I do not think that I was made to relax. Maybe that’s just another way of saying that I do not believe that I was made to enjoy things. I sit next to my best friend on the tram. The boy opposite us smells of watermelon vape and is biting his nails until they turn red and angry. Outside, it has already started to get dark. I watch the drizzle fall gently against the windows and wonder if I will ever experience happiness in the same way that others seem to.

I ask myself, is there anything left to be said on neurodiversity? Then, almost as quickly, I wonder when I started to feel like this. When did my feelings toward that word, that once gloriously inclusive label – ‘neurodivergent’ – begin to change? If I’m being honest, I think my feelings started to change when it stopped being a word I associated with me and started feeling like an us. I started grappling with the concept of being neurodivergent when I enveloped myself with the community. That’s an uncomfortable admission to make. Shouldn’t being part of a community feel good, help one feel seen? It does, for me. But it has also simultaneously added noise to my already very noisy head. It has added voices that I feel I must find myself within to feel a part of something.