The Weight of Loneliness
Do you ever feel an emptiness deep inside—a kind of loneliness that no amount of small talk or polite smiles can fill? For me, that feeling often comes from the exhausting effort of trying to “pass” as normal in a society that doesn’t make much room for learning differences.
Recently, I’ve felt this more acutely. Many of my friends are married now, or in long-term relationships. I’m genuinely happy for them, but their paths to love seem to have been smoother than mine—likely because they’re neurotypical.
For me, every interaction can feel like a balancing act. I monitor my tone of voice, choose words carefully, read body language, and adjust my facial expressions. It’s like performing on stage without ever getting a script—except the audience is the whole world, and mistakes cost me connection.
Imagining the Perfect Conversation
In an article from the NVLD Project titled Scripted Social Interactions, Nora, a writer with NLD, describes how she copes with loneliness:
“Whenever I feel lonely, I imagine talking to someone and the conversation going perfectly… I replay imaginary scenes of successful social interactions in my head as a source of comfort.”
I do the same thing. I’ve role-played with family members how a date might go, or practiced conversations to make sure I don’t talk too long about one topic. I don’t think of myself as weird or crazy—but the constant effort to fit in can be draining.
Nora’s strategy makes sense. Imagining conversations that go well can be a balm, especially when real-life socializing feels fraught. Sometimes it’s proof to ourselves that we can connect with others—despite the challenges.
When Parenting Isn’t What You Expected
Another perspective comes from Nobody Told Me, a Psychology Today article by Sierra Rivers. She shares how she was unprepared for the realities of raising a child with NLD:
“I never imagined sitting on the sidelines at a soccer game, separate from other parents… I never imagined switching daycares every few months because none of them could handle my child’s high energy levels and social deficits… Different was supposed to mean artsy, or extreme sports, or Einstein—not the kid no one invites to birthday parties.”
I can empathize. My mother didn’t expect to raise a neurodivergent child. She had to learn, often the hard way, how to help me navigate school, friendships, and the invisible work of appearing “normal.” It’s a lonely job for a parent, too—watching your child be excluded while trying to shield them from the hurt.
Finding Connection Through Movement
Elaine Herzog, in her NVLD Project article How I Pushed Through the Lonely Moments as an Athlete with Nonverbal Learning Disability, describes turning loneliness into strength:
“Sports not only gave me some of the best supporters, but they also gave me a major passion… The difficulties may seem impossible, but with courage and bravery, you can experience something special.”
I relate to that deeply. Running is one of the few things that feels natural for me. It doesn’t require me to decode facial expressions or rehearse small talk. It’s movement, rhythm, breath—and it connects me to friends who enjoy exercise too. For a little while, loneliness fades.
Six Things People Should Know
Laura Lemmy, founder of the NVLD Project, once wrote Six Things I Wish People Knew About Parenting a Child with a Nonverbal Learning Disability. Her list covers everything from the misconceptions about the term “nonverbal” to the struggles with social cues, spatial skills, and finding a school where her daughter fits.
One line stood out to me:
“Having a child with NVLD made parenting lonely, but it doesn’t have to be that way.”
I know my mom felt many of the same things Laura describes. Even though I wasn’t in public school, I faced similar isolation in Girl Scouts—watching cliques form and realizing that sometimes, having no friends at all felt safer than being mocked.
Today, I have only two close friends, but they’re like family. I sometimes wish I had more, but if they weren’t genuine connections, the numbers wouldn’t matter.
A Different Kind of Loneliness
Neurotypicals feel lonely too, but I believe neurodivergent loneliness is different. We’re not just isolated—we’re working hard to hide the very things that make us different, which only deepens the distance. Unless you’ve lived it, you can’t fully know the constant calculation:
Am I making enough eye contact?
Did that joke land?
Am I talking too much about my interests?
It’s exhausting. And when people don’t treat you well—whether it’s in dating, friendship, or daily life—you can start to think you’re better off alone. The trick is not letting that belief calcify into truth.
Closing Reflections
I share all of this because I want others with NLD—or any learning difference—to know they’re not alone in feeling alone.
Yes, there will be days when conversations feel like high-stakes performances. There will be dates that don’t work out, and friendships that never form. But there will also be moments—maybe on a run, maybe in a perfectly imagined conversation—when you’ll feel connected to yourself and to something bigger.
And that’s worth holding on to.
