What Going Live on TikTok Taught Me About Connection

My first TikTok live was terrifying. I sat there staring at the "Go Live" button for twenty minutes before I worked up the courage to press it. My heart was pounding, my hands were shaking, and every cell in my body was screaming at me to close the app and go back to the safety of being invisible.

But I pressed it anyway. And then I did it again the next day. And the day after that.

This is not going to be a post about how going live changed my life and made everything better. It didn't. Some streams were genuinely awful. Some left me feeling worse than before I started. But somewhere in between the anxiety and the bad comments and the tech issues, I started learning things about connection that I did not expect.

Why I Started Going Live Despite the Anxiety

The honest answer is that I was tired of being a static page. I had been writing blog posts, recording videos, posting content - but it all felt one-directional. I was shouting into the void and hoping someone heard me. Going live was terrifying because it meant people could talk back in real time, but it was also the only way I could actually have a conversation.

As someone with AuDHD, real-time conversation is a mixed bag. On one hand, my ADHD loves the stimulation - the rapid-fire comments, the split-second decisions, the dopamine hits of engagement. On the other hand, my autism hates the unpredictability - not knowing what someone is going to say, having to process social cues through a screen, the sheer overwhelm of managing multiple inputs at once.

But I kept going because I realized something: the anxiety of going live was temporary, but the isolation of staying silent was permanent. Every time I went live and survived it, I proved to myself that I could do hard things.

The Unexpected Connections That Kept Me Going

The first time someone said "I feel less alone because of what you shared," I cried. Not because I was sad, but because it hit me that this was working. The whole point of NeuroKind is to help people feel less alone, and here I was, on a screen in my bedroom, actually doing it.

I have had people message me saying they finally scheduled an autism assessment because of something I said on a live. I have had people tell me they showed their family one of my videos to explain what AuDHD feels like. I have had people share their own stories in the comments, sometimes for the first time ever.

Those moments do not erase the bad comments. But they create something the bad comments cannot touch - a sense that this matters, that showing up is worth it, that even if one person benefits, the vulnerability was not wasted.

Boundaries I Had to Learn the Hard Way

I did not start with good boundaries. I started with the idea that I had to be available to everyone, respond to every comment, tolerate every type of engagement because that is "what creators do." That almost broke me.

Here is what I have learned since then:

• I do not have to read every comment. I can scan, engage with the ones that feel productive, and ignore the ones designed to hurt. This is not rude. It is survival.
• I can end a live whenever I want. I used to feel trapped once I started, like I had to stay for a certain amount of time. Now I say "alright, I am getting overwhelmed, going to wrap up early" and I leave. My followers understand.
• I do not owe anyone an explanation for my body. Comments about my weight are not up for discussion. I do not have to acknowledge them, justify them, or be gracious about them. I can delete and move on.
• The "are you single" question gets ignored. I am here to talk about neurodivergence, not to be someone's dating prospect. I do not have to be polite about redirecting the conversation.
• I can take breaks. Going live every day is not sustainable. Taking a week off does not make me a failure as a creator. The people who need my content will still be here when I get back.

What I Wish I Knew Before I Started

I wish I knew that most of the anxiety happens before you press the button, not during. The anticipation is always worse than the reality. I wish I knew that the first few streams would be awkward and that is okay. I wish I knew that not every live has to be profound - sometimes you just chat and that is enough.

I also wish I knew how much I would learn about myself. Going live has forced me to articulate things I had only felt. It has pushed me to organize my thoughts, to find language for experiences I had never put into words, to be honest in a way that feels scary but also freeing.

And I wish I knew that the bad comments say more about the people leaving them than about me. It took me months to internalize this. I still have days where one rude comment ruins my entire mood. But I am getting better at recognizing it for what it is - someone else's pain projected onto a screen.

How Going Live Changed How I See Myself

Before I started going live, I thought of myself as someone who could not handle criticism. I avoided conflict. I shrank from confrontation. The idea of putting myself in a situation where strangers could say anything to me in real time seemed like a special kind of hell.

And sometimes it is. But I have also discovered that I am tougher than I thought. Not in the "I don't care what anyone thinks" way - I still care, and that is okay. But in the "I can feel the fear and do it anyway" way. In the "I can get a nasty comment and keep talking" way. In the "I can end a stream knowing some people did not like me and still come back the next day" way.

That is a kind of strength I did not know I had. And I am grateful to the people who show up, who share their stories, who make the hard parts worth it.

If you are thinking about going live as a neurodivergent creator, here is my advice: start before you are ready. You will never feel ready. But you do not have to be perfect. You just have to be real. And real is something you already know how to do.

See you on the next one. I will be the one shaking before I press the button.

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