Emotions Without a Map: How I Process Feelings Differently

After my last post about autism received a lot of positive feedback, today I'm writing another very personal post­—about my emotions and how I perceive them.

For most of my life, I had issues communicating my feelings properly and people would often misinterpret them. I've always felt like emotions were a puzzle I couldn't quite solve. And it was frustrating. Why did something so basic have to be so hard? I even questioned whether something was wrong on my end since everyone around me seemed to do it with ease.

This frustration built up over the years, until I finally stumbled upon an explanation that made everything click. In this post, I want to offer a glimpse into my emotional world and try to give you an explanation on how it works.

Emotions Have Always Been a Puzzle

As a child, I remember classmates who would say they were "so excited" or "really sad" and I would pause, unsure of what those feelings actually felt like for me. It's not that I didn't have feelings—I certainly reacted to things—but I often couldn't put a name to what was happening inside.

When people asked me "How do you feel?", I often gave an answer that seemed to make the most sense to them. I must have masked it well, because no one seemed to notice anything was off. But the honest answer would have been: "I don't know".

I wasn't trying to be evasive—I genuinely couldn't tell. It was a lonely feeling, like being emotionally tone-deaf in a world where everyone else could hum the melody.
I desperately wanted to understand myself, but the emotions just wouldn't speak to me in a language I could grasp.

No Words for My Feelings

Only recently, I discovered there's actually a name for this lifelong struggle: alexithymia. It literally means no words for emotions and is basically a fancy word for having difficulty recognizing and describing your own emotions.

When I first read about it, I had a lightbulb moment—this was me.
It was a huge relief to learn I wasn't alone or defective for feeling this way.
In fact, alexithymia isn't exclusive to autistic people. Some neurotypical people experience it too—often because of trauma or social conditioning. But there's a key difference in how it plays out for me as an autistic person.

For neurotypical people, the issue might be primarily a difficulty accessing or articulating emotions. It's like they're there under a fog and with effort that fog can lift a bit. They often improve with practice or therapy, gradually learning to "unlock" or verbalize what they feel. This particularly affects male-socialized individuals who have been told time and again that men don't cry.

My alexithymia, on the other hand, isn't a fog that can be cleared with practice. It's more like a fundamental difference in wiring. Researchers call that primary alexithymia.
In other words, I didn't learn to disconnect from my feelings as a defense—my brain just never had the standard connections to begin with. It's a neurologically different emotional experience. I can certainly learn coping strategies and ways to better communicate my feelings (and I have), but I'll probably never have that instantaneous emotional intuition that many neurotypical people enjoy.

And that's okay. Actually, understanding this distinction has been empowering.
I stopped blaming myself for not feeling the same way others do and finally understood that my emotional experience is simply built differently. As as result, I began to accept that difference as just another part of being autistic.

Intense Feelings, Logical Labels

One of the biggest misconceptions about people with alexithymia is that we don't feel anything. Well, surprise, I'm not a robot. I do feel. In fact, I often feel things very intensely—just not in the way you might expect. The emotions are there, but I don't automatically know what I'm feeling.

It's a bit like hearing a loud noise in the next room and not knowing whether it's laughter or crying. I know something's happening, but I have to figure it out intellectually. I often describe it as experiencing emotions through my mind rather than my heart. While others might instinctively say "I'm angry" or "I'm happy" in real time, I usually have to work backwards to figure that out. That means I often only fully understand how I felt in a situation hours or even days later, after I've had time to reflect.

Retrospective self-reflection is a big part of how I make sense of my inner world.
To decode my feelings more precisely, I rely on three main clues: context, body signals and logical inference. This process of emotional detective work has become second nature. It's a very cognitive way of feeling—gathering evidence, making connections, translating signals. It's not instant or intuitive, but it works for me. The feelings are there, they just arrive in a format I have to decode.

That said, I do register a general emotional tone. I can usually tell if something is good or bad, pleasant or unpleasant, positive or negative and that valence helps guide me through the situation.

My Body Shouts, My Feelings Whisper

An interesting twist in my experience is that while I struggle to identify emotions, I'm hyper-aware of my body's signals—a trait known as high interoception. Interoception is basically the sense of your internal bodily states, things like heartbeat, temperature or muscle tension.

Many autistic people have differences in interoception. In my case it's dialed way up. I can often feel every little flutter or shift in my body. My heart doesn't just beat—I feel it thudding. Sometimes I can even hear my blood flowing through my veins. My body basically "shouts" its physical state at me.

You'd think being so in tune with my body would make it easier to know my emotions. After all, emotions often manifest as bodily sensations. But here's the catch: I perceive these sensations in a very neutral way. For example, I might feel my throat tighten and chest ache, which in another person would instantly register as sadness. In my case, however, I just register the sensation for what it is, without any classification. It doesn't automatically translate to "I'm sad" unless I consciously make that connection.

This high interoceptive awareness coupled with low emotional intuition can be both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it gives me lots of data to work with. On the other, it means I can be flooded with intense physical sensations that I have to sort out without an intuitive guide. It's a bit like being a scientist observing my own body: I have reams of sensory data, but I must analyze it to deduce the emotional hypothesis.

Butterflies Without a Crush

One intriguing aspect of how I experience emotions differently is what happens when I meet new people that I really connect with. When I click with someone (even just platonically), my body goes into overdrive. I think about the person a lot, I look forward to seeing or texting them and there's this overall rush of energy. If I didn't know better, I'd say I have a "crush" on them.

But here's the thing: it's not romantic or sexual at all. It's more like my system's way of registering "This person is new and fascinating!" without the usual social context filters. I've come to recognize it as something I call a friend crush—an intense attraction to someone's personality or mind, completely decoupled from romantic intentions.

I recall meeting a new coworker once and within days feeling this huge surge of affection and excitement whenever we talked. But I never even thought about dating them or anything—I just really valued our connection.

Understanding this about myself has helped a lot. I no longer confuse those signals with romantic love and I can manage them by reminding myself what they really are. This intense reaction is actually kind of lovely in its own way. It means when I connect with someone, I really connect. I feel a surge of warmth and excitement that, while unconventional, is genuine. I've learned to just enjoy that feeling for what it is—a sign that I've found a person that is really like a lot.

Values Over Feelings: Love, Justice and Weltschmerz

Now let's talk about what I like to call "higher" emotions. These are emotions that don't stem from instinct or bodily sensations, but can still provoke deep and powerful responses. They're grounded in my core values and philosophy.

Take love for example. Most people describe love as a feeling—a warm, fuzzy, heart-swelling emotional state. But for me, love isn't a feeling—it's a value and a decision. When I say "I love you" to someone, I'm communicating commitment, care and loyalty. It means I've decided this person truly matters to me and I will act lovingly toward them.

But do I feel love in the romantic, butterflies or gooey emotional sense? Honestly, not really—at least not in an obvious way. Instead, my love for someone reveals itself in my actions and principles: I think about their wellbeing, I choose to support them, I stand by them. It's love as a verb and a value, more than an internal emotion.
This doesn't mean that I love people any less deeply. In fact, I'd argue I love in a very deliberate, steady way. My love isn't subject to whim or momentary feeling. It's a constant, because it's grounded in conscious choice and recognition of who that person is to me.

The same kind of cerebral approach applies to things like moral clarity and justice. When I see injustice or someone being mistreated, I often experience a strong visceral reaction. It's not something I could locate in my body, but rather a kind of deep malaise that won't let me go. It spawns a strong moral drive to step in and do something about it—even if I didn't always dare to do so.

This response is especially intense when it comes to animals. When I see how they're mistreated, hunted, displaced or reduced to commodities, I feel a deep, almost unbearable pain—something I'd describe as a kind of Weltschmerz: an existential sadness or grief for the suffering of the world. Just not solely for humans, but for every living creature.

All of this is to say: My emotional compass is guided less by fleeting feelings and more by clear inner convictions.

Why Feedback Feels Like a Threat

One of the more frustrating things is how strongly my body reacts to perceived threats, even when my mind doesn't see a problem. My amygdala is significantly larger than average—almost 30% bigger—and always on high alert. It doesn't hesitate to activate my fight-or-flight system. It jumps in fast, with zero input from my rational thinking.

This creates a discrepancy between my body and brain. My heart races, muscles tense and adrenaline surges—while mentally I'm calm and reflective. One part of me panics, the other part is already processing. It's like my nervous system has a mind of its own, faster and often at odds with my conscious mind. The frustrating part is that this physical anxiety lingers, even after my brain has moved on. It can take several minutes for my body to calm down, like it didn't get the memo that everything's fine.

The clearest example is receiving feedback. I actually appreciate constructive criticism. My brain welcomes it and I often agree with it. But my body reacts as if I'm under attack. My pulse spikes, my face heats up and I tense up.

I'm still learning to sit through that initial wave—to let the reaction pass before I respond. Nowadays, most of the time, I can wait it out and then reply calmly and thoughtfully. But not always. Sometimes it still overwhelms me and I slip back into old patterns, getting defensive or trying to explain myself too quickly. Not because I disagree, but because my nervous system is still catching up.

Letting Go of Bad Feelings

People often accuse me of suppressing negative emotions. Some people think I'm bottling things up or moving on too quickly. I've had loved ones worry that I'm repressing feelings and might eventually explode. And I get that. I understand how it might seem that way. But the truth is, I'm not stockpiling secret rage or sorrow.

Since I don't experience emotions in the typical way, there's nothing intense to suppress in the first place. My emotions simply aren't overpowering to begin with—they're more like signals I can process and release. To be honest, I generally don't deal with huge negative swings all that often. I have bad moments, sure, but rarely bad days. It might seem strange, but I'm grateful that my brain chemistry (or perhaps my practiced approach) allows me to return to equilibrium quickly.

When a negative feeling arrises, it shows as those physical signals or logical realizations we talked about, rather than an overwhelming wave of sadness or anger. And when I recognize it, my approach is not to fight it or flee from it, but to notice, reflect and let go. I really don't see the point in clinging to anger or wallowing in sadness once I've understood why it's there. Oftentimes, I can't control the situation anyways, so why bother at all?

This approach aligns with neuroscientist Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor's "90-second rule" which suggests that the chemical response to an emotion in the body lasts about 90 seconds. Beyond that, it's our thoughts that perpetuate the emotional response.
In other words: You can choose whether it consumes you or not.

No Right Way to Feel

Writing all this out, I'm struck by how diverse emotional experiences can be.
Mine may be uniquely shaped by autism and alexithymia, but I know I'm not alone in many of these quirks.

To any autistic readers who see themselves in my story: I hope this makes you feel seen and validated. There is nothing wrong with you. You're not broken for processing emotions differently. We simply have a different user manual for our feelings and that's okay.

And to any neurotypical readers who made it this far: thank you for caring to understand. I hope this gave you a window into what's going on behind the seemingly blank stare or the unexpected reactions. If someone in your life doesn't show emotions in the way you expect, try not to assume they don't have them or that they don't care.

What I've come to realize is that there's no single right way to feel.
Emotions are incredibly personal and varied. Some of us feel with their body, others feel with their brain. Neither is superior—they're just different modes of being human. I used to think I had to "fix" myself to feel the way everyone else did, but now I embrace that my feelings are just the way they are. After all, feeling deeply doesn't always mean feeling obviously. And I wouldn't have it any other way.