Attachment, Affection, and Porcupines

Neurodivergent Attachment, Affection, and the Ebb and Flow of Togetherness

This essay was originally written as part of Neurodivergent Notes, my Sunday newsletter. I’m experimenting with cross-posting here to see how it resonates.

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This past Friday was Valentine’s Day. As a kid, I loved it — dopamine-inducing bright colors, all the candy, and intricate handmade cards. I loved making hand-made Valentines for my classmates — it brought all the Autistic joy of collection-building.

As I got older, my relationship with the day became more complicated. Public displays of affection have always been hard for me. My spouse and I got married at the ripe old age of 24 (read: barely an adult), and I still vividly remember walking out of the Quaker meeting house with its old wooden pews. He gently asked, “I was trying so hard to catch your eyes during the ceremony — where were you?”

During the moment we were meant to be fully taking in one another’s presence, my eyes wandered everywhere but his. The pastor had us stand face to face, hands clasped, as he “married us.” I hadn’t prepared for this — this expectation of steady eye contact, of unguarded closeness all while being watched by so many eyes! The minutes stretched, excruciating in their intensity. I don’t remember where I looked — probably at the floor, at our feet, anywhere but his gaze. And yet, I loved him. I adored him. I was thrilled to marry him. But expressing that in the way the moment seemed to ask of me? That was something else entirely.

That moment — and countless others — has made me identify strongly with avoidant attachment (a tendency to retreat during conflict, minimize emotions, and feel discomfort with affection). And yet, I feel secure in my closest relationships — my spouse, my parents, my children. So where does that leave me?

Does Attachment Theory Fit Neurodivergent People?

Attachment theory is a psychological framework that explores how our early relationships shape the way we connect with others throughout life. Traditionally, attachment styles are categorized as secure, anxious, avoidant, or disorganized.

But attachment isn’t as fixed as it’s sometimes talked about — it can ebb and flow throughout life and even vary across relationships. We might be avoidantly attached to one parent, anxious in romantic relationships, and secure in friendships. While attachment theory has its limits, I find it provides helpful language to talk about what sorts of defenses and vulnerabilities come online when we’re feeling hurt or have hit an attachment wound.

In fact, while engaging in my favorite Valentine’s Day tradition (binge-watching Love Is Blind and eating pasta with my spouse, who stuck it out with me despite our awkward wedding), I noticed contestants in the pods naming their attachment tendencies — talking about how they respond in conflict and how their opposite defenses might cause friction. So attachment theory … it’s an imperfect but useful framework for understanding how we manage emotions and how that, in turn, shapes our relationships.

That said, within the neurodivergent community, many of us question whether these labels fully capture our experiences. Do our attachment styles reflect core attachment wounds, or are they shaped more by our neurotype — our sensory needs, social energy, personality traits, and the way we process emotions?

When I look closely at my own attachment tendencies, I see something else: traits of neurodivergence that mimic avoidance but aren’t rooted in classic attachment wounds.

For example:

• I have lower social motivation than most people in my life.

• I need significant alone time and often get lost in my inner world.

• The sensory experience of emotions — especially positive ones — can be overwhelming.

• Physical touch is often uncomfortable due to sensory sensitivities.

• My social energy fluctuates, making it hard to be consistently present for those outside my immediate daily life.

• I get bored easily, unless the conversation is intellectually or interpersonally stimulating.

(Have I mentioned what a fun friend I am? 😏)

I’ve often said, "My soul longs for connection, but my body craves isolation." There’s a disconnect between what I relationally desire and what my sensory system can tolerate. Until discovering I was AuDHD, simply saying “I’m avoidant” has been the easiest way to explain this disconnect.

The Porcupine Dilemma

When I first encountered Arthur Schopenhauer’s Porcupine Dilemma during my graduate training, it felt like he had given words (or rather, a metaphor) to something I had been searching for.

Schopenhauer, a philosopher, used the image of porcupines to explain the struggles of human intimacy. In cold weather, porcupines huddle together for warmth — but as they draw closer, they inevitably prick each other with their quills, causing pain. So they pull apart, but the cold eventually drives them back together. And the cycle continues: warmth, pain, retreat. Togetherness … pain … retreat … cold … pain … together … pain … retreat.

I have never encountered a metaphor that feels closer to my human experience — the ebb and flow of slipping in and out of togetherness.

For me, this explains my autistic experience of attachment far better than traditional attachment theory. The longing for closeness is real — but so are the spikes. My sensory and emotional systems need space. But then, inevitably, I get cold.

And that’s where fantasy comes in — the fantasy of getting close without the spikes. I think this is a deeply human longing, but perhaps even more so for neurodivergent people. Maybe that’s what I meant when I said, "My soul longs for connection, but my body craves isolation." Because for me, closeness isn’t just about emotional vulnerability — it’s also about sensory overwhelm.

The warmth of connection is real, but so are the quills.

In last week’s Neurodivergent Notes, I wrote about belonging and togetherness. I suspect many of us are feeling that familiar ache for connection right now. Whatever that looks like for you — and whatever your specific barriers (your quills) may be — I hope you’re finding small, meaningful moments of warmth and togetherness, even if they’re fleeting.

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Cross-posting Neurodivergent Notes from my Sunday newsletter feels redundant, but also, I don’t really understand substack yet. If you think I should post more of my essays here let me know by subscribing and I’ll take that as a vote for yes.