RSD (Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria): Navigating the Fear of Letting Others Down
Understanding the emotional storms of neurodivergence, one spiral at a time.
RSD (Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria): Navigating the Fear of Letting Others Down
There are moments when it feels like the floor disappears from beneath you. No warning. No logic. Just a sudden, visceral drop into shame, fear, and the overwhelming certainty that you’ve done something wrong. That you are something wrong. That’s Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, or RSD.
I first learned about RSD a few years ago when my wife, also neurospicy, introduced the term to me. At the time, we were both in the early stages of understanding our neurospicy wiring. RSD made instant sense. It explained so many patterns that didn’t fit into the neat narratives of being "too sensitive" or "overreacting." It wasn’t drama, it was an emotional allergic reaction. A defense mechanism wrapped in shame and silence. It connected dots I didn’t even realize were scattered.
What Is RSD?
RSD is a condition often associated with ADHD and other neurospicy brains. It’s not officially in the DSM, but anyone who lives with it knows how real it is. It’s the fear—not just of rejection—but of even potential rejection. A look. A pause. A message that doesn’t come. An email without a smiley face. It can send us spiraling into a storm of doubt and emotional pain that feels deeply real, even when our logical brain knows it might not be.
Imagine:
Not applying for a job because you’re convinced they’ll laugh at your resume.
Not texting your best friend because they haven’t texted you first.
Reading a Slack message ten times, analyzing every word for disapproval.
Physically overheating from panic when someone says, “We should talk.”
Interpreting a sigh or silence as a sign you’ve failed as a human.
It’s self-rejection before anyone else even gets the chance. A brutal preemptive strike by your nervous system.
When It Hits
When RSD is triggered, it’s like time dilates. Everything slows down. Your body floods with heat. Your thoughts scream that you’re a burden, a failure, an idiot. The rational part of your brain goes offline.
One time, I got feedback in a work context—constructive, well-meant, and professional—and I went straight into fight-or-flight. My chest clenched. My skin burned. I was convinced I’d just ruined everything. I was sure I was going to lose my job, my credibility, my sense of value.
It doesn’t matter how much logic you have. RSD doesn’t speak logic. It speaks survival. It echoes through the body like an alarm bell that won’t stop ringing. It lies with the voice of truth.
The Stories We Tell Ourselves
My brain loves to create narratives. When someone I care about goes quiet, I assume it’s because I failed them. I’ve pulled back from people I love, not because they hurt me, but because I was convinced I hurt them. I’ve muted conversations just to stop checking them obsessively for a reply.
The irony? Sometimes those people reach out to me wondering if they did something wrong. Because they have RSD too.
It’s a cycle. If you don’t name it, it owns you. Let the silence stretch too long and it becomes a mirror for your deepest insecurities.
RSD in Relationships
I’ve had moments with my closest people, my spouse, my best friend, where I was terrified we were about to lose everything we had built. Years of emotional trust, honesty, and love. All threatened by one hard conversation, one misread silence. It feels like you’re watching the house you built together start to shake, even if there’s no actual quake.
But the truth is, the relationships that matter most can survive those storms. If you talk about it. If you name RSD out loud and put it in the sunlight.
You say: “Hey, my RSD is flaring. I don’t trust my thoughts right now. Can you help me reality-check?”
That takes bravery. But it builds safety. It’s the scaffolding of emotional repair.
RSD at Work
I once spent a week spiraling over a meeting invite from a CTO. The topic? Something I was a subject matter expert on. Didn’t matter. My brain filled the gap with panic. What if they’re disappointed in me? What if I’ve screwed up?
I showed up. I led the meeting. I nailed it.
Afterward, I got praise: “You’re doing great.”
And I just laughed. Because I knew I’d spent seven days assuming the worst. That’s the RSD tax, the emotional cost of over-preparing for rejection that never comes. It’s a kind of hypervigilance that wears you down, even when things go well.
RSD in Parenting
This one’s tough. Both of my kids have RSD too. That means every conversation, every boundary, every moment of feedback is a dance.
I have to remind them: “I love you. I’m not mad. You’re not in trouble. I see how hard this is.” And then I have to live that truth, over and over.
And I have to do the same for myself. Because when I misread their emotions, I spiral. I wonder if I’ve failed as a parent. I second-guess everything. Did I say the wrong thing? Was I too harsh? Too soft? Did I just damage their self-worth?
But I also try to empower them. I let them make choices, even when I know the outcome might be failure. Because failure is how we learn. If they never get to fail safely, they never learn resilience. RSD makes failure feel like doom, but I want them to see it as part of the story.
What Helps
Naming it. “I’m having an RSD flare. You don’t have to fix it, just don’t disappear.”
Gentle scripts. “I know this might sound irrational, but my brain is screaming that I’ve messed up.”
Sensory regulation. Cold water. Weighted blankets. Sauna blanket. Journaling. Soft lighting. Rocking. Lap pillows. Deep breaths.
Time. I don’t try to solve everything in the moment. Sometimes letting the wave pass is the kindest thing I can do.
Companionship. A friend who just sits with you. No advice. No fixing. Just presence.
And most of all: Compassion. For myself. For others. Especially those I love who have RSD too. When I know someone else is wired like me, I try to be careful. I say, “I’m not rejecting you. I need to say something hard. And I still love you.”
What Hurts
Being told “It’s not a big deal.”
Silence. Ambiguity. Ghosting.
Logic when I need love.
Reassurance being framed as “needy.”
Instead, I long for clarity. Even a simple, “I’m just quiet today,” can save me hours of spiraling. Just knowing where I stand keeps my nervous system from writing a tragedy in the space of a pause.
When You Get It Wrong
I’ve missed the mark. I’ve used logic instead of love. I’ve gotten defensive instead of curious. But I’ve learned that repair is always possible. You can always say: “I’m sorry. That wasn’t about you. I was in it.” And you can mean it.
Sometimes, that one sentence is enough to reset everything. Sometimes it’s a longer walk back. But it’s always walkable.
When We’re Both In It
When both me and someone I love are spiraling from RSD, it’s like trying to hold hands in the dark. But sometimes one of us finds the light switch first. We remind each other that we’ve built something brick by brick. That one crack doesn’t undo the whole foundation. We take out the broken brick. We replace it. We keep building.
Sometimes we hold hands. Sometimes we just sit quietly. But we stay. That’s what matters.
The Big Lesson
RSD has taught me that most of the negative self-talk in my brain is just my brain trying to protect me from a world that hasn’t always understood me. It’s taught me that real love means naming things. Being brave. Communicating even when it’s hard. Holding space even when you feel unsure.
Because if you don’t, your nervous system will do the storytelling, and it’s not always a kind narrator.
So I try to write a better story. One with clarity. One with safety. One with truth. One where we all get to stay in the room. Even in the messy moments.
We’d love to hear your stories 📬. What challenges have you faced? What strategies have worked for you? Let’s keep this conversation going 💬 and support each other on this journey 🛫. You can email us at askmcphee@gmail.com 📩 to share your thoughts and experiences ✍️.