neurodiversity

Most of the time, silence feels peaceful to me. It’s a place of comfort, reflection, and a chance for me to be still for a while.

I don’t know what it is. I assume most neurodivergent people are uncomfortable in silence because our minds rarely shut off. But for me, I’ve always had a connection to silence that feels almost invigorating. It gives me a chance to unmask, be myself, and just let whatever emotions stir, stir, because I’m alone, in a safe space, where there is no outside noise.

But even with that connection, silence is still complicated for me. If I’m alone in it for too long, my mind becomes so loud that stillness is no longer an option. I get restless, irritated, and emotionally overwhelmed in a way that feels suffocating.

Lately, I’ve had very little connection with the outside world. It’s not by choice. I only have a few friends here, and I rarely see them. And I don’t usually like going places alone, so I’ve found myself staying home more than I probably should.

And sometimes, that comfort starts to turn into something else.

My last real social interaction was about a month ago. At first, I welcomed the quiet. I liked being left alone. But for me, when I’m alone for too long, time starts to blur. Each day begins to feel the same. I wake up, work, blog, read, sleep—repeat.

I rarely go outside, not because I don’t want to, but because I feel sluggish in a way that’s hard to explain. It’s like my energy slowly disappears into the routine.

I guess you could say depression has quietly started to settle in again.

And now, that quiet has become something else entirely.

My thoughts feel overwhelming. It’s like my mind is constantly screaming while I sit there trying to find a way to turn it down. When everything around me is too still, there’s nowhere for my feelings to go.

I think what I’m starting to realize, though, is that silence isn’t the problem. It’s what comes up inside of it that I haven’t always been ready to face.

When everything around me gets quiet, there’s nothing left to drown out what I’ve been holding onto during the day. All of the exhaustion that I push through. The emotions that I postpone. The thoughts I don’t fully process because I’m trying to keep moving.

Silence doesn’t create those things. It just stops hiding them.

And even though it can be isolating, frustrating, and mundane, I still choose silence over noise.

I have everyday moments where I don’t feel as heavy. Like earlier this week, I made a delicious spinach omelet with a simple side of arugula dressed in olive oil and lemon. As I sat there eating, I felt a moment of joy and relief. I felt at ease. I had my cup of freshly brewed coffee with hazelnut creamer beside me, and a nutritious meal in front of me. It shifted my mood from sadness to encouragement—an outlook on having a good day. And truthfully, I did.

In that moment at breakfast, I simply existed. There was no mental noise. No restlessness. Just the simple pleasure of something small.

Silence to me feels less like something I have to escape and more like something that reflects me back to myself.

Some days that reflection is uncomfortable. Other days, it’s grounding. Either way, I’ve learned that there’s a specific beauty to silence. It might be small and hard to find for some, but in my mind, it’s truly healing.

When silence gets too loud for you, what emotions or thoughts tend to surface first?

“Silence is not empty; it is full of answers.” — Unknown

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Anxiety #Depression #ADHD #Autism #MightyTogether

Something that I’ve always struggled with is fear and self-doubt. It feels like a natural part of my thought process at this point. Anytime I’m confronted with trying something new, those emotions rush in full force. I immediately convince myself that I’m not good at anything, that I’ll fail miserably, or somehow embarrass myself in the process. More often than not, I end up psyching myself out before I even begin.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve let fear and self-doubt lead the way.

Sometimes, I feel like I walk around with a visible sign on me that tells everyone I have low self-esteem, anxiety, and a complete lack of confidence. It feels written all over my face. Anytime I meet someone new or find myself in an unfamiliar situation, my body language, tone, and gestures immediately reveal just how uncomfortable I am.

Why?

Because I’ve already overthought every possible outcome before the moment has even fully happened.

What if I say the wrong thing?

What if I embarrass myself?

What if they think I’m awkward?

Should I speak up or stay quiet?

The truth is, I’ve spent years doubting my social capabilities. After enough experiences of putting myself down — and moments where I genuinely did feel embarrassed by my own awkwardness or anxiety — I slowly learned to hide myself instead. Staying in the background began to feel safer than risking being seen at all.

The Quiet Weight of Self-Doubt

Over time, self-doubt stops feeling like something that comes and goes. It just becomes… part of you. At least that’s how it felt for me. After years of overthinking my interactions, picking myself apart, and feeling different from everyone around me, it just became automatic. I didn’t even notice how deep it had gone until way later.

I think when you spend enough time feeling misunderstood, rejected, or emotionally “too much,” you start to believe it. You stop questioning it. You just assume something must be wrong with you.

Growing up, I remember playing sports as an extracurricular activity. I really loved soccer. But even though I liked it, every game, every practice felt like a struggle for me.

One problem for me was how physical it was. Too much contact. Too much pressure. Too many eyes on you to play well. Too many chances to mess up in front of everyone. And I felt all of it.

There was one soccer game where the girls on my team were basically coming at me for playing half-back. They told the coaches, while I was standing right there, that I was too slow for the position. It made me feel so small. Not just embarrassed — it kind of confirmed what I already thought about myself.

I knew I wasn’t the fastest. I knew I was heavier than the other girls. And in my head, I already believed my lack of confidence was going to mess everything up anyway. Hearing your insecurities said out loud by other people hits different. It’s like… a jab straight to the chest.

The thing is, I was a shy kid. I had trouble fitting in and making friends. The friends I did have were my safe place, and when I didn’t have them around, I kind of just… didn’t know how to exist socially on my own.

I basically became background noise.

No one really knew my name. Or if they did, it didn’t feel like it mattered. And that made everything worse.

It made me realize something that stuck with me for a long time — I could be standing right in front of people, literally in the room, and still feel completely invisible. I wanted so badly to be accepted. To be seen. But after enough rejection and feeling left out, I started believing I wasn’t really someone people wanted around. Like there was just something about me that didn’t fit.

I didn’t realize at the time how much of that was connected to being neurodivergent. I just thought I was bad at being a person.

The Hard Part Is That It Follows You

The hardest part about chronic self-doubt is that it doesn’t stay in one place. It follows you everywhere. Conversations don’t end when they end, because your brain keeps running them back later. Over and over.

I would leave social situations completely drained, not because anything actually happened, but because my mind turned everything into something to analyze and pick apart afterward.

After that soccer game, I went home and replayed everything. I could still hear their voices in my head saying I wasn’t good enough. I could feel the embarrassment all over again. I even pictured the laughing, the little giggles in my direction. And honestly… it stuck. It still does.

I think this is something a lot of neurodivergent people quietly carry. After years of masking, adapting, trying to avoid rejection — you start to become hyper-aware of yourself all the time. And eventually that turns into self-surveillance. You stop just being and start constantly monitoring yourself.

Perfectionism fed into it for me too. I felt like if I could just say the right thing, act the right way, be better somehow, then maybe I wouldn’t be judged anymore. But the thing about perfectionism is it never really ends. There’s always something else to fix.

And when you already struggle with self-esteem, even small criticism can hit way harder than it probably should. It just reinforces everything you already believe about yourself.

What It Actually Feels Like

The truth is, living with constant self-doubt is heavy. It’s exhausting. To move through life always questioning yourself. Always feeling like you’re either “too much” or “not enough,” sometimes at the exact same time.

And the worst part is, from the outside, no one always sees it. They just see quiet. Or awkwardness. Or someone who doesn’t speak much. They don’t see the war happening internally before a sentence even comes out of your mouth.

I’m Still Learning

The truth is, I can’t tell you how I handle it, because I’m still trying to figure it out.

I’m slowly learning that being sensitive and feeling things deeply doesn’t make me weak. And struggling socially doesn’t make me unworthy of connection.

Some days I still shrink myself into that small box of fear and self-doubt without meaning to. And honestly… the fear still wins.

But then there are days where I speak, I show up, and I try anyway. And that, I think, is what I’m starting to call progress.

Sometimes it just means I spent too long trusting fear more than I trusted myself. And I don’t want that to be what leads anymore.

What parts of yourself are you still shrinking because fear told you it wasn’t safe to be seen?

“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’” — Mary Anne Radmacher

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #Autism #SocialAnxiety #MightyTogether

I’ve always found a deep sense of comfort in returning to the same places over and over again. I enjoy going to the same beach, the same grocery store, the same streets where I grew up.

For a long time, I never really understood why I was so attached to familiarity—why certain places made me feel at ease while unfamiliar environments left me tense, overstimulated, and emotionally drained. Now, understanding my AuDHD, it makes a lot more sense.

My mind constantly processes everything around me—the noise, lighting, people’s energy, movement, conversations, unpredictability. Even when I seem calm on the outside, my nervous system feels like it’s working overtime in the background.

That’s why familiar places feel so emotional to me.

They remove some of the uncertainty. I already know the layout, the atmosphere, the vibe of the space. My brain doesn’t have to work as hard to prepare itself. There’s comfort in knowing what to expect.

I’ve lived and grown up in the same place my whole life. I’m familiar with every part of the Valley in Los Angeles—where to eat, the best bars and restaurants, and where the best nature trails are. I feel like the area I grew up in is a deep part of who I am. I find tremendous comfort in knowing my surroundings.

And this shows up in my everyday life too.

One thing I always do is take the same streets—the same routes I’ve always taken to move about the Valley. I avoid freeways because I have intense driving anxiety, so I stick to side streets. I’ve selected my favorite routes over time, and there’s something about them that brings up so many memories along the way.

I’m constantly surrounded by places where I spent most of my life—schools I attended, parks I played sports at, the mall I used to go to with friends during middle school. It’s all still there, and mostly unchanged.

Emotionally, those places become tied to safety.

This sense of safety is especially strong in certain places for me.

For me, the beach has always been a place that quiets my mind in a way very few things can. The cooler air, the sound of waves hitting the shore, the endless horizon—it slows down the noise in my head enough for me to actually feel present, to feel alive.

I remember going to Zuma Beach growing up. It’s one of the closest beaches to where I live. Otherwise, I’d find myself in Laguna all the time because that’s my all-time favorite place to visit. It’s about a two-hour drive from where I live, so whenever I have the energy to drive there (and I’m actually able to get on the freeway), it feels incredibly nostalgic. Zuma Beach, though, is only a twenty-minute drive—traffic, of course, makes it closer to an hour.

I remember going often with my mom and a friend and their mom—the cooler packed with sandwiches, watermelon, grapes, lemonade. Perfect for a beach picnic. Hours spent body surfing, slowly drifting away from our spot. My mom panicking because she couldn’t see me anymore. Walking to look for seashells. Lounging under an umbrella, listening to music or reading Archie comics.

Those truly were the days I’ll cherish forever. And that beach, in particular, is one I always return to. I know where to park, the best less-crowded spots, and the drive is familiar.

This need for familiarity doesn’t just show up in memories—it shows up in my present-day life too.

If I’m not at the beach daydreaming, pondering life’s little mysteries, or walking my favorite nature trail, you’ll most likely find me at home. And when I’m out running mundane errands, my mind is often at a high level of anxiety and overwhelm.

So I generally try to get things done in the morning when stores are less crowded. I love being able to go to the grocery store and browse the aisles in peace instead of feeling rushed or pressured to grab my items and leave. Trader Joe’s, in particular, has become one of my small pleasures—a quiet morning, wandering the aisles, gathering ideas and inspiration for something comforting to cook.

I think many people with AuDHD understand this feeling deeply. Familiar places aren’t just preferences for us. Sometimes they become regulation, routine, and emotional safety all at once.

When your nervous system spends so much time bracing for unpredictability, familiar spaces can feel like relief. They allow your body to rest instead of constantly preparing for overwhelm.

Whenever I’m in new surroundings or around new people, I feel emotionally dysregulated. I try to process the situation to find a sense of safety. I adapt to new sensory input, and I familiarize myself with new acquaintances to find ease and comfort. Otherwise, if I sit with the discomfort too long, I can react in ways I don’t fully understand in the moment—sometimes emotional overwhelm, sometimes shutdown, sometimes tears or breakdown.

That’s why routines and predictable environments help me function.

It’s healing to find spaces that allow your nervous system to finally unclench a little—places where you don’t feel like you have to constantly brace yourself.

And maybe that’s why we return to them again and again—not because we’re stuck, but because some places help us feel more like ourselves.

What familiar spaces help you feel more like yourself again?

“Sometimes healing looks like returning to the same places until your nervous system feels safe again.”

#ADHD #Autism #AutismSpectrumDisorder #Anxiety #SocialAnxiety #Neurodiversity #MentalHealth #MightyTogether

Lately I’ve been realizing how much healing happens in small moments instead of big breakthroughs.

For a long time, I thought that healing had to be instant. Like suddenly becoming a completely different person overnight or finally “fixing” every part of myself that felt heavy, anxious, overwhelmed, or broken.

But honestly, some of the moments that have helped me the most have been incredibly small.

Like making a cup of coffee in the morning when my mind hasn’t fully woken up.

Taking a long hot shower after feeling overstimulated all day. It helps relax all of the tension I have built up in my shoulders.

Lighting a few of my favorite scented candles and reading in a quiet space.

Morning or evening walks while listening to music to help clear my mind.

Just small little things like that make my life feel a little softer and more manageable. I think that healing is sometimes just learning how to create tiny pockets of safety and comfort for yourself again.

What’s been a small moment of healing for you lately?

#MentalHealth #Anxiety #Depression #Neurodiversity #ADHD #Autism #mighty

Mine is anything warm and comforting—pasta, soup, fresh bread, cozy coffee drinks… basically food that feels like a hug right now.

Does comfort food help you on days where you feel too emotionally heavy? Or do you turn to other things for comfort? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

#MentalHealth #Anxiety #ADHD #Depression #selfcare #Neurodiversity #MightyTogether #Food

Resting is something that I do often. It helps me regulate my emotions, recharge my energy, and exist in quiet spaces alone. But there are times when part of me wonders if I’m actually just avoiding everything I’m supposed to be doing.

Rest is supposed to feel restorative, but sometimes it just feels like pausing without relief. Other times, it comes with guilt, shame, and a sense that I’m being lazy. And when I start feeling that way, it only increases my anxiety and makes rest feel almost impossible.

Avoidance can look almost identical on the outside. Staying in bed a little longer than planned. Letting messages from friends sit unanswered in my DMs. Watching the day move forward without me.

Most mornings, I wake up feeling emotionally heavy. I’ll make my coffee, wander back to bed, and sit there letting out a deep sigh I didn’t even realize I was holding. It often feels like every day is the same—same routine, same emotional weight, same quiet repetition of everything I didn’t manage to change yesterday.

It leaves me feeling stagnant, like I’m stuck in a loop of mundanity that I can’t quite step out of

And I don’t like that feeling—sitting idly by while life happens around me. I want change, spontaneity, creativity, and a life that feels full of possibility. Not one where I’m just waiting for something to happen.

Most of the time, whenever I go out, I become overwhelmed from being in public. I’ll go run errands—gas, medication pick-up, groceries—and feel exhausted afterward. So I tell myself that when I get home, I can lay down for a few minutes before picking back up on my day.

But those few minutes turn into hours of stillness.

I don’t get anything accomplished. I tell myself I’ll do it tomorrow, but that rarely happens because the task becomes too overwhelming. So when the day has ended, I don’t feel restored at all. I feel like I had just paused my life without stepping out of it.

It’s strange because rest and avoidance can look the same, but internally they feel completely different.

Real rest, when I can actually access it, feels like my nervous system is slowly unclenching. Like my shoulders drop. Like I can breathe deeper. It feels like I could re-enter life later without punishment.

Avoidance feels tighter. Like I’m frozen in place but still mentally running. Like I’m waiting for some invisible “right moment” to begin, but it never arrives.

And then there are moments where I realize that I’m not actually avoiding life—I’m just overloaded.

Like the times I run those three simple errands and end up sitting in my car in the parking lot for fifteen minutes before going in, just to mentally prepare for it. I have to wait for my anxiety to ease up before I know it’s okay to move forward.

That distinction has been important for me because sometimes what looks like avoidance is really overwhelm. And sometimes what looks like rest is actually disconnection.

I don’t always like admitting that, because it means I can’t rely on simple labels to understand myself. But it also makes things feel less “good” or “bad” because I notice that I tend to turn it into judgment.

If I’m resting, I’m allowed to be quiet. If I’m avoiding, I should do better. But my body doesn’t respond to judgment. It responds to safety.

So I’ve been trying to shift the question. Instead of asking, “Am I resting or avoiding?” I try to ask, “What am I actually asking for right now?”

Sometimes, the answer is real rest. The kind that doesn’t come with guilt attached to it. Sometimes, it’s one step instead of the whole list. Sitting up instead of standing up.

Either way, the answer usually isn’t shame. It’s adjustment.

I can’t always tell when I’m resting or avoiding life. But I’m learning that I don’t have to label it perfectly to respond to it with care.

What does real rest actually feel like in your body?

“My body is not a machine. I do not have to earn rest.” — Unknown

#MentalHealth #selfcare #Anxiety #Neurodiversity #MightyTogether

I’ve always admired the kind of people who wake up early, stay consistent, master new skills quickly, and somehow never seem to lose motivation halfway through the process. The people who seem naturally disciplined.

Personally, I’ve never really been that type of person.

For most of my life, learning new things has come with equal parts excitement and self-doubt. I always start out inspired and full of ideas and possibilities, only to hit a wall somewhere in the middle where everything feels harder than I expected.

And honestly, it’s usually the middle part where I quit.

I’d convince myself that I was never good at whatever it was I was trying to accomplish, so I’d give up. And the feelings afterward were always the same: guilt, shame, and embarrassment.

I remember so many times at work where I had to learn a new software program or something else unfamiliar. I’d always go into it with such gusto, ready to learn something new, but I also carried a lot of nerves about it too.

Often, in order to learn something new, I need visuals. I need someone to actually show me how to do it. Written instructions I can mostly handle, but auditory information? Forget it.

My ADHD limits my attention span, and when someone is talking, I’m trying so hard to process every word that I end up forgetting the actual information.

There were so many moments at work where I’d get so frustrated over not knowing what I was doing that I’d completely freeze up. Go numb. Lose all interest.

But it was work, so I couldn’t just give up.

I also hate asking people for help. It’s always uncomfortable for me to approach someone because I don’t want them to think I’m stupid or incapable of figuring things out on my own. Usually, I’ll sit there for what feels like hours trying to get the hang of something before finally going down the route of embarrassing myself and asking for help.

There was one program in particular that I just couldn’t understand, so I finally worked up the courage to ask my boss. She wasn’t thrilled, but she showed me how to do it.

Eventually, I got the hang of it and was able to do it with ease from then on.

But I still always doubt my abilities. That’s why I tend to psych myself out of so many situations before I even give myself a real chance.

I think a lot of us assume that if something doesn’t come naturally, then we just aren’t meant for it. But the older I get, the more I realize that learning is supposed to feel uncomfortable sometimes.

I’ve experienced this with writing, cooking, blogging, and even learning how to better care for my mental health.

When I first started writing more seriously, I constantly compared myself to other writers online. I’d read beautifully polished essays and immediately feel discouraged about my own work. I would spend more time criticizing myself than actually writing.

There were days I opened a blank document and instantly felt overwhelmed.

I didn’t feel creative enough. Smart enough. Interesting enough.

And when you already struggle with anxiety or overthinking, learning something new can feel emotionally exhausting because every mistake feels personal.

But eventually, I started noticing something important: the people who improve aren’t always the most talented people — they’re usually the ones who kept going long enough to grow.

That realization changed the way I approached motivation.

I Had to Stop Expecting Instant Progress

One of the biggest things that hurt my motivation was expecting myself to be good immediately. I wanted fast results, quick confidence, and proof that I was capable.

But learning doesn’t work like that.

I remember trying to build routines and structure around my blog, only to become frustrated when I couldn’t instantly create the kind of content I envisioned in my head. Things felt messy before they felt natural.

I still have moments where I read something that I wrote and think it isn’t good enough to publish. Sometimes I trash it completely. Other times, I revise it over and over before finally hitting that button.

But I’ve learned that perfectionism can destroy motivation because it makes progress feel invisible.

Small Progress Matters More Than Big Bursts of Motivation

One thing I’ve realized is that motivation is unreliable. Some days I feel deeply inspired and full of energy. Other days, everything feels extremely difficult.

For a long time, I thought consistency meant showing up at 100% every day.

Now I think consistency sometimes looks like:

writing one paragraph instead of a full article

reading a few pages instead of an entire chapter

trying again tomorrow instead of giving up completely

allowing slower progress without shaming yourself for it

There have been days where I only had enough energy to brainstorm blog titles or organize ideas in my notes app. But even those moments kept me connected to what I cared about.

Learning Feels Different When You Stop Punishing Yourself

Many of us unknowingly criticize ourselves, compare ourselves to people who are years ahead of us, and treat mistakes like proof that we’re failing.

If I wasn’t immediately productive, I felt guilty. If I struggled to focus, I assumed I was falling behind. But I’m starting to notice that I learn better when I’m less afraid of failure. When I feel calmer instead of anxious.

Now I try to do little things to help me stay motivated:

make a cup of coffee before writing

listen to soothing music to help me focus

go outside more to find a little inspiration

keep small snacks nearby to keep my energy up

I try to let the experience feel more comfortable instead of rigid. It might not seem like much, but it’s worked for me.

Motivation Comes in Waves

I think one of the most freeing things I’ve learned is that nobody feels motivated all the time.

We just don’t always see the quiet moments where others struggle too.

There are times when learning feels exciting and energizing. And then there are times where your brain feels too tired, distracted, overstimulated, or emotionally drained.

But some of the most meaningful growth happens through small attempts, messy beginnings, and the decision to keep trying even when confidence isn’t there yet.

I’m still learning how to be patient with myself when things don’t come naturally. I still get frustrated. I still doubt myself sometimes.

But I’m starting to realize that motivation isn’t about feeling inspired every single day. Sometimes it’s just about continuing anyway.

What’s something you’ve been wanting to learn lately, and what’s been the hardest part about staying motivated?

“It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.” — Confucius

#MentalHealth #ADHD #selfcare #Neurodiversity #MightyTogether

One thing I’ve realized is how easy it is to believe thoughts like:

“I probably said something wrong.”

“They don’t actually like me.”

“I’m falling behind in life.”

Even when there’s no real evidence for it.

I’ve been learning these are often cognitive distortions — fear disguised as truth.

So I’m curious:

What’s a thought your mind has been repeating lately that you’re trying not to fully believe anymore?

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Anxiety #Depression #Autism #AutismSpectrumDisorder #ADHD #MightyTogether