Intersection Column | Can You Relate?

by Sarah Monzon

A few years ago, my son was being assessed for a few different neurodiversity disorders and was referred to an occupational therapist to help with some of his sensory needs. The occupational therapist had me fill out an extensive questionnaire while she talked with my son. After the appointment, she handed me an informational pamphlet about sensory processing disorder. I asked her if this was something my son had—a diagnosis that explained his need to only wear certain materials/clothing, why he liked to be upside down all the time, his inability to regulate his emotions in certain environments, etc. She looked at me and did a sort of wink/nod combo, like she was letting me in on information she couldn’t necessarily say out loud. This seemed strange, so I did a little research a learned that sensory processing disorder (SPD) is currently not recognized as a stand-alone diagnosis in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. After that, I took her little wink/nod as a I cannot officially give him a SPD diagnosis but unofficially that’s totally something that is going on here.

Needless to say, I read that pamphlet cover to cover, putting little mental checkmarks next to all the symptoms and struggles that related to my son. What stopped me in my tracks, however, was how many more checkmarks I put for myself. It was definitely a lightbulb-type moment. The seemingly overdramatic responses I’ve had to things that don’t seem to bother other people now made complete sense. There was suddenly a reason behind why soft caresses make me want to take a fillet knife to my skin or why I need to wear sunglasses and ear defenders to a movie theater or even why I’m so clumsy and always bumping into walls. I felt, in that moment, that I’d unlocked an understanding of myself that I hadn’t had before.

And because writers put pieces of themselves into their books, it felt right to create a character that shared some of the same sensory struggles my son and I experience. Levi Redding, the hero in Hearts in Circulation, may look like a textbook grump from the beloved grumpy + sunshine trope, but once readers crack the spine of his character, they’ll discover—as he does—that there’s a reason for his ticking jaw muscles, aversion to people, and overstimulating sensitivity to touch and smells.

Being an avid reader since childhood, I’ve wondered if I’d read a book with a character who experienced these sensory struggles, if I’d had an ah-ha moment earlier. Would I have related to the character so much, seen myself in them, that it would have awakened a curiosity to research further? It’s absolutely possible. If nothing else, it would have let me know that I wasn’t alone in my struggle and that there wasn’t something wrong with me because of it.

This is just one reason why representation in fiction is so important. Not only does it have the potential for individuals who have felt invisible and unseen to feel not so alone, but it also offers the opportunity for self-discovery, awareness, and acceptance.

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About the Author

HOLT Medallion and Selah Award–winner, and Christy and Carol Award finalist, Sarah Monzon is a stay-at-home mom who makes up imaginary friends to have adult conversations with (otherwise known as writing novels). As a navy chaplain’s wife, she resides wherever the military happens to station her family and enjoys exploring the beauty of the world around her. Learn more at SarahMonzonWrites.com.

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About the Book

When the bookmobile breaks down and a rockslide traps her in the small hollow of Turkey Grove, librarian Hayley Holt meets the town’s reclusive mechanic Levi Redding. Their forced proximity leads to a misunderstanding, but a note of apology begins an epistolary friendship, proving that sometimes the happiest of endings aren't contained within the bindings of a book.