I was just waiting for the right time to respond, and it never arrived.
Last week, my phone lit up with the name of one of my favorite people in the world and my heart skipped a beat. I’d been thinking about them particularly more than usual — almost like I summoned their notification. It was a text message: “OMG. Remember this song from our childhood? I just heard it for the first time in ages and thought of you. Also, so proud of everything you’re accomplishing!”
When you’re neurodivergent like me what seems like a simple text feels like much more than that. I’m not ignoring your text, I’m just going through the five stages of text avoidance:
Stage 1: Joy
My delayed reply begins with genuine excitement.
I couldn’t contain my grin, induced by a loved one’s warmth. I slid my thumb across the screen, opened the message and thought for a moment about my response. And then suddenly, I felt the weight of my environment and its juxtaposition with the words as I read them; I was a few drinks in at a loud venue and subconsciously decided that I was neither in the right physical place nor the right mental space to give the message the attention it deserved. After all, I wouldn’t want it to be misunderstood. So I marked it as ‘unread’ and told myself it’d be the first thing I did in the morning.
Stage 2: Delay
I convince myself I’ll answer when I can give the message my full attention.
But that was quite presumptuous since, for many neurodivergent people like me, texting isn’t easier than face-to-face conversation — in fact, it can often create different barriers. The asynchronous nature of texting can amplify executive dysfunction, perfectionism, anxiety, rejection sensitivity and difficulties with task-switching, even while reducing things like impending processing time and social pressure.
Modernity treats texting as effortless. After all, it only takes a few seconds and can be done anywhere through a channel that’s in everybody’s pockets at all times. Which, while convenient, can also be an added layer of pressure which, if not handled like in high altitude, can explode into a guilt spiral — one born from genuine care.
A mountain of a molehill, as they say.
Texting isn’t easier than face-to-face conversation — in fact, it can often create different barriers.
Stage 3: Out of Sight
Once the notification disappears, so does the task.
Beyond the simple action of typing words, texting is a spontaneous conversation — to share a joke, show an image, send love, discuss something pressing or to collaborate on logistics. But while there are infinite reasons to text, for the most part, there are only two types of texts:
- The kind that requires a thoughtful response.
- And the kind that doesn’t.
Unfortunately for every contact list I’m a part of, my brain puts most messages into the first category. By responding to a text, I’m initiating a social task. And in doing just that, I need to gracefully pivot from wherever and however your message found me. But my ADHD makes my attention span like a USB drive. If you don’t eject correctly, the files can corrupt.
So maybe I’ll leave it until I’m back home, or until I’ve met the deadline I’m working toward, but by then, the message has left my lock screen and unfortunately, my brain — not because the text isn’t important to me anymore, but because of the ever-interrupting elements of daily life and time blindness.
Stage 4: Guilt
Every passing hour makes the reply heavier.
And inevitably, the message returns to the forefront of my mind. Only by then, hours have gone by — maybe a day… or two! What if I’ve posted to my Instagram story in that amount of time? And what if they’ve seen I was active elsewhere on the internet, and think I’ve been ignoring them?
The longer a text sits, the heavier it becomes. Depending on the nature of the text, it’s possible it makes almost no sense to answer after all this time. A friend might have wanted fashion advice while they were at the mall, and by “wrapping up one thing” before responding, I’ve missed the window of opportunity altogether. But this one was so sincerely exciting, I worry the lapse of time might’ve made its sender feel as though I hadn’t cared for their message — and suddenly I feel unworthy of receiving such a sweet message of spontaneous friendship.
Stage 5: Avoidance
Eventually, I’m no longer avoiding the text. I’m avoiding the apology.
What was initially one hour until responding quickly became five… days.
Making friends in the age of texting etiquette can be difficult, but certainly not impossible. Fortunately, those in my life give me grace — they don’t equate response-time with care, they’ll follow-up if need be, never intentionally guilt trip and, when in doubt, they dial my number knowing I’ll always pick up their call.
The unread text was never about laziness or indifference.
The unread text was never about laziness or indifference. For many neurodivergent people like me, replying requires navigating executive function, emotional regulation, working memory and social interpretation — all before typing a single word.
So if you’ve ever waited days for a response that began with “Oh my god. I’m so sorry,” know that I mean it. I really am sorry. Your text wasn’t an inconvenience and I was happy to hear from you. But sometimes my brain needs a little extra time to process and get back. I’m working on it. But in the meantime, thank you for working with me.
