When people talk about autism, they often repeat the stereotype of the “cold, unempathetic” person. But that couldn’t be further from my experience. As someone with both autism and ADHD, empathy is not something I lack; it’s something I drown in.
Feeling emotions as if they’re mine
I remember being in the hospital as a child for a minor procedure. Next to me was a younger child who cried a lot. Every time they cried, I didn’t just hear it; I felt it. Their fear, pain, and sadness landed in my own body as if I was experiencing it too. It confused me for years. I thought that’s how everyone felt emotions.
As I grew older, I realized this was a pattern. If someone cried, I cried. If someone fell and hurt themselves, I felt the sting in my own head. If someone radiated joy, I was high on it too. Later, I wrote a blog post about it (back in 2019) when I thought I was “just” an empath. Now I know this goes deeper—it’s connected to how autism and ADHD shape my brain.
What the science says
Research has shown that autistic people don’t lack empathy—our empathy often just functions differently. Some studies describe this as “emotional contagion”: the automatic process of mirroring and absorbing another person’s emotional state. Combine that with ADHD’s heightened sensitivity and impulsivity, and you get a brain that reacts instantly and intensely to other people’s feelings.
For me, this means I don’t just understand someone’s emotions—I become them. Neurologically, my boundaries blur. My nervous system doesn’t filter: what’s yours feels like mine.
The double-edged sword
On one hand, this hyper-empathy is a strength. It allows me to connect, to comfort, to notice when something is “off” even if someone hides it. It’s also tied to my ability to “cold read”—analyzing micro-expressions, tone, and posture until I know what someone isn’t saying.
But it’s also a weight. When emotions are huge, I can lose myself in them completely. If someone else is angry, I feel it burn through me. If someone else is anxious, my own chest tightens. And that leaves me drained.
Learning to set boundaries
The difference today is that I understand what’s happening. I know when a feeling comes from me and when it belongs to someone else. That doesn’t stop me from feeling it—but it allows me to draw a line. “This isn’t mine. I don’t need to carry it.”
It’s not easy. It takes conscious energy every single day. But naming it helps. And it prevents me from collapsing under the emotional weight of others.
Why this matters
Autistic empathy doesn’t always look like the stereotype. Some people on the spectrum may indeed struggle to recognize or express empathy in the expected way. But others—like me—experience it in overdrive. Both versions exist, and both are valid; both belong under the autism and ADHD spectrum.
So if you’re reading this and think: “That’s me, too”—know that you’re not broken, you’re not “too sensitive,” and you’re not alone. This is simply one of the many ways neurodivergent brains connect to the world.
A note of compassion
When people lash out in their own overwhelm, it’s not fair—but often, it’s not malicious either. They’re drowning, too. Holding that perspective helps me stay calm. I remind myself: their emotions are theirs, mine are mine. That boundary is survival.
And when it’s joy, excitement, laughter? Let yourself get carried away. Ride the wave. Just maybe… think twice before you act on every impulse in that moment. (I’ve learned that the hard way.)
