neurodiversity

I genuinely crave solitude. I love being alone because it’s the only time I can fully unmask and be myself. I’m still quiet — I’m always quiet — but in solitude, I’m alive in a different way. I’m writing, watching shows, reading, listening to music, doing all the things that help me feel grounded and calm. It’s the one place where the weight of performing, masking, and constantly reading the room finally melts off my shoulders.

But the truth is, I also yearn for connection. I need it. As much as I thrive in solitude, I don’t do well in prolonged isolation. If I go too long without seeing someone, I start drifting into hermit mode and disappearing into my own world until I realize I haven’t had a real conversation in days. So once a week, I meet up with a friend. It keeps me tethered to the world, keeps me from retreating so far inward that climbing back out feels impossible.

And then there’s the whole FOMO thing. My fear of missing out isn’t about being left out of something fun, it’s deeper, almost existential. It leaves a horrible feeling knowing that you’re being left out.

Most of my friends live out of state, scattered across different corners of the country. When I see photos of them together or hear stories about spontaneous hangouts or late-night conversations I wasn’t part of, something inside me aches. I feel jealous. I imagine them laughing, creating memories, having those “remember when?” moments that bond people together, and I’m hundreds of miles away. I want to be there witnessing those moments instead of hearing about them afterward.

But here’s the irony, the part that always makes me laugh at myself a little. When I am there, when I fly out and finally hug them and settle into their world, my social battery drains faster than anyone realizes. I’ll be happy, genuinely happy, soaking up every bit of connection… and at the same time, the noise starts getting louder, conversations start overlapping, and my brain begins buzzing.

And yet, I stay. For a week, usually. A whole week of navigating that push and pull. I try to be present, to laugh, to listen, to join in, to make memories I’ll hold onto forever.

But even in that closeness, I crave my own quiet corner. I crave a room to retreat into somewhere I can breathe, unmask, decompress, and return to myself. By the end of each day, my body aches for silence the way some people crave sleep or sugar. I find myself slipping away to the bathroom for a few minutes just to be alone and let the noise inside me settle.

It’s such a strange contradiction — wanting to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Wanting to make memories while needing solitude to survive them. Wanting connection but requiring space in order to enjoy it. It’s a constant balancing act, and I’m always afraid of tipping too far in either direction: too much solitude, and I disappear; too much connection, and I fall apart.

Sometimes it feels impossible living a life where I want both things, deeply and fiercely. I enjoy people, but not for too long. I love going out, but the moment I arrive, I find myself wishing I were home. And once I’m home long enough to recharge, I start craving company again — that comforting presence of someone sitting next to you, even if you’re both doing your own thing.

This tension shapes so much of my life. Between replenishing my spirit in solitude and participating fully in the world around me, it feels like walking a thin line. I’ll lean too far one way and I isolate myself; lean too far the other and I burn out.

But maybe this interplay between solitude and connection isn’t meant to be “fixed.” Maybe it’s about learning to incorporate both desires instead of choosing one over the other. Because when both are balanced, life feels richer, calmer, and more vibrant. I’m able to exist fully as myself.

“Between silence and togetherness, I am constantly stitching myself back into wholeness.” - Unknown

#MentalHealth #Introvert #Neurodiversity #ADHD

I used to believe that juggling a lot of projects at once made me productive — that jumping between tabs, chores, conversations, and thoughts somehow meant I was keeping up with life. Truthfully though, multitasking has never made me feel accomplished. My mind would turn into a hectic mess, and by the end of the day, I could barely function.

My brain has always moved quickly. It twists and turns with each passing thought, instilling fear, anxiety, and overwhelm. If my brain was juggling ten things at once, I told myself I should be too, and that it was the only way to stay afloat.

One of my favorite movies of all time is What About Bob. It’s about a man with mental health issues trying to survive day-to-day life. Through his therapist, he learns about baby steps — doing things one step at a time. The film is not only hilarious, but it shows the very real struggles many people face on a daily basis. It reiterates that life is meant to be lived slowly, gently, and with an appreciation for the present moment.

I’ve learned that by doing things one step at a time, my nervous system can finally breathe easier. It’s the only pace where I can actually feel present in my own life instead of watching it blur past me.

Now, instead of rushing through a routine, I pause, breathe, and take in the beauty of a soft morning. The first thing I do when I wake up is make myself a cup of coffee. I’ll sit in silence, take a few sips, and mentally prepare for the day ahead. I usually journal too, writing down a few affirmations, reminders like: You matter. You’re worthy. You’re capable. They help wash away the negative thoughts and reinforce my strength and abilities.

It’s amazing how much shifts when you simply allow yourself to take your time. I can feel my shoulders drop; my whole body unclench, like it finally got permission to be here instead of racing ahead.

I find calmness in cooking. The process of stirring, chopping, tasting as I go, it’s self-soothing. I allow my mind to focus on one task at a time, and I enjoy the repetitiveness of each step. For me, it becomes a moment rather than a task.

Doing one thing at a time isn’t always easy, especially with a neurodivergent mind. Sometimes even one thing feels like too much. Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I fall right back into old patterns of overstimulation and urgency.

But more and more, I’m choosing slowness intentionally. And what I’ve discovered is this: when I allow myself to focus on a single task, my mind softens. My anxiety lowers. My body feels steady again. I no longer feel like I’m constantly failing or falling behind. I feel much more connected to myself, and to the world around me when I slow down and allow myself to move at my own pace.

Life becomes richer in the small, ordinary ways:

The warmth of a cup of coffee in my hands

The soft light of an early morning

Listening to my breath

The satisfaction of finishing what I started

It reminds me that productivity doesn’t define my worth. Slowness isn’t laziness. And presence is a gift I get to give myself, over and over again.

“Slowness isn’t laziness. Presence is a gift you give yourself—one gentle moment at a time.” - Unknown

#MentalHealth #Mindfulness #SlowLiving #Neurodiversity

Over the past few years, I’ve noticed small changes in myself. I’m starting to feel a little more comfortable in my own skin. I’ve been taking leaps I never thought I would, and somehow, I’m landing firmly on my own two feet. I’m still the same person I’ve always been, but these changes have opened my eyes and helped me see the world with new perspective.

Change has always frightened me. I’m just so set in my ways, and I’m living a life that feels most comfortable to me. I find safety in my routines, my quiet spaces, and in having a sense of control. Being neurodivergent makes experiencing change harder in my opinion. It shakes up the structure and foundation that I’ve built for myself. The thing is, it’s external changes I fear most. Not the internal ones.

Transforming into Somebody Else

For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to change who I am. I’ve always wanted to be like other people—those who can speak with clarity, who can be spontaneous, and who can be boisterous. But that’s never been me. I envied those who could stand their ground, who could do simple tasks with ease, and those who weren’t always confined in their mind. I’m not naïve, I know that a tiger can’t change its stripes, but it can change its perception. It can learn to love and embrace its stripes instead of pretending like they’re not there.

I always used to feel lost and like I didn’t fit in with the world. I felt ignored, misunderstood, and honestly, invisible. But the thing is, no one made me feel that way intentionally, it was me who planted the idea and ran with it. I chose to disappear because of my fear of rejection, judgment, and criticism. I chose to hide from people and places that made me feel uncomfortable. The only thing that helped me survive those years was my mask.

Masking is the way I “fit in.” It’s the version of myself that appears confident, capable, and happy. But inside, it’s a much different story. Inside I feel tired, weak, and just plain exhausted from pretending. It’s difficult to be someone else, when you’re trying so hard to push down the version of you that you doesn’t fit the mold.

The Ways I’ve Changed

Over time, I’ve learned to be kinder to myself, and really embrace my authenticity. I don’t force myself into situations that make me uncomfortable. I no longer chase after everyone’s approval. In fact, I’ve been more vulnerable than I ever have before. I’ve created a social media presence that continues to grow, I blog my most vulnerable content, and I walk around with more confidence than I had before.

Setting boundaries has been a major game changer. The people-pleasing aspect of my life has significantly improved. I no longer drop my plans for others, I no longer feel the need to impress anyone, and I don’t abide by anyone else’s standards but my own. My healing journey has been consistently progressing, and I don’t feel so stuck in self-doubt anymore.

Ever since my late diagnoses, I’ve been awakened. I’m able to see myself for the first time and it’s the most freeing feeling. Finally, I’m able to get reacquainted with the person whose always been there but remained hidden. The girl who was too afraid to come out of her shell and face the world as herself.

The Parts of Me That Haven’t Changed

There still of course parts of me that haven’t changed at all. I’m still the shy, introspective person who needs time alone to recharge. I still feel my emotions deeply—sometimes too deeply. I’m still that sensitive soul, easily hurt by harsh words or apathy. I’m still the quiet observer who notices the beauty in the little things. I believe these traits are something to be proud of.

For a long time, I saw them as flaws, but now, I see them as strengths. My traits allow me to connect with people and the world on a much deeper level. My quietness gives me the strength to listen, my observant nature allows me to see things other often can’t, and my intuition guides me with caution.

The Balance Between Growth and Acceptance

For a long time, I believed that growth meant reinventing myself completely and becoming someone new. I thought that healing meant erasing the past and silencing parts of me that felt too sensitive, too emotional, or too unsure. But growth, I’ve realized, is about picking up the pieces of yourself. The ones you thought you’d lost.

The person I was before healing did the best she could with what she knew. She survived the storm and learned to tell the story. She deserves compassion as the version of herself who is thriving now.

Change doesn’t erase who I used to be. Instead, it weaves into the woman I’m becoming. I’ve learned that I don’t need to rush my growth or force transformation to happen. Healing takes time, and you can love who you are while still reaching toward who you’re meant to be.

Embracing the Journey

I’m still the shy, sensitive, introspective me, but I’ve also grown into someone who trusts herself, honors her needs, and stands in her truth. I’ve learned that growth reveals the strength and beauty in what we’ve carried all along. I choose to embrace both.

And as I embrace both who I was and who I’m becoming, I invite you to reflect on your own journey— what parts of yourself have grown, and what parts deserve compassion?

“Growth isn’t about becoming someone new — it’s about remembering who you were before the world told you to be someone else.” - Unknown

#ADHD #MentalHealth #Neurodiversity

Recently, I was at a small get-together with close friends. They’re people who I love and trust deeply. The night started out lighthearted, full of laughter, shared stories, and the comfortable commotion that happens when everyone’s voices overlap. But somewhere in the middle of it all, something shifted.

A couple of people, including myself, were sitting in one of the rooms chatting and having fun. Then, all of a sudden, someone started praising one of my best friends, talking about how much they appreciated being around people who “have their life together”—people who aren’t lazy, who stay motivated, and who just handles things well.

I felt like the words were directed solely at me, a subtle dig about not measuring up. My brain immediately twisted the comment into the worst possible version of myself. In that moment, my body ached and felt weak. Tears came before I could stop them, and I had to step outside to find a space to be alone and regain my balance.

I knew I was overthinking it. Logically, it wasn’t an attack. But that didn’t stop the flood of self-doubt from rushing in. Later in the evening, when I left to say goodbye, another comment triggered the same reaction. Someone asked about what I’m doing with my life and said, “I’m glad you’re writing because otherwise I’d ask you what you’re doing?” I immediately interpreted it as criticism, and shame washed over me as if I weren’t measuring up to the standard of “success” others seemed to have.

That’s the thing about Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) — it doesn’t care about logic. It amplifies small moments until they feel like earthquakes. A single comment can send your nervous system spiraling, making you feel like you’ve failed some invisible test.

Physically, RSD hits hard. My chest tightens, my palms get clammy, my head feels foggy, and the tears come almost before I can process why. My body reacts as if I’ve just faced a threat, even when my mind knows there’s no danger. It’s exhausting, overwhelming, and intensely personal.

Experiencing moments like these is never easy. My body reacts before my mind can catch up, and my emotions feel bigger than the situation itself. But stepping outside, taking a few deep breaths, and allowing myself to feel — without judgment — is how I regain balance.

RSD may amplify small moments, but it also reminds me that I care — deeply — about connection, authenticity, and the energy I share with others. Learning to navigate it means noticing my triggers, creating space for myself, and practicing gentle self-talk.

It’s a work in progress, and some days are harder than others. But each time I step back, breathe, and honor my feelings, I reclaim a little more of my power and peace.

“Healing begins the moment we give ourselves permission to feel.” - Unknown

#MentalHealth #rejection sensitivity dysphoria #ASD #ADHD #Neurodiversity #Blog

For most of my life, I felt like I was living in two worlds that never quite fit together. One moved too fast; the other felt too rigid. I could never really figure out why I was always a little out of sync with everyone else. Deep down, what I felt most was uncertainty and confusion — and it took a toll on me.

When I was finally diagnosed with ADHD and Autism later in life, everything started to come full circle. Suddenly, the patterns of my past came into focus. I felt a sense of freedom, but also a heavy sadness.

I was sad that I went so long without knowing who I really was inside. I pictured how differently my life might have been if I had known sooner. It feels like I lost a crucial piece of myself trying to fit in all the time. It’s difficult to fully let my mask down, but I’m slowly learning to peel it back — layer by layer.

I’m reintroducing myself to the young girl I abandoned early in life. The one I never properly met in the first place. The girl who became so used to masking that she truly believed she was someone she wasn’t.

The Overlap

Living with ADHD and Autism feels like trying to tune into two radio stations at once. Both have their own songs, but sometimes, they compete for volume.

My ADHD craves constant movement and novelty — it feeds on new ideas, projects, and passions. My Autism, on the other hand, seeks comfort in predictability and control. Together, they define how I navigate through life.

There are days when I can hyperfocus for hours, completely forgetting to eat or rest. Then there are days when the smallest change in plans feels nearly impossible to recover from. It’s not laziness or stubbornness — it’s the reality of existing in a brain that dances between extremes.

The Social Struggle

Socializing has always been complicated for me. I remember being at a friend’s birthday dinner a few years ago — everyone was laughing and chatting, their voices overlapping with the clinking of glasses and background music.

I smiled, nodded, and tried my best to keep up, but eventually, my energy ran out. I shut down completely and retreated inward. When that happens, I often feel a wave of guilt or embarrassment. Not because I did anything wrong, but because masking — pretending to be “okay” — takes a major toll.

Being in social situations drains me faster than anyone realizes. My ADHD makes me jump from topic to topic, and my Autism makes me overanalyze every word or gesture. Did I say too much? Did I interrupt? Did they notice my tears?

I often walk away from gatherings replaying everything I said, trying to decode what others might have meant. It’s exhausting, but it’s also my way of trying to connect — to understand and be understood.

Do you ever feel that way — like you want to connect, but your energy runs out before your heart does?

The Push and Pull

There’s this constant push and pull between my ADHD and Autism.

My ADHD drives me to chase inspiration. I recall one night when I decided to organize old photos into a new album — a simple task that turned into a late-night hyperfocus session until two in the morning. My Autism, meanwhile, craves stability. So, the next day, I crashed — needing silence and comfort shows to recharge.

Balancing both can be frustrating, but I’ve learned it’s also where my creativity lives. Between chaos and calm, between fire and stillness — that’s where I find myself.

Finding Beauty in the Chaos

For the longest time, I saw my differences as flaws. But now I see them as something to embrace.

My ADHD gives me spark — the ability to see possibilities and dive in with passion. My Autism gives me depth — the power to notice, to feel, and to truly listen. Together, they create the person I am: intuitive, curious, and deeply empathetic.

When I’m writing, those parts of me blend together beautifully. ADHD floods me with ideas; Autism organizes them into meaning. When I connect with someone, it’s genuine and heartfelt, because I know how precious understanding truly is.

I no longer try to “fix” these traits. Instead, I see them as unique qualities that shape who I am. I slow down when my mind races. I forgive myself for moments of overwhelm. And I remind myself that being neurodivergent isn’t about fitting into the mold — it’s about building one that fits me.

If I Could Tell My Younger Self

I would tell my younger self:

You are not difficult — your brain just moves differently.

You are not antisocial — you just need extra recovery time.

You are not flaky — you’re managing a mind that runs at its own rhythm.

I think about the younger me in high school, hiding in tucked-away corners during lunch because everywhere else felt too loud and overwhelming. Or the adult me, sitting in meetings, wanting to speak but feeling paralyzed by self-doubt.

Those moments weren’t failures. They were signs that my brain needed compassion — not correction.

“What if the things that make you different are the very things that make you beautiful?” - Unknown

#ADHD #Autism #AutismSpectrumDisorder #MentalHealth #Neurodiversity