It was a Friday evening. I was about to binge-watch a Netflix series. The summary: a guy turns into a loyal dog.

Sounds promising.

I watched the first episode and said out loud: "at some point he's going to turn into a dog"

Almost two episodes later, the guy still hadn't turned into a dog. I started feeling disappointed. When is he going to turn into a dog??

Six episodes later, nobody had turned into a dog — and I was watching a thriller about two military prosecutors fighting corruption in the army.

The series is good and I got attached to it. But nobody turned into a dog. Literally.

Although this is a quirky and funny example of how literal communication works, imagine navigating social situations this way… I'm there, expecting someone to literally turn into a dog. Meanwhile, everyone around me is upset because someone already turned into a dog — figuratively — and I completely missed it.

I have collected so many awkward situations related to literal communication that I have enough material for years of stand-up. This happens with friends, partners, family, coworkers, classmates.

I can recall a time a few years ago when I got invited to "watch Netflix" at a guy's house. Imagine my disappointment when I was expecting to actually watch Netflix and that didn't happen. The relationship didn't last long — but for years I wondered what was wrong with me.

I couldn't understand why a guy at the gym would ask to share a machine when there was an empty one right beside us. I'd say yes, ignore him, walk to the empty machine, and get annoyed that my routine got interrupted.

I always get this question: "If you're so beautiful, why don't you have a boyfriend?" I used to hate it. I finally came up with an honest answer: because I don't do or say the things women are supposed to do in social situations. I didn't come with that script.

If you don't explicitly ask me to get you a plate, some forks, or a glass of water, I probably won't — and I'll come across as rude. I still have to consciously remind myself to offer guests something to eat or drink when they visit my place.

Misunderstandings have been a significant part of my life — not just personally, but professionally.

For years I couldn't understand why anyone would prefer working in an office. It didn't make sense to me. Noisy spaces, bright lights, hours of meetings that could have been emails, and your boss sitting right in front of you. I was missing the social script that nobody ever explained.

In some systems, being present matters more than delivering results. Sitting at a desk for eight hours or attending a three-hour meeting is what counts — not what you actually produce.

I got frustrated. I felt my time was completely wasted. I used to think: if we wanted to talk and hang out, we should have a dedicated hour for that. I wouldn't mind that at all. But driving for hours every day just to prove I cared about my job — that didn't make sense to me. I had a meltdown every morning in the car. Nobody understood me, my working style, or the logic behind it.

I was successful at my job when the pandemic came, because suddenly people could see me for what I actually contributed: solving problems, fixing data disasters, delivering real solutions. Not just the person who seemed uncomfortable at the office, trying to figure out if she was invited to lunch and refusing to laugh at disturbing jokes.

Another mind-blowing moment came when I finally understood that the most important thing about college wasn't the degree — it was the network you were supposed to build. Nobody explained to me the rules of the corporate ladder. You go to college to make friends. You laugh and agree with the boss. You don't make him feel that you're smarter than him. You don't talk about your weird interests. Everyone is "friends" but nobody is actually friends. If you're dating someone, you make him feel useful and necessary. You wear makeup and look put-together even when you're just taking out the trash or walking your dog.

I followed that advice for a while.

I felt drained.

I felt exhausted.

I learned to play the role — the woman who needed help, who was pretty, who didn't challenge anyone. I got dates. I became suddenly successful at the social game. And I became someone I didn't recognize. I felt like I was performing the whole time.

I couldn't sustain it at work. I could never sit in a meeting and applaud a misogynistic man humiliating everyone around him. What successful masking looked like for me back then: sitting in silence. Breathing. Containing everything I actually wanted to say, no matter who was in the room.

Some of these stories are funny in retrospect. Others remind me that missing a social cue isn't always just uncomfortable — sometimes it puts you at risk.

I was at a party once, completely absorbed in the music and dancing. A man started approaching me. I couldn't see the signs. I was too inside the moment. Luckily, my friend spotted what was happening, pulled me away, and explained what she had seen — the cues I hadn't been able to read.

The importance of being diagnosed is this: I now know I struggle with social cues and communication. I know it's like speaking a different language — one nobody taught me.

I'm not constantly blaming myself anymore for failing to navigate situations that were never designed for my brain. Instead, I ask questions. I analyze. Why do people like events? Why are they important? How can I participate in a way that feels genuine and doesn't drain me?

I'm making strategic decisions. I'm learning to read between the lines — slowly, intentionally, on my own terms.

I may look weird to the rest of the world. But I know who I am. I know how I communicate. I know that human language has a subtext — what's said and what isn't — and I'm building my own way of translating it.

That 's enough.