emotional, and cognitive load.
Current research on trauma and neurodivergence shows that many autistic and ND individuals present:
- more reactive nervous systems,
- lower tolerance for ambiguity,
- and a more intense experience of stimuli and emotions.
What may be “an uncomfortable moment” for another person,
for us can be overwhelming or directly unbearable.
And when there are not enough resources —internal or external— the brain does what it knows best: protect you.
“Dissociation is more frequent in highly reactive nervous systems when external regulation has been insufficient.”
— Putnam, complex trauma and dissociation
Telling your story without feeling it is not being healed
Here I want to pause very carefully.
Being able to talk about something difficult without emotion does not mean it is integrated.
It often means that this line remains protected.
The circuit breaker remains down.
And this is not a mistake.
It was, at the time, a way to survive.
The problem is not dissociating.
The problem is believing that we have to reconnect before the system is ready.
In electrical terms, it is simple:
if the installation remains damaged, the circuit breaker will trip again.
Sometimes with more force.
Sometimes with more guilt.
Sometimes with new symptoms.
Integrating is not remembering.
It is not reliving.
It is not forcing yourself to feel what you did not feel.
Integrating is that the body learns, little by little, that now there is safety.
And this is not forced.
It is accompanied.
“The integration of trauma does not occur by forcing the memory, but by first restoring the sense of safety.”
— Stephen Porges, Polyvagal Theory
Repair before reconnecting
Returning to the metaphor of the electrical panel:
it is not about flipping the circuit breaker to crazy.
It is about checking the installation.
Contemporary trauma psychology is clear on this:
integration first happens through the body, not through narrative.
Some key points supported by evidence:
- somatic work before verbal,
- expanding the window of tolerance,
- own rhythm (not everything integrates at once, and that's okay),
- presence of secure attachments.
And here comes something very important: re-associating is not always remembering.
Sometimes it's something much more subtle:
- inhabiting spaces that are safe today,
- surrounding yourself with objects that do not activate,
- allowing yourself to look at a photo when there is already support,
- naming without delving,
- feeling without explaining.
This is also integration.
“Healing occurs when the nervous system learns that the present is no longer dangerous.”
— Pat Ogden, Sensorimotor Psychotherapy
Dissociating did not make you less aware. It saved you.
I want to say this with all possible clarity:
Dissociation is not coldness.
It is not denial.
It is not moral disconnection.
It is adaptive intelligence.
It is a brain saying:
Not now.
Not like this.
Not yet.
And honoring this is part of the journey.
“The strategies that saved us should not be fought against, but understood and integrated.”
— Janina Fisher
To close (without fully closing)
If reading this made you think:
this happens to me
I also tell very tough things without feeling anything
I have also lived as if it were not happening to me
You are not broken.
You are not empty.
You are protected.
And perhaps, now, you are starting to feel ready.
If you feel like it, I can read your comments.
You can share your experience.
Or simply write: me too.
Here we do not force differences.
Here we repair with care.
Verònica Martín
Co-Founder of ATÍPICS.org
Neurodivergent. Interior designer. Human.