Naming Things

If you’re reading these lines, it means I’ve finally managed to get my thoughts in order and launch the very first issue of Sommersə.

I’ve been thinking about this newsletter for months: what to call it, where to start, what stories to tell and how to tell them. And now here I am, staring blankly at my laptop screen for over an hour, completely incapable of stringing two words together.

Until a few months ago, this kind of block would have sent me into a rage. I would have started pacing around the house in frustration, blaming myself and trying to force my foggy brain to produce something—anything!—to shake off the itchy, intolerable anxiety I feel when my mind and fingers won’t cooperate. I probably would have ended up in bed, eyes glued to the ceiling and temples pounding, trying to stave off an impending meltdown—nervous or existential, usually a fizzy little mix of both. By the end of the day, I would feel like I had accomplished nothing and wasted precious time. I would go to bed bitter and angry at myself, feeling useless and incapable.

Today, it’s different. I won’t lie—there was a minor crisis, but it was shorter and more manageable. I didn’t spiral into self-loathing (well, maybe just a little). I took some time. Gave myself the space to make small adjustments so my body and mind could unwind a bit.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s a bit like trying to decode a complex device without the instruction manual, just winging it as you go. I thought I knew myself, but I was way off. I’m 32 and only now starting to write my own messy, personal instruction book.

Neurodivergence, Autism, and Everything I Didn’t Know

I first heard someone talk in depth about neurodivergence last year. Although I had always suspected that my depression and anxiety were symptoms of something deeper and more entrenched, it had never crossed my mind that I might be neurodivergent. And even when descriptions of the neurodivergent experience felt familiar, I couldn’t quite orient myself. Everything felt too vague and blurry.

A few months later, my partner was diagnosed with ADHD. The more we talked about what he was learning through research and therapy, the stronger that sense of familiarity became. And yet, things didn’t completely add up: while we had some traits in common, our experiences also differed significantly.

That’s when I started reading, searching, and asking questions. Everything seemed to be pointing in a fairly specific direction: autism. But the more I dug, the more confused I became. The diagnostic criteria in the DSM-5 (the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the global reference for psychiatric diagnoses) frame autism as a “disorder”— a definition built around what’s lacking, what’s broken. A long list of deficits and abnormalities.

“Deficits? Me? How could that be?” I kept wondering in utter confusion. Even though I had a strong gut feeling that I was finally on the right path, that long list of “deviations to be corrected” didn’t sit right with me. I kept telling myself that I’d always had a normal life—whatever “normal” means, but we’ll get to that later.

At the time, I didn’t realize that I lacked the tools to gain real clarity. I was trapped in the DSM-5’s view—and in much of the mainstream discourse—that defines autism through a narrow medical paradigm: a pathology caused by an “abnormal” brain development, in contrast to what is considered “normal” neurodevelopment. According to this logic, autism is a problem to be treated, managed, and fixed.

I, myself, was an unaware victim of the medical model. On one hand, I could recognize myself in many autistic traits. On the other hand, I couldn’t reconcile my lived experience with the stereotypical images of autistic people portrayed in the media. I was discouraged, scared, and full of doubts. Was I just imagining things in a desperate attempt to make sense of years of depression and anxiety?

The answer to those questions came when I stumbled upon a very different kind of narrative. There are researchers, activists, and neurodivergent therapists out there who are redefining neurodivergence and autism starting from their own lived experiences. One of them is Dr. Nick Walker, a U.S.-based scholar who challenges the traditional medical paradigm by adding the social dimension to the equation. A neurodivergent person, they write, is someone “whose neurocognitive functioning diverges from dominant societal norms in multiple ways.” According to their framework, neurodivergence is not—and should not be—viewed as inherently negative. The value judgment stems from comparison to a rigid and singular norm enforced by dominant social expectations.

In defining autism, Dr. Walker explains that it’s a neurological variant rooted in genetics. Even if we don’t know everything yet, current research shows that the main difference between autistic and non-autistic brains lies in how they’re wired and how they respond to stimuli. Autistic brains tend to have more neuronal connections and higher sensitivity. This means autistic people perceive the world more intensely and chaotically: the brain absorbs more information, and every stimulus—whether a sound, emotion, or thought—can hit harder and more unpredictably.

But while common neurological traits exist, autism is not a one-size-fits-all experience. Every autistic person is unique, and the way they live their neurodivergence depends on many factors—not just personal, but especially social and cultural. “In the context of a society designed around the sensory, cognitive, developmental, and social needs of non-autistic individuals, autistic individuals are almost always disabled to some degree—sometimes quite obviously, and sometimes more subtly”, writes Walker. “Ultimately, to describe autism as a disorder represents a value judgment rather than a scientific fact.”

The Neurodiversity Paradigm

Dr. Nick Walker is part of the community of scholars who helped articulate the neurodiversity paradigm. This framework holds that neurological differences are part of natural human variation, just like any other genetic trait. In The Pocket Guide to Neurodiversity, Daniel Aherne explains that neurodiversity is often compared to biodiversity: just as a wide range of plant and animal species plays a vital role in maintaining ecosystem balance, diversity in cognitive processing helps the human species evolve and thrive.

The idea that there’s one “right” or “healthy” kind of brain or cognitive style is a social construct, just like the notion that certain genders, ethnicities, or sexual orientations are more “normal” than others. As a result, the challenges faced by neurodivergent people are not due to “pathologies,” but are instead the direct result of power imbalances and marginalizing dynamics.

Sommersə operates within the neurodiversity paradigm. Just as there is no “correct” kind of brain, there’s no single valid way to be autistic. There’s no universal checklist or set of symptoms that applies to everyone. What exists are our lived experiences—sometimes overlapping, sometimes radically different.

So I invite you to make this space yours and leave you with a final question:
Have you ever wondered what would happen if we started writing our own instruction manuals and ignored the ones we were handed?

If you feel like it, you can share your thoughts by replying to this email or leaving a comment. I’m here to listen.

May Sommersə becomes a notebook for tracking a journey—towards new words, new ways of being together, and maybe, just maybe, new worlds.

Talk to you soon,

Camilla

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