Sensory Joy as a Late-Diagnosed Autistic Person

I need to start with a bold statement: being autistic is far from being all doom and gloom. 

In my case, being late-diagnosed as autistic and then absorbing new knowledge, tools, language, and coping strategies revealed a totally unexpected epiphany: autistic sensory joy. This isn’t merely soothing or pleasant; it’s immersive, raw, transformative, and immensely powerful. As one example, few things bring me as much delight as the sound of a deep distant sporadic rumbling thunder paired with waves of gentle, rhythmic rain. 

And it only recently dawned on me that this kind of sensory seeking, this deep autistic joy, is a gift that neurotypical people can never fully comprehend. 

Allow me to (try to) explain. 

Through my beloved noise-cancelling headphones, I play carefully chosen soundscapes, and, I must admit, I am rather choosey about exactly how they sound. They have to be just right: deep, powerful, distant thunder with subtle waves of soft pattering rain. Hitting the sweet spot envelops me, offering a grounding like no other method. And they don’t just ground me. They envelop me, draw me inward, and allow me to fall into a space that is mine alone. External stimuli recede, leaving me with a quiet and settled mind; few sensations bring me that level of calm and refuge. Even from the peak of overwhelm.

‘Ah’, one might say, ‘so, you like the sound?’ Don’t be fooled. It isn’t just noise to me (and I dare say many others).  

There’s a rhythm to rain, ancient and timeless. I love thinking about that. It anchors me, steadying the restless mind like a cosy, weighted blanket tightly wrapped around my body. After a short time, I’m myself. No masks, no pretences, no need to explain or justify. It’s a kind of freedom I’ve only ever found in the intimacy of these soundscapes. It’s as if my senses dull to the outside world, everything becomes a blur in the background. Dysregulated emotions and feelings of overwhelm included. It’s not a fleeting distraction or a passing comfort; it’s an anchor. A gift in and of itself. 

But, still, it goes further. And here's the important part.

Thunder. It’s a paradox: ferocious yet reassuring, far off yet enveloping. Its low, rolling vibrations are indescribably beautiful to me. More than just sounds, they are a sensation. Its low vibrations don’t merely echo through my headphones and sound good; they resonate and keep me in the present moment, should my mind wander too far. 

When I spoke with my autism assessor about this, I didn’t really know what I was saying. I didn’t know how special it was.

I could barely describe what was a textbook case of sensory-seeking. And, at that moment during my autism assessment, my spoken words paled into insignificance as my body reacted to attempting to describe what I experience when I listen to these soundscapes. I made efforts to convey how good it feels, while feeling like just I wasn’t doing it any justice at all. Yet, upon describing my rain and thunder playlist to her, I raised my arms to show her the goosebumps densely covering them, hairs standing rigidly to attention. In truth, my whole body was covered in goosebumps while I felt waves of what could only be described as electricity (words don’t really cut it) flowing head to toe. 

The mere thought of this indescribable autistic joy...  it’s not just pleasant, it’s sensory alchemy.

Whether I’m working, reflecting, or simply letting myself exist, happy, distressed, frustrated, or calm; these sounds amplify my focus, soothe my senses, and/or settle my entire state of being. It feels like a hidden power, a vivid thread in the rich tapestry of what it means to be autistic. It’s a reminder that neurodivergent brains can bring incredible gifts as well as the many challenges so ubiquitous across our entire lives. 

Autistic joy, from something as simple and profound as the sound of rain and thunder. A beautiful gift indeed. 

Header photo by chutipon Pattanatitinon on Unsplash