Far from the sun-drenched forests and the rhythmic pulse of my tribal home.
Migrating with a Nervous System Like Mine was not A joke
Migration is one of the oldest stories of humanity.
People migrate for countless reasons—searching for safety, opportunity, connection, or simply a place to call home.
Sometimes it’s by choice, a hopeful step toward something new.
Sometimes it’s forced—escaping hardship, conflict, or loss.
But no matter the reason, migration is a profound upheaval.
It’s more than packing bags and crossing borders.
It’s leaving behind familiar sounds, smells, rhythms, and faces.
It’s stepping into uncertainty, carrying memories of what was, while navigating the unknown.
For a brain with a nervous system like mine—complex, and deeply sensitive—migration is not only an external journey but an internal one.
Moving from the warm, sensory-rich environment of my tribal home in Southeast Asia to the structured, colder rhythms of Germany shook me in ways I hadn’t expected.
The familiar sounds of home—the chatter of neighbors, cicadas singing at dusk, the scent of wet earth after a tropical rain—were replaced by unfamiliar noises: trains roaring by, the distant hum of cars, and an often overwhelming quiet that sometimes felt like its own kind of noise.
The smells that once wrapped around me like a comforting blanket—spices cooking on open fires, fresh flowers blooming—were replaced by sterile, cold air and unfamiliar foods that didn’t quite settle in my stomach.
My brain, used to the ebb and flow of community life—shared meals, overlapping voices, constant presence—was suddenly disoriented.
This disorientation rippled through my nervous system.
Sometimes, I was overstimulated, every new noise or sensation sending my heart racing.
Other times, I shut down, overwhelmed by the relentless barrage of unfamiliar cues.
The regulation I once managed naturally felt out of reach.
Anxiety crept in—not only about fitting into new social norms but about feeling safe in a body and mind bombarded with unfamiliar sensory information.
Jaw tightness became a constant companion.
Muscles tensed without warning.
Breathing grew shallow.
The sensory comforts I once took for granted—warmth, touch, the rhythmic pulse of community—were harder to find.
I had to find new ways to soothe my nervous system: soft music, weighted blankets, slow, mindful walks through quiet parks.
Most importantly, I had to grant myself permission—to feel unsettled, to rest, to grieve what I had lost.
Migrating with a neurodivergent nervous system means holding two truths simultaneously:
The pain of displacement and the possibility of growth.
The tension between the need for structure and the craving for freedom.
The challenge of being deeply sensitive in a world that often feels harsh.
It’s a slow, ongoing dance of relearning safety, trust, and belonging—both inside myself and in the world around me.
Listening to my body’s signals, honoring its rhythms, and practicing patience have become acts of survival.
Because for a brain with a nervous system like mine, migration isn’t just a journey across geography—it’s a journey into layers of identity, memory, and sensory experience.
And it deserves kindness—not pressure.
Author’s note:
If this reflection on migration, identity, and belonging feels like a needed pause for your nervous system, you can support my work by buying me a brain snack or becoming a paid subscriber on Substack.
Your support helps me keep writing slowly, thoughtfully, and with care for neurodivergent experiences—including my own.
No pressure. No obligation.
Just presence, if it feels right.
Here’s where you can buy me some brain snacks.