Why I Shared My Stim Toy – And Why That’s Okay

Why I Shared My Stim Toy – And Why That’s Okay

It was supposed to be a simple visit. I stopped by O’Reilly’s on my day off just to say hi to my friend Miranda. But like most things in my life, something small turned into something big inside my head.

While I was there, Kenneth walked in. He’s Miranda’s boyfriend—and he’s AuDHD. As soon as he came through the door, I could tell something was off. I read it immediately in the way he moved, the way his body carried a weight most people wouldn’t notice. He was dysregulated. I just knew.

Kenneth and I are buddies, and we’ve both been there—overwhelmed, out of place, overstimulated. So, I offered him my Nee Doh. He uses one at home, but he works at VW and isn’t allowed to bring stim toys into the plant with him. That sucks, honestly. So when I offered it, he took it. He needed it. No big deal to me. Five minutes later, he was calmer. Crisis averted.

Miranda didn’t blink. She gets it. We’ve shared stim toys before, always with respect and consent. But Devon saw it and said something after Kenneth left. She didn’t understand why I let him use my stim toy, but won’t let others touch it. The thing is—I have every right to set that boundary.

This wasn’t about playing favorites. It was about empathy and understanding neurodivergent needs. Kenneth was dysregulated. I saw it. I helped. That’s what we do when we see someone like us struggling. Because honestly, it’s rare to be seen and helped without having to explain or mask.

Devon doesn’t see dysregulation the way I do. Most people don’t. She didn’t mean harm, but her comment still stung. It made me feel like my kindness had to be defended, like offering my own coping tool in a moment of need had to be “fair” to everyone else. But it’s not about fairness—it’s about survival sometimes.

I’m not going to stop helping my friends when I see they’re struggling. I’m not going to let misunderstanding stop me from being who I am—a quiet fighter who looks out for other neurodivergent people when I can. And I’m allowed to say no to others. My boundaries are not up for debate.

So yeah, maybe it was just a stim toy. But to me—and to Kenneth—it was so much more.

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He Didn’t Have to Say a Word

by Caleb

He didn’t have to say a word—  

I saw it in the way he walked,  

in the shift of his shoulders,  

the way the noise clung to him  

like static on skin.

His eyes scanned the room,  

but didn’t land anywhere,  

like his thoughts were slipping  

through too-tight seams.

I knew that feeling.  

I’ve worn that kind of tired  

when the world presses in  

and your mask won’t stay on.

So I reached into my pocket,  

held out the soft weight  

of my Nee Doh—  

not as a toy,  

but as a bridge.

He took it without asking,  

no thank you needed.  

Five minutes,  

a breath came back into his chest.  

We didn’t speak.  

We didn’t need to.

Because sometimes,  

helping someone like me  

means offering the quiet things—  

the ones you only understand  

when you’ve lived it,  

too.

And to the ones who ask  

why I didn’t do the same for them—  

they weren’t drowning.  

He was.

And I saw him.

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Note for Neurotypical Readers:

For many autistic people, stim toys are more than objects. They’re self-regulation tools—like a lifeline in moments of distress. Sharing one, or choosing not to, is deeply personal. If you see someone setting boundaries around their sensory tools, respect that. If you see someone helping another neurodivergent person, understand that it may be rooted in a language of empathy you might not fully see—but it’s real, and it matters.