Stimming Is Body Language—You Just Don’t Speak It

#TalkNerdyToMe® Staff Writer

Have you ever caught yourself rocking back and forth during a tense moment, or rhythmically tapping your fingers on your thigh while deep in thought? Maybe you noticed someone on the bus flapping their hands when they saw a dog or twisting their ring over and over again in a waiting room. What if I told you that this isn’t “random,” “fidgety,” or “weird”—it’s body language?

Stimming—short for self-stimulatory behavior—is how many autistic and neurodivergent people communicate with the world.

It’s emotional punctuation. It’s sensory processing. It’s self-regulation. And above all? It’s language. Our language. In 2025, more people are beginning to understand that stimming is a form of communication, and it may just be one of the most important ways that people on the autism spectrum express themselves.

But most people don’t see it that way. Society treats stimming like a glitch in the matrix. Something to suppress, redirect, or train out. But what if it’s not a glitch at all? What if it’s the source code?

Let’s unravel the mystery of stimming, decode its emotional grammar, and explore why it deserves a permanent place at the body language table in 2025.

WHAT IS STIMMING, REALLY?

Stimming is a spectrum of repetitive behaviors—physical, auditory, tactile, or visual—that help regulate internal experiences. In 2025, we’re finally starting to acknowledge that this language of the body may be essential for people on the autism spectrum.

These might look like:

Hand flapping

Rocking

Spinning

Bouncing

Repeating words or sounds

Fidgeting with objects

Chewing (shirts, pens, necklace beads)

Hair twirling or skin picking

Watching lights, fans, or water in motion

While mainstream definitions often slap on labels like “disruptive” or “unusual,” those of us who stim know that these behaviors serve important emotional and physiological roles:

Regulation: Managing intense emotion or overstimulation

Expression: Showing excitement, joy, frustration, or focus

Orientation: Helping us stay grounded in chaotic environments

Reassurance: Offering predictable feedback in an unpredictable world

Stimming isn’t a habit to be broken—it’s a system of support, coded into our bodies and part of autism communication.

REMEMBER: THE WORLD MISINTERPRETS WHAT IT DOESN’T UNDERSTAND

Let’s call it what it is: neurotypical society does not know how to read neurodivergent communication. The body language “guidebook” most people follow treats stillness, eye contact, and “calm” posture as signs of confidence, trustworthiness, and intelligence.

But for many autistic people, that standard is... not realistic. Or even remotely comfortable. On the autism spectrum, we may need to communicate differently, and that’s valid.

When I stim, I’m not being “disruptive.” I’m being authentic. When I’m bouncing my knee, I’m not impatient—I’m staying connected to the conversation. When I rock back and forth, I’m not tuning you out—I’m helping myself stay regulated enough to listen.

The problem isn’t that stimming doesn’t make sense. The problem is that most people never learned to understand it. And that’s a language barrier.

Imagine a world where body language teachers also explained what fidgeting says about focus, what repetition signals about self-soothing, or how rocking can mean safety—not agitation.

We’ve only been taught one dialect. It’s time to expand the language course and include the full autism spectrum.

🧠 WHY DO WE STIM?

Stimming isn’t just a “thing autistic people do.” It’s a form of communication between our bodies and our brains. Think of it like a bridge—between overwhelm and calm, between inside and outside, between experience and expression.

Here are a few common reasons we stim:

🌀 Regulating Sensory Overload

Imagine being in a grocery store where the fluorescent lights are too bright, the music is clashing with three conversations around you, and someone’s cart keeps squeaking like a baby dolphin. Your brain starts to short-circuit. Cue rocking, hand tapping, or humming. It’s not “disruptive”—it’s survival on the autism spectrum.

🫧 Self-Soothing

When I’m anxious or stressed, my fingers find each other. I’ll tap, pull, braid, or flick my nails. It’s like I’m giving myself a rhythm to follow—a metronome for my nervous system. This may be one of the most effective forms of internal communication for people with autism.

🎉 Expressing Joy or Excitement

Let’s talk about happy flapping. When I’m excited—like really excited—I flap my hands. It’s spontaneous and full-body. I don’t try to do it, I just can’t contain the joy. It bubbles over into movement and becomes a body language event.

🎯 Focusing

When I’m deep in thought or trying to concentrate, you’ll usually find me bouncing my leg like it owes me money. The rhythmic movement helps me stay grounded in my task. This may be part of how my body stays in tune with my mind.

🧃 Providing Input When Things Are Too Quiet or Flat

Sometimes, especially in sensory-low environments, stimming adds stimulation that our brains crave. Chewing, pacing, or vocal stims can fill in sensory gaps that help us stay alert or calm. For people on the autism spectrum, these acts may help keep the brain-body communication loop flowing.

STIMMING AS AUTISTIC BODY LANGUAGE

Here’s the part most people miss: stimming doesn’t just regulate us internally—it also sends messages externally. It’s body language, plain and simple. It just doesn’t always follow neurotypical norms, and that’s okay.

Here’s what my stims are often “saying,” even if I’m not using words:

Flapping = “I’m thrilled!” Bouncing = “I’m thinking hard.” Chewing necklace = “I’m anxious but hanging in there.” Rocking = “I’m overwhelmed and trying to stay calm.” Repeating a word or phrase = “I’m resetting. Please hold.”

So why don’t people get it?

Because mainstream body language advice is built around neurotypical assumptions—arms crossed means defensive, lack of eye contact means dishonesty, stillness equals calm. But for me? Lack of movement might mean I’m shut down, not chill. Eye contact might be impossible because I’m already trying to decode your tone, your face, and your sudden change in posture that I definitely noticed.

THE SOCIAL PRESSURE TO HIDE OUR STIMS

This is where masking comes in.

From a young age, many autistic people learn that stimming isn’t “acceptable.” We’re told to: Sit still Stop fidgeting Don’t flap Don’t rock Stop humming Use “quiet hands”

“Quiet hands” became the rallying cry of compliance-based therapy approaches like ABA. And it taught generations of autistic people one thing loud and clear: your natural communication is wrong. That’s a painful social lesson that may stick with us for life.

I remember being told to stop bouncing my leg during a job interview because it looked “nervous.” I was nervous. That was me saying, “I’m nervous.” Apparently, I was supposed to not show it?

Masking our stims takes an incredible toll. It leads to: Fatigue Sensory dysregulation Identity loss Meltdowns Mental health challenges A deep sense of shame

We’re not just masking behavior—we’re suppressing our language. We’re swallowing the words our bodies are trying to say. And in 2025, it’s time to change that.

SENSORY NUANCE: NOT ALL STIMS ARE THE SAME

One thing people often miss is that stimming is highly individual. Some stims are visually noticeable (like flapping), while others are more subtle (like rubbing fingers together inside a pocket).

Some are: Regulating: help us calm down Stimulating: help us perk up Communicative: express mood or needs Repetitive Comfort: give familiarity in chaos

Some stims are safe and harmless. Others may be harmful or risky (like head banging or skin picking), especially under extreme stress. These shouldn’t be shamed either—they’re communication that something isn’t okay.

When you see someone stimming, ask yourself: What might they be feeling? Is this helping them feel safer? How can I support them, not stop them?

BUT WHAT ABOUT PUBLIC SETTINGS?

Ah yes, the million-dollar question. Is it “okay” to stim in public? Let me answer with another question: Is it okay to smile when you’re happy? To sigh when you’re stressed? To stretch your back when it’s stiff? Yes. Always.

But many of us still worry. We worry about being stared at. About being infantilized. About being perceived as “weird” or “unprofessional” or “too much.” Sometimes it feels like the only socially acceptable stims are ones nobody notices—chewing gum, spinning a pen, or fiddling with a charm bracelet that just so happens to look cute enough to excuse its real purpose.

The truth is, society has a hierarchy of “acceptable” self-regulation—if your stim looks polished or trendy, it gets a pass. But flap your hands in joy? Rock back and forth in line at the post office? Suddenly you’re being watched like a glitch in the matrix.

This double standard trains us to shrink—to keep our self-expression pocket-sized, hidden, or delayed until we’re alone. But stimming isn’t a behavior to be concealed. It’s a rightful part of how we exist in the world. Stimming in public isn’t inappropriate—it’s honest. And honesty, especially the kind that helps us stay regulated, should never be shamed.

So yes, it is absolutely okay to stim in public. You don’t owe the world stillness to make them comfortable. You deserve to feel safe in your body, wherever you are, whatever your communication style may be.

IN CONCLUSION:

At the end of the day, stimming and body language go hand in hand—literally, sometimes. What looks unusual to some is actually a fluent, embodied form of autistic body language, one that speaks volumes even without words. It’s not “extra,” it’s not disruptive—it’s part of a rich tapestry of neurodivergent communication styles that deserve to be seen, respected, and understood. Whether it’s flapping, rocking, pacing, or tapping, stimming is how many of us say “I’m here,” “I’m okay,” or “I’m trying.”

The more we normalize stimming in public, the more we empower neurodivergent people to live authentically, unmasked, and unashamed. Because every movement tells a story—and ours are worth hearing.

Let 2025 be the year we finally listen to the full language of autism—and let it speak freely, boldly, and proudly.