The Power of Puzzling
by Mirra Bhattacharya
When people hear I love jigsaw puzzles, they usually think it’s just a casual hobby — something I do to pass the time on a rainy afternoon. But for me, puzzling is so much more than that. It’s a daily practice that grounds me, brings structure to my life, and connects me to myself in a world that often feels overwhelming.
As an autistic person with ADHD, my brain is always buzzing. Thoughts race by at full speed, and my sensory environment often feels like it’s turned up too loud. Even when I’m sitting still, I rarely feel at rest. Jigsaw puzzling gives me a rare and precious sense of flow — a focused calm where everything else can slip away for a little while. I can hone in on the colors, the shapes, the textures, the tiny differences that make each piece unique. It’s not just “fun” for me; it’s therapeutic. It’s one of the few activities where my brain’s need for constant stimulation and my body’s need for stillness actually meet in harmony.
There’s something inherently satisfying about the predictability of puzzles. The rules never change. Every piece is part of the picture. There’s always a solution, even if you can’t see it right away. In a world that often feels chaotic and unpredictable, puzzling offers me certainty and hope. No matter how hard a puzzle seems, I know that if I sit with it long enough, piece by piece, things will come together.
When I puzzle, I’m never alone. My emotional support animal, Miss Aurora — a black and white Maine Coon with the softest paws and the wisest eyes — often curls up beside me, her steady purrs filling the room like a cozy soundtrack. She keeps me anchored. Her presence reminds me that I am safe, that I can take my time, that I am allowed to exist in the slow, deliberate rhythm that puzzling creates.
Beyond the personal benefits, puzzling has become part of how I build community on my own terms. Puzzling can be an independent or a shared activity. I’ve puzzled alongside family members, friends, and even coworkers in quiet, companionable spaces where socializing happens naturally, without pressure or overstimulation. These moments remind me of the importance of creating environments that are accessible to different neurotypes — spaces where conversation can happen alongside parallel play, where silence is allowed, and where participation is flexible.
Sometimes, people ask me if puzzling feels repetitive or boring, especially since ADHD is often associated with a need for novelty. But the truth is, every puzzle is its own new world. There’s novelty inside the structure: new images, new patterns, new challenges. My brain gets the dopamine hit it craves without the anxiety that unstructured novelty can sometimes bring. It’s a balance that’s incredibly rare for me to find anywhere else.
There’s also a huge sensory component to why I’m a puzzler. I love the feel of the pieces clicking together, the slight scrape of cardboard against cardboard, the way my eyes scan for subtle differences in color or shading. These are small, grounding sensory experiences that are gentle rather than overwhelming. When the world feels too bright, too loud, or too fast, puzzling gives me a way to recalibrate without shutting down.
Over time, I’ve also noticed how puzzling has helped me develop skills that carry over into other areas of my life. Puzzling has taught me patience, perseverance, pattern recognition, and the importance of stepping back to see the bigger picture. These lessons help me navigate academic, professional, and personal challenges with a little more grace. It’s no exaggeration to say that puzzling has strengthened my executive functioning skills, in a way that formal interventions never quite managed to.
In a society that often defines value by speed, efficiency, and multitasking, the deliberate, slow joy of puzzling feels almost radical. It’s a reminder that there are other ways to move through the world — ways that honor slowness, attention to detail, and perseverance.
Jigsaw puzzling isn’t just a quirky hobby for me. It’s a part of my self-regulation toolkit, my sensory diet, my way of connecting with others, and my way of affirming that the way my brain works is not wrong — just different. Every time I fit a piece into place, it feels like a tiny celebration: a reminder that even in a noisy, chaotic world, there are places where I belong exactly as I am.
