Different, Not Less

As I’ve grown older I have realized that the way I think is a gift. My ability to notice has provided countless people with reassurance that they are whatever they didn’t believe about themselves. Pretty, kind, seen, etc… The innate part of me that sees people for who they are, who observes the way they fidget their hands in a perfect circle, or how they stare blankly to the left, it whispers to me constantly. It vibrates under my skin, telling me every detail until I am uncomfortable. This hypersensitivity, part of my neurodiversity, has changed me fundamentally since its development.

When I first got diagnosed with this condition, it felt as though the last piece in a wooden puzzle had fallen right into my lap. All of a sudden, the sensitivity to the lights that made my eyes roll into the back of my head, or the softness of the towels that made my legs go numb, made sense. It is the physical result of a dysregulated nervous system, also known as Functional Neurological Disorder.

FND, a nervous system condition and neurodivergence, changed me, and for a long time I was ashamed to admit it. I did not want to feel separated from my peers, I did not want them to know that the way my brain thinks is not the same as theirs. I used to want to hide it, and sometimes I still do, but a large part of me has grown to accept the fact that I am different.

One phrase in particular has stuck with me: ‘different, not less’. I do not remember who first spoke those words, but it truly became a mantra for me. I repeated it over and over again in my head until it felt right; that I am different, but in no way am I less. Not less in terms of intelligence, not any less kind, and certainly not any less of a person.

Developing FND is one of the main reasons why I decided to go into both pediatric nursing and early childhood special education. From all of the misunderstandings, the confusion, and the fear blossomed a desire to help children like me. Children with feeding tubes, much like the one that I carried on my face everyday for months. Children with neurodiverse minds, who need acceptance like I did. Children who are scared, or who need a hand to hold, much like my pediatric nurses did for me when I was afraid.

My uniqueness blossomed from something that separated me to something that empowered me. FND, amongst my other conditions, may have changed my life forever. They may have confined me to hospital beds and taken my hope, but they are also the largest reason why I get up everyday and say “I can.” I can do hard things, I can live my life, I can get better, I can be kind, I can be myself, I can be unique, I simply can. For all the kids who were told that they can’t, I will. I will so that someday they will feel like they can too.