Addicted to Surprise -- How My Autistic Brain Mistook a Spark for a Flame

"Surprise", I learned early on, was not always a bad thing. In fact, it became my favorite feeling. That electric jolt of the unexpected—the moment a twist in the conversation, or a sudden change in direction, made my senses snap into alertness—wasn’t frightening. It was invigorating. Exhilarating. It felt like life. Alive. Real. Awake.

In hindsight, I now understand that what I experienced wasn't just a quirk of personality or a taste for spontaneity. It was a neurochemical cocktail delivered straight to my brain's reward center. My autistic brain had wired itself, almost imperceptibly, to crave the feeling of surprise.

At first, it was a superpower. In tense conversations, I could shift gears quickly. In chaotic work environments, I was hyper-vigilant and responsive, surfing the chaos like an adrenaline junkie. I was often praised for my ability to “stay sharp under pressure,” but what nobody saw was that I wasn’t calm—I was high. High on surprise.

The Neurochemistry of Surprise

Surprise is a primitive response. At its core, it’s a prediction error: our brains make countless micro-guesses about what’s about to happen, and when those guesses are wrong—surprise. But this isn’t just cognitive; it’s chemical. That jolt we feel? That’s dopamine—our brain’s "pay attention" drug—spiking in response to novelty. Surprise also activates norepinephrine, responsible for alertness, and a dash of cortisol, the stress hormone that gives our muscles just enough tension to act quickly.

In small doses, it’s a cocktail of focus, urgency, and pleasure. A hit of aliveness.

But, like any drug, it’s not meant to be taken chronically. For most people, surprise is an occasional stimulus. For me, it became a state of being.

I’m autistic and have ADHD. My brain is wired for pattern-seeking, hyperawareness, and sensory sensitivity. It’s a high-frequency nervous system, attuned not just to details but to shifts—subtle and sudden—in my environment. In other words, I’m primed for surprise. And when I began to associate that jolt with a sense of aliveness, it became a self-reinforcing loop. Surprise wasn’t just something I felt—it was something I sought.

When Surprise Becomes a Trap

At some point—though I couldn’t tell you when—I stopped noticing that I was stuck in it.

It was like my mind had built a highway with only one lane: the fast lane. Conversations, relationships, decisions—everything began to take on this rhythm of tension, release, and resolution. Even small social interactions became a stage for micro-surprises: Would they respond the way I expect? Did I just say something wrong? Was that eye-roll about me?

Each flicker of social tension or uncertainty became an opportunity for a shot of surprise, and my brain, desperate for that energetic spark, leaned into it. Conflict? Surprise. Ambiguity? Surprise. Deadlines? Surprise. Emotional intensity? Jackpot.

But over time, the cost piled up.

Living in constant surprise meant living in a state of constant arousal. My nervous system never got the memo to downshift. I had trained my body to thrive on the unpredictable, but the reality is no nervous system can sustain that. What began as a rush slowly morphed into anxiety. Restlessness. Hypervigilance. Burnout.

Why the Neurodivergent Mind Gets Stuck Here

For neurodivergent individuals—especially those with Autism or ADHD—our brains often process the world through a different filter. We don’t just receive stimuli; we feel them more deeply, process them more intricately, and react more intensely. This can mean that surprise isn’t a mild disruption—it’s a thunderclap.

According to research on predictive coding, autistic brains may process sensory input differently because of how they weight prediction errors. Neurotypicals might be better at filtering out what doesn’t matter—tuning out the irrelevant surprise. But my brain treats every tiny anomaly as crucial. It doesn’t know how to ignore the “small stuff,” so every shift is a potential rupture.

In ADHD brains, dopamine dysregulation is well-documented. Novelty becomes not just appealing but necessary. Boredom isn’t just unpleasant; it’s painful. So surprise—our natural antidote to boredom—becomes a balm. But when you’re constantly seeking that novelty, you burn through mental resources like a short-circuited fuse box.

"Sometimes, the real surprise is how peaceful life can be when you stop chasing the next one."

Living Beyond the Jolt

It took me decades to see it. To realize I had built much of

my life on a neurological trick—mistaking the jolt of surprise for the substance of life. I began to heal only when I started creating environments that didn’t rely on that jolt. Routines. Predictability. Safety.

At first, I hated it. The stillness felt like death. But slowly, something else began to emerge: clarity, peace, spaciousness. I didn’t need to ride the wave of surprise to feel alive. I could be present. I could be here.

Today, in my coaching work with other neurodivergent adults through Like Minds, I see the same pattern: the craving for intensity, the subconscious addiction to surprise, the nervous system locked in a loop of spikes and crashes. It’s not dysfunction—it’s adaptation. It’s a system that learned to survive through stimulus, only to realize too late that stimulus is no substitute for stability.

The Takeaway

If you’re neurodivergent and you’ve found yourself hooked on the rush of surprise—recognize it not as weakness, but as intelligence gone awry. Your brain was doing its best with the tools it had. But it doesn’t have to stay there. With the right tools—nutrition, mindfulness, safe routines, nervous system regulation—you can rewire that craving. You can learn to feel alive without the jolt.

Sometimes, the real surprise is how peaceful life can be when you stop chasing the next one.