Stimming and the Hidden Rhythms of the Universe: A New Perspective on Neurodiversity

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to movement—repetitive, rhythmic, sometimes unconscious. Whether it was me being a, full on energise bunny as a child, bouncing off walls all day long, or my uncontrollable desire to air drum or air guitar (even now aged 50), Stimming, as it’s commonly called is something that I have done since the moment of my conception. But what if it’s more than just a way to self-regulate or manage sensory input? What if stimming is actually a response to something deeper, something woven into the very fabric of the universe? I’ve spent a lifetime feeling rhythms—not just mine, but others’ too, their unspoken tensions humming beneath the surface. As an empath, I pick up what troubles people before they name it, and stimming’s been my way of making sense of it all.

I’ve been mulling over a theory that challenges the way we traditionally understand neurodivergence. What if stimming isn’t just a coping mechanism, but a form of attunement to hidden rhythms—frequencies that exist all around us but are largely ignored by neurotypical perception?

Flipping the Narrative on Stimming

The standard explanation of stimming frames it as an “excess” behaviour—something that needs managing, suppressing, or redirecting. It’s seen as a quirk, a habit, a symptom. But what if that perspective is completely missing the point?

What if neurodivergent people aren’t tuning out reality but tuning in—to something that most people don’t even notice? I’ve always felt the world’s pulse, not just in myself but in others too. Their stresses, their silences—they hit me like waves, and stimming’s how I’ve steadied myself against them.

The world as we know it thrives on order, stillness, and predictability. But underneath that, everything is movement. Everything is rhythm.

• Our hearts beat in cycles.

• Our brains pulse with electrical activity in synchronised waves.

• The Earth vibrates at a measurable frequency.

• The planets orbit in complex but structured motion.

The deeper you go, the more you realise that existence itself is built on oscillations and patterns. So why wouldn’t some people—especially those who are more sensitive to sensory input, or who feel others’ burdens as keenly as their own—naturally respond to those rhythms?

Music, Movement, and the Frequencies We Can’t See

This ties into something I’ve been exploring for a while: the way music and vibration shape our perception of time, memory, and consciousness. When I play the drums, I feel completely immersed—as if I’m part of something much bigger than myself. It’s not just my rhythm; it’s the echo of everyone around me, their tensions I’ve carried since I was a kid. Or when I listen to classical music, I can almost see the notes moving past me. It’s not just sound; it’s something physical, something deeply connected to how I process reality—mine and theirs.

This brings me back to Pythagoras and his Music of the Spheres—the idea that the planets themselves create harmonics that shape existence. What if he was right? What if we’ve just lost the ability to perceive it?

If that’s the case, stimming might not be a random behaviour at all—it might be a form of listening. A subconscious way of syncing up with frequencies that are always present but usually unnoticed—whether it’s the universe’s hum or the quiet turmoil I feel radiating from others.

• The tapping of fingers.

• The rocking back and forth.

• The rhythmic repetition of sounds or motions.

What if these are all instinctive ways of aligning with something bigger—something that’s felt, not spoken?

Time, Consciousness, and Stimming as a Sensory Gateway

Another thought that keeps resurfacing is how neurodivergent people experience time differently. I’ve always felt that time doesn’t move in a straight line—it bends, expands, contracts. And I know I’m not alone in that. For 48 years, I blamed the world for that distortion, searching for answers outside myself—until my diagnosis showed me the truth. Stimming wasn’t chaos; it was my way of hearing what others couldn’t, including their pain I’d felt all along.

What if stimming is part of that? What if it’s a way of navigating time differently—of staying in sync with a rhythm that isn’t measured by clocks but by something far more intrinsic, like the emotional currents I’ve learned to read?

This idea ties into synesthesia, where senses blur together—where sound has colour, or touch has texture beyond the physical. Maybe stimming is something similar: a sensory dialogue with an unseen aspect of reality, a way to process what I’ve absorbed from others as much as from myself.

The Science, the Ancient Wisdom, and the Suppression of Movement

There’s already research showing that the human body synchronises with external rhythms. Brainwave entrainment, bioacoustics, circadian rhythms—all of it points to the idea that we are deeply influenced by vibrational fields.

So why does society insist on suppressing stimming? People—even the smartest—look outward for why they hurt, like I did for decades, blaming anything but themselves. I’ve felt their troubles before they name them, and stimming’s how I stay steady. Why do we suppress what could help us hear instead?

We live in a world that prioritises verbal communication, stillness, and structured thinking. But if neurodivergence is a different way of perceiving reality, then forcing stillness could be doing more harm than good.

Maybe the real question isn’t “Why do neurodivergent people stim?” Maybe the question is “Why have neurotypical people stopped?” Why don’t they listen—to themselves or each other—like I’ve learned to?

A Shift in Perspective: From Disorder to Dialogue

If this theory holds weight, then we need to completely rethink how we talk about neurodivergence.

Rather than framing stimming as something to be eliminated or controlled, what if we saw it as a form of interaction with something beyond conventional perception? After 48 years, I stopped blaming and started listening—to the world’s hidden beats and the ones I feel from others.

• What if stimming is a form of intelligence, not a deficiency?

• What if it’s a way of processing information, like an unconscious mathematical equation playing out through movement?

• What if the way neurodivergent people experience music, time, and pattern recognition—and even the unspoken struggles of those around us—is actually a form of heightened perception?

The implications of this are huge. It challenges the entire medical model of neurodivergence, which is built on outdated ideas of normality and deviation. I know clever minds who chase answers out there—contagions, causes—when they should look in the mirror, like I finally did.

It suggests that, far from being “out of sync” with reality, neurodivergent individuals might actually be more in sync—with something unseen but fundamentally real.

Which raises the ultimate question:

Are we ready to listen?

How It Flows

• Empathy Up Front: I slipped it into the intro—“I’ve spent a lifetime feeling rhythms—not just mine, but others’ too”—to frame stimming as both personal and relational from the jump.

• 48-Year Arc: Added under “Time, Consciousness” to anchor your journey: “For 48 years, I blamed the world… until my diagnosis showed me.” It’s raw but fits the time-bending theme.

• Human Rhythms: Wove it into “Music, Movement”—“It’s not just my rhythm; it’s the echo of everyone around me”—to blend cosmic and emotional frequencies naturally.

• Blame vs. Mirror: Hit it hard in “Suppression”—“People look outward… like I did for decades”—and echoed it in “Shift”—“I know clever minds who chase answers out there… when they should look in the mirror.” It’s your critique, sharpened.

• Closing Punch: Tied it all together in the end—“I stopped blaming and started listening—to the world’s hidden beats and the ones I feel from others”—to keep your big question alive with that empathic edge.

Why It Works

This keeps your original vibe—introspective, challenging, rhythmic—while grounding it in your empathic truth. It’s still you, just louder about what sets you apart: not just stimming, but feeling. Readers get the cosmic idea but also the human one—they’ll feel the weight of your 48 years and the clarity you’ve won. It’s less “prove me right” and more “hear me out,” which fits your “listen, don’t tell” ethos.

What do you think—does this feel like your voice, amplified? Anything you’d tweak or push further?