For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I’ve been in a battle with my own body. For years, I lived very much ‘above the shoulders.’ If you’ve never heard that phrase before, in neurodivergent spaces it’s often used to describe being disconnected from the body because so much energy goes into processing […]
For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I’ve been in a battle with my own body. For years, I lived very much ‘above the shoulders.’
If you’ve never heard that phrase before, in neurodivergent spaces it’s often used to describe being disconnected from the body because so much energy goes into processing the world cognitively. It can involve chronic neck and shoulder tension, impacting posture. The Autistic Advocate (2018) describes it as the physical, sensory, and cognitive toll of navigating a world that often isn’t designed for neurodivergent people.
Alongside health anxiety, I’ve experienced body dysmorphia and a general discomfort in my own skin. But looking back, I think there has always been a deeper theme running through all of it: a disconnection between my mind and body. Increasingly, I wonder whether this disconnect sits at the heart of my health anxiety. It is likely so.
As I’ve been recovering from neurodivergent burnout this year, I’ve started paying more attention to my body and trying to understand its signals to alleviate any anxieties that come up surrounding health and safety. This has led me to think more deeply about the relationship between neurodivergence and health anxiety.
The more conversations I have with other neurodivergent people, the more I notice similar experiences emerging. A debilitating fear around health or the body feeling somewhat alien. The constant questioning of bodily sensations. The need for reassurance. An overwhelming feeling that something terrible is about to happen.
It started to make me wonder: is this actually more common among neurodivergent people?
From what I’ve found, it certainly seems that way. Research suggests that health anxiety may be more common in neurodivergent people, particularly autistic individuals and those with ADHD.
Differences in sensory processing and increased awareness of bodily sensations can mean that some of us notice physical changes much more intensely than neurotypical people might.
That heightened awareness isn’t ‘all in our heads.’ The sensations are real. But sometimes, normal bodily experiences can be interpreted as signs that something is seriously wrong, leading to persistent health worries and anxiety.
Although research in this area is still new, studies from the University of Warwick have begun exploring this connection. One study found that almost 1 in 3 autistic adults reported clinically significant levels of health anxiety, with autistic participants reporting significantly higher levels of health anxiety than non-autistic participants.
Honestly, seeing research acknowledge something that I have quietly struggled with for years makes me hopeful for more understanding and compassion across services, within communities and through an interoceptive and somatic lens when understanding the mind/body connection, particularly for neurodivergent people.
I think one of the most important things to understand is that heightened bodily awareness is a genuine experience.
Too often, health anxiety is reduced to ‘worrying too much’ or attention-seeking, but for many neurodivergent people, the experience feels far more complex than that. Sensory differences can make physical sensations feel more intense, more noticeable, or harder to interpret. During times of stress, dysregulation, or burnout, those sensations can become even harder to ignore, and health-related fears can quickly spiral.
Understanding this connection doesn’t mean the anxiety isn’t real. It doesn’t mean the physical sensations aren’t real either. Both can co-exist. Instead, it recognises that neurodivergent nervous systems may process and interpret bodily information differently. And that means we deserve support and coping strategies that acknowledge those differences rather than dismiss them.
As validating as it is to see these conversations happening more openly, I also know just how terrifying health anxiety can be when you’re living through it.
I’m not writing about this as someone looking in from the outside. I’m writing as someone who has battled health anxiety for years, especially during burnout. When my body feels under pressure or emotional distress, it fixates on physical symptoms which then in turn feel like an additional threat to my nervous system and I struggle to rationalise my thoughts when it comes to my health.
I know how all-consuming it can feel. I have avoided doctor’s appointments because I was convinced I’d be told I had terminal cancer. I have cried over the thought of losing loved ones. I have spiralled into dissociation while trying to make sense of mortality and what would happen to my family if I died. I had a panic attack because my dog ate a wooden skewer and I thought she was going to die at the emergency vets. I have lost sleep worrying about grandparents and parents, and their aging bodies. I have lost all sense of reality in fearing that my body is attacking me and cannot see past the panic.
Even as a child, I constantly sought reassurance that I wasn’t going to suddenly drop dead. I craved certainty in a world that felt incredibly uncertain. I know all too well what it’s like to become hyper-aware of every sensation in your body. To experience intrusive thoughts about illness or medical emergencies. To miss out on opportunities, withdraw from people you love, and lose yourself in endless cycles of reassurance-seeking or shame.
I know what it’s like to struggle to distinguish between genuine health concerns and anxiety-driven fears. And to avoid it all from a place of overwhelm and fear. Most importantly, I know what it’s like to feel painfully unsafe in your own body.
Part of my journey is learning to reconnect with my body instead of fearing it. Learning to understand its signals with more compassion. Challenging intrusive thoughts. Slowly rebuilding trust in myself. And still, it is a work in progress and I am managing these anxious flare ups to this day.
If you’re neurodivergent and struggling with health anxiety, I want you to know that you aren’t alone in this. Your experiences are real. The distress you feel is real. You’re navigating intense anxiety and dysregulation, and that deserves compassion, not judgement. Understanding the relationship between neurodivergence, sensory processing, and health anxiety may be one of the first steps towards finding strategies that actually work for us.
For me, recognising this connection has helped me approach my body with more curiosity and less fear. I’m learning to interpret its signals more intuitively, reconnect with myself, and take care of my health proactively rather than allowing anxiety to take over.
More recently, I’ve been exploring meditation videos for health anxiety to help foster a greater sense of safety and calm in my body. A simple YouTube search can uncover a range of options. You may also find that other coping strategies work better for you, as it’s often about experimenting and discovering what helps you build a sense of inner safety, trust, and connection within your body.
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