Sacred Stimming

 This sermon was given at UUCE on 4/27/25

Call to Worship

As Unitarian Universalists, we hold a deep reverence for language. Our sermons, our readings, our covenantal promises are often carried by carefully chosen words. This love of language is one of our strengths. It helps us name complexity, engage difference, and seek truth with intention. But today, let us also ask where this reverence might have limits. Let us widen our understanding of what it means to speak, to listen, and to be heard.

As we enter our time together, I invite you to take a moment to notice your body in this space. If it feels good, you might place a hand on your heart, or gently rock from side to side. You might tap a finger, stretch your arms, shift in your seat, or simply take a deep breath. These are not movements of performance or perfection, they are gestures of comfort, of grounding, of arriving. Move in the ways that feel right for your body, or remain still if that feels best. This is a space where your presence matters, where your comfort matters. We also have extra stim and fidget toys available at the front: these are small objects designed to be touched, squeezed, or moved in the hands, offering a soothing way to focus and stay grounded. Let your body be part of your welcome. Let motion, or stillness, be a way of saying: I am here.

When we truly affirm the worth and dignity of every person, that affirmation includes all the ways people show up in this world. Some speak with words. Some speak with motion. A child rocking in the back of the sanctuary may be offering as deep a prayer as the one printed in the order of service. A hand tapping, a body swaying, a voice humming softly can all be expressions of presence, focus, or self-soothing. These movements are not distractions. They are expressions of need, of grounding, of sacred attention. Today, let us remember that embodied expression is a sacred language. Let us make space for all forms of presence. Come, let us worship together.

Sermon: Sacred Stimming

We often think of language as something that happens out loud or on the page, something structured into sentences and paragraphs, organized for clarity and understanding. But language is far more than vocabulary and grammar. It is rooted in the body, shaped by sensation, expression, and rhythm. Language lives in how we breathe, how we move, how we relate to our surroundings. It emerges not just in conversation, but in gesture, in silence, in repetition. The idea that language must always take the form of words is a narrow one, and it leaves too much truth unspoken. Language is a living thing, embodied and responsive. It holds stories that words cannot always carry. And it shows up in the ways we exist and connect, not only in the ways we speak.

Let’s pause. Take a breath. If your body wants to move, follow that impulse. Maybe a stretch, a sway, a finger tap. Whatever brings you into presence. Notice how your body wants to speak.

As a child, I could read before most kids my age, and I loved words with a deep, physical intensity. I collected them, turned them over in my mouth like stones. Adults praised my vocabulary but often missed the ways I was struggling. I didn’t know how to slow down, how to sit still, how to stop myself from fidgeting when my body buzzed with sensation. I was rarely quiet, not because I wanted attention, but because language felt like the only safe bridge between me and the world. I used my words to hide, to explain, to compensate. No one told me that the way I moved might also be a kind of language.

I grew up Unitarian Universalist, which may partially explain my lifelong belief that if I could just find the right words and put them in the right order, I would be whole. I was taught that my body was sacred. I learned that my hands could offer comfort, that my breath could ground me, and that my presence in the world carried meaning. Yet it took me much longer to believe that my mind, with all its whirring gears and persistent noise, was sacred too. I had not learned how to bless the part of me that spins with pattern and possibility, that resists stillness, that seeks motion and repetition. I thought that reverence had to look like quiet, containment, and control. It has taken years to unlearn the idea that holiness must conform to social expectations. I have begun to understand that sensation, movement, and even internal chaos can be sacred. 

I was diagnosed with ADHD as a child, something many children raised as girls were never given access to. I was able to communicate, to make myself legible enough to be noticed by the adults around me. But even with that diagnosis, I was still shaped by the limitations of how neurodivergence was understood in the mid-90s. At the time, medical professionals rarely spoke about hyperactivity as something that could live in the mind. The dominant image was always physical: bouncing off walls, running in circles, blurting out answers. But for me, hyperactivity often meant racing thoughts, spirals of anxiety, and long hours spent in hyperfocus. 

That kind of experience was not part of the medical framework, and is one reason why so many people raised as girls were diagnosed with anxiety or depression instead of being recognized as Autistic or having ADHD. I was lucky to have a diagnosis at all. I was lucky to be listened to, to be seen. But even with that privilege, the goal was not accommodation. It was assimilation. And so, the solution offered to me was medication. Not as one tool among many, but as a way to make me quieter, still, easier. Palatable to adults, including some in UU spaces. The message I received was that my silence mattered more than my full self. That stillness was more important than comfort. That fitting in was more important than being understood. To be clear, as an adult, I still take medication. The difference is that now I do so with autonomy. I understand that it supports me, it does not erase me. I no longer believe that the goal is to be less of who I am, it’s just also a version of me that remembers to eat food and can emotionally regulate. 

I learned to mask, a term often used in neurodivergent spaces. I learned to suppress outward expressions of discomfort, confusion, and joy in order to appear more manageable to others. Over time, I trained myself to monitor and evaluate every word and movement before allowing it to surface. I became adept at anticipating the expectations of those around me and offering only the version of myself that would be perceived as acceptable. I developed a capacity to shrink the parts of myself that were considered too loud, too fast, or too emotionally intense. When I felt overwhelmed, I smiled. When my body needed to move, I remained still. When my thoughts raced, I silenced them. As the years passed, I lost touch with what it felt like to be at ease in my own body. I internalized the belief that my natural impulses were not expressions of authenticity, but rather flaws in need of correction.

I invite you to unshrink, even just a little. Maybe open your chest, roll your shoulders, stretch your arms wide. Offer your body a gesture of dignity and recognition. Let yourself be seen, even by just you.

Stimming, short for self-stimulatory behavior, refers to repetitive movements, sounds, or actions that help regulate the nervous system and support presence. While it is often associated with neurodivergent people, stimming is part of many lives, whether or not we name it. It can look like tapping a foot, humming a tune, pacing during a phone call, or repeating a comforting motion. These gestures help many of us feel steady, safe, and connected. They are part of how we move through the world, part of how we cope, concentrate, and self-soothe.

Some stims are seen as socially acceptable and often pass without comment. Tapping a pen during a meeting or going for a walk to clear your head may even be encouraged. But other stims, especially those that are more visible, less familiar, or harder to categorize, often draw unwanted or even unsafe attention. Hand-flapping, vocal repetition, rocking, or using objects in rhythmic and creative ways are sometimes misunderstood. People who rely on these kinds of stims, particularly those who are visibly neurodivergent or disabled, are frequently asked to tone it down, to stop, or to mask their needs in order to make others more comfortable.

This is one of the reasons why many disability advocates speak in terms of a social framework of disability rather than a medical one. The medical model focuses on fixing or curing what is perceived as wrong inside a person. The social model shifts the question. The disabled identity is not only about diagnosis or difference. It is also about finding ways to connect and cope in a society that was not designed with all of us in mind. It is not about healing something broken,  because we are not broken. 

I invite you to think about your own stims. What do you do when you need to calm your thoughts or feel more at home in your body? Maybe you bounce your knee, hum under your breath, rub the edge of your sleeve, or sing softly while driving. You do not need a diagnosis to benefit from these gestures. They are deeply human. And when we become more aware of our own needs and rhythms, we can begin to better recognize and respect those of others. This kind of awareness is part of building a world that is more inclusive, more compassionate, and more honest about the many ways we all seek connection and belonging.

For many neurodivergent individuals, stimming is a practice of presence, regulation, and expression. These movements may begin in early childhood and continue throughout life, especially when they are not shamed or forcibly suppressed. While medical definitions often describe stimming only as a symptom to be managed, such a view flattens its deeper emotional and communicative dimensions. Stimming is not only about responding to sensory input; it is also a way of staying connected to the body, managing emotion, and expressing internal states that may be difficult to articulate verbally. In stressful environments, it can offer protection and grounding. In joyful moments, it can become an expression of delight. Whether subtle or visible, solitary or shared, stimming is a bodily language that exists across neurotypes. 

When spoken language becomes overwhelming or inadequate, stimming serves as a legitimate and meaningful form of communication. The logic of musical theater states that when words fail, music takes over; I see stimming in a similar way. Stimming represents a kind of fluency that exists beyond the confines of verbal speech, offering a direct connection to the emotional and sensory realities of the body. I continue to work toward trusting this form of expression within myself, and I am actively unlearning the shame I was taught to associate with it. The process of unmasking remains slow and often uncomfortable, particularly after years of shaping myself to meet external expectations. 

I spent much of my early life being misunderstood. I had words, but they didn’t always help me feel known. I spoke quickly, trying to stay one step ahead of discomfort, trying to explain what I hadn’t yet processed. I wanted people to see me, but I also wanted to be left alone. I thought if I could be articulate enough, no one would notice how much I was struggling. But language used as armor eventually becomes a cage. It wasn’t until I began to honor my movements, to recognize them as valid forms of expression, that I started to feel whole. I had to relearn how to listen to my body, not just speak through it.

Stimming has become one of my spiritual practices. It is a way of checking in with myself and returning to my senses. When I allow my body to move without judgment, I often find a clarity that language alone cannot provide. A hand tapping a familiar rhythm, a quiet repetitive sound, or a subtle sway are not meaningless habits. They are ways I remain connected to myself. These are gestures of presence and acts of sustained attention. In these moments, my body becomes both the question and the answer. It is a form of prayer that does not require pretense, a type of communication that does not require translation. These movements are grounded in experience and rooted in truth.

Take a breath and enter into a body prayer. A small motion, simple and steady, can be its own kind of prayer. Maybe your fingers tap a rhythm only you can hear. Maybe your shoulders shift or your hands draw quiet circles in the air. Let your body pray in its own language, one that speaks without needing to be translated.

Stimming helps me stay grounded, present, and connected to my body. My body has always known how to pray. I am learning, slowly and with intention, how to listen. And yet, even as I claim this practice as sacred, I am reminded of how often I still mask. In this internship, where I hold myself to incredibly high standards and long to do well, I sometimes do not ask for the space I actually need. I forget that authenticity, too, is part of leadership. I forget that spiritual integrity includes making room for my own wholeness.

While earning my BA in social linguistics, I began to realize something that reshaped the way I understood myself and the world: my love of words is only half of what I love about language. Language, in its full and living form, is so much more than vocabulary. The words we speak make up less than twenty percent of communication. The rest is everything else: inflection, rhythm, facial expression, gesture, grammar, body language, context, breath. So much of what we mean is spoken through our bodies. So much of what we understand is shaped by where and how we are, not just what we say.

And still, even knowing this, I struggle. I find myself shrinking or masking when I most want to expand. I fall into patterns of performance, trying to meet expectations rather than honoring what I actually need. But leadership is not about performing perfection. It is about showing up fully. It is about creating space for others by making space for ourselves. Spiritual integrity does not come from holding everything together. It comes from the willingness to be whole, even when wholeness includes asking for care, taking up space, or praying with movements that cannot be spoken aloud.

As Unitarian Universalists, our covenant is not abstract or symbolic. It is lived out in the choices we make about how we gather, how we welcome, and how we make space for one another’s full humanity. It asks us to embrace not only intellectual diversity but embodied difference as well. Encouraging spiritual growth means letting go of narrow definitions of reverence and opening ourselves to the truth that presence takes many forms.These expressions do not need translation to be meaningful. They do not need to be silenced to be holy. They simply need to be honored for what they are: authentic, embodied, and deeply human forms of connection and expression.

Before we close, I invite you into one final moment of collective movement. If it feels right to you, stretch your arms gently toward the sky, then let them fall softly back to your sides. You might tap your foot, flap your hands, roll your shoulders, or sway in your seat. If you are standing, maybe you shift your weight from one foot to the other, or rock gently forward and back. Let this be a shared motion, a shared language, that recognizes the sacredness of every body in this space, just as it is.

If we are to live into our principles fully, we must make room for communication that does not always come in words. We are called to stretch our understanding of worship, of presence, and of what it means to belong. I would love, as someone who finds comfort in carefully crafted language, to offer the final word on sacred stimming. I would love to close this reflection with a neat conclusion, a full sentence wrapped around the truth. But this is not a finished story. It is one I, and we, are still telling. Let this be the beginning of a deeper conversation about what it means to worship with our whole selves. Let us keep listening, keep learning, and keep building spaces where every form of presence is seen as sacred.