neurodiversity

I believe that most of us have performed on stage or given a speech at some point in our lives. For me, I’ve done both. Was it by choice? Sometimes—most of the time, it wasn’t.

Growing up and going to school, you’re obligated to give a speech, perform in recitals, and participate in class. And for someone like me—shy, quiet, and incredibly reserved—those moments felt like torture. I was too fearful of being the center of attention. I just wanted to blend in, stay silent, and stay hidden.

But even with my doubts and nerves, I had no choice but to engage. That’s the thing about childhood and adolescence: you don’t get much of a say in what’s expected of you.

As I got older, the pressure only intensified. At a young age, we’re asked to perform, to be enthusiastic, to be social butterflies. There are so many expectations piled onto your shoulders that you lose sight of who you really are. I did, at least.

One of the clearest examples was in high school. I still remember being asked to study and perform William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. The performance was only for our class, but it was a large one. We split into groups and had to perform a certain act from the play.

I was cast as Juliet, and I despised it. I didn’t want to get up there and speak—let alone speak the words of someone who wrote with such poetic beauty and intensity. When it came time for my turn, I literally froze.

I remember being so nervous that I was uncontrollably shaking, sweating, and becoming disassociated. Oddly enough, that disassociation ended up saving me because I delivered my lines and acted quite well—at least I thought I did. I made it through without my voice cracking, which usually happens when I’m put in those situations. I gave myself a pat on the back afterward. But just because I got through it doesn’t mean it didn’t impact me.

As time went on, public speaking only became harder. In college, I had to take a mandatory speech class. I avoided it for as long as I possibly could. But once again, I had no choice.

I ended up finding a class where you only had to give four speeches during the semester—which felt like a blessing. But still, each speech, though thoughtful and creative, felt like climbing a mountain. I stood there with a tomato-red face, sweat glistening off my skin, and the shakiest voice you’ve ever heard. It was humiliating. To this day, I still think about those moments and cringe.

But not every experience was painful. There were times, though, when I chose to perform.

One of those times was in middle school, when I joined choir. I really enjoyed singing and being part of that class. There was something comforting about blending my voice with everyone else’s—like I could still express myself without being completely exposed.

Performances were mostly okay for me because I was with a large group of people. I wasn’t the only one in the spotlight, and that took so much of the pressure off. I could disappear into the harmony, be part of something beautiful, and stay safely tucked in the background. That made the difference.

Looking back, choir taught me something I didn’t realize at the time. I wasn’t afraid of expressing myself—I was afraid of being exposed. There’s a big difference.

And that realization has followed me into adulthood. When I felt supported—when I wasn’t alone under the spotlight—I could participate, contribute, and even enjoy it.

Now, as an adult, I’ve learned that it’s okay to be the quiet one. Not everyone is meant to command a stage or dominate a room full of people.

What matters more to me is being my authentic self—shaky voice and all. It’s who I am, and I’m finally at peace with that. I spent so much of my life trying to understand why I couldn’t “be like everyone else,” but now the picture is clearer.

I’m still learning how to exist in spaces that feel loud, overwhelming, and uncomfortable. But I’m also learning to accept that my presence is valuable—even if it’s quiet.

Have you ever performed on stage or given a speech?

“Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing we’ll ever do.” — Brené Brown

#Anxiety #SocialAnxiety #SocialAnxietyDisorder #SocialPhobia #MentalHealth #ADHD #Neurodiversity #Depression

For me, depression has always been like that nosy neighbor next door who comes over unannounced. I’ve been plagued by it my whole life. It’s a heavy cloud that follows me around, waiting for the perfect moment to burst into rain—or should I say, a torrential downpour. Once it hits, I start slowly slipping away from myself and become an outsider in my own body. I lose all sense of clarity and reality, and I retreat so far inward that I lose sight of who I am.

When the Fog Changes Your Reflection

Some days, I’ll stand in front of the mirror and not recognize the person staring back at me. In my mind, she looks tired, sad, fragile, and completely lost somewhere inside herself. Other days, I avoid the mirror altogether because I don’t want to see the hurt and ache written across my face.

The thing with depression is that ordinary moments feel heavier—distorted even. Basic tasks like getting dressed, brushing your teeth, or showering feel too overwhelming to tackle. You become trapped in this numbing state where you can’t move, you can’t speak, and you can’t muster enough strength to get anything done. And then comes the self-doubt. The guilt. The feeling that you’re failing at life. Depression convinces me that I can’t accomplish anything, and that belief becomes its own painful “proof.”

The Voice of Depression

My mind constantly whispers that I’m worthless, useless, nonexistent. It tells me I can’t do anything right and that I’m taking up space I don’t deserve. That inner critic knows how to point out every flaw—loud, sharp, relentless.

I never want to be seen as lazy or unmotivated. Yet depression repeats that lie until it feels like truth. It tells me I’m falling behind in life, that I’ll never catch up. When you’re mentally and physically drained, it’s dangerously easy to believe those words. Shame wraps around you like a cocoon. I shrink myself little by little until I feel like one small shard from a once-whole glass castle.

The Invisible Weight

People don’t see the inner turmoil. They don’t see the heaviness I carry every day, slowing me down to a snail’s pace. They only see the mask. They see me smile, laugh, engage—yet none of it feels real. I’m dissociated. Present in the physical sense, but mentally drifting somewhere in the depths of my mind.

My body runs on autopilot. It knows when to move, when to smile, when to “turn on the charm.” But I’m watching myself from far away, disconnected from the person everyone else sees.

Depression changes the way I view myself. The parts of me I once admired disappear the moment it shows up. My kindness twists into self-hatred. My passion becomes fear. My self-worth collapses into a black hole. I’m made to believe I am nothing and will always be nothing. Depression paints me as fragile, slow, unreliable—and some days, I believe it.

Losing Sight of Yourself

I lose sight of myself completely. My hobbies, passions, and the pieces of me that feel authentically “me” fade into the background as if they never existed. Depression clouds your personality, and suddenly you’re convinced that this dull version is the real you. It’s heartbreaking to feel forced to cut the cord from the person you were and slip into the shadows where you think you belong.

Returning to Yourself

Healing doesn’t happen overnight, and you can’t put a timeline on depression. But you can come out of it and step back into the light. Back into your own skin. Back into yourself.

I’ve gone through very heavy depressive episodes, and I’m always hard on myself during them. But when I finally emerge, it feels like liberation. I know it’s cliché to mention the caterpillar-to-butterfly transformation, but it’s the closest comparison I have. You spend so long in darkness trying to survive, trying to stitch yourself back together—and when you finally break free, you rediscover parts of yourself you thought were gone. You learn how to fly again. You see the world differently. You realize the beauty was within you all along.

I’m Still Me

Depression can distort your perception, but it doesn’t erase you. I’ve lived through enough episodes to know that. The fog may be stubborn, but the real you never disappears. She’s just healing. She’s waiting to feel safe again.

No matter how far you travel through the labyrinth—days, months, or even years—you’ll still find your way back. Your compass may be broken, but your instincts will guide you better than anything else.

Depression may linger over me, but I know I’m capable of pushing through. The days are hard, the months are harder, but I’ve learned that I always return to myself. Maybe it’s taken years of being consumed by depression to see this clearly, but the truth is: the real me is always there. She just needs time—time to feel, time to rest, time to reemerge into the butterfly she’s always been.

#Depression #MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Anxiety #ADHD

Have you ever been in a situation where you know what you want to say—the words are right there—but your mouth doesn’t move? Or someone asks you a question, and suddenly your mind goes blank, your muscles tense up, and all you can do is stand there, stuck?

If you answered yes, you’re not alone. I’ve always thought that there was something wrong with me. I worried that I looked awkward or aloof. In reality, though, I was experiencing something called the freeze response. It’s a trauma or stress response where the nervous system says:

This feels overwhelming. We’re not going to fight or run. We’re shutting down until it feels safe again.

Recently, I had an experience where my mind just went completely blank, and I froze. I was at the grocery store with my dad, shopping for some holiday items, and I just remember being so overwhelmed by the crowd, the lights, the smells, the sounds, that I completely withdrew from reality.

When we went to check out our items, the clerk began asking me how my day was, and I couldn’t for the life of me form a response. I think I might have just given her a look like, “don’t even ask.” I feel like I was pushed over the edge. All of my senses were highly engaged, my mind became dizzy, slowly emptying every thought I ever had, and my body became tense and heavy. I felt like I was walking through some thick mud or something.

Afterward, it was a silent ride. I was trying so hard to come back to life. I just knew in that moment I needed silence and space to try to get my bearings back. I’ll usually come back rather quickly when I’m alone, but if I’m with someone else, the freeze mode is still in full swing. It’s because there’s this underlying pressure to speak and perhaps explain what had happened. But when I’m in deep freeze mode, all I can really do is just try and steady my breath.

What Freeze Feels Like for Me

My thoughts go fuzzy, like the signal between my brain and mouth gets cut.

My body gets heavy, and everything slows down.

I can’t make decisions, even tiny ones.

I feel detached, like I’m watching myself from a distance.

Speaking becomes impossible, even when I desperately want to.

From the outside, it looks like I’m calm. But inside, I’m frozen in fear or overstimulation.

I remember my friend and I having a relatively deep conversation, and I had momentarily zoned out, staring into nothingness, thinking about something else completely random. When she had called my name a few times, I snapped back and realized that I had completely drifted off topic and had no clue what we were even talking about. I felt embarrassed and ashamed for slipping out of the conversation, but the thing is, I was deeply invested—I just got sidetracked.

My silence probably told her I was listening, ready to respond, but my following actions showed otherwise. She might have thought that I didn’t care, but that’s not what happened at all.

I just can’t help that my mind drifts without a second thought. It’s horrible that it happens mid-conversation, but my intention is always in the right place, and my impression is to never come across as rude or disrespectful.

Why My Brain Freezes

Over the years, I noticed that my nervous system has learned that silence keeps me safe.

Growing up, I avoided conflict or confrontation, and rejection or criticism by making myself small. When my brain detects tension now, even minor stuff, it goes back to the old survival strategy: which is, don’t speak, don’t move, and definitely don’t make it worse. It’s wild how the body remembers what the mind forgets.

I learned from a very early age that silence became my protection. I noticed that other kids who were loud were more susceptible to harmful comments, and I certainly couldn’t handle any form of rejection or judgment, so I remained hidden essentially. If I got hurt, I’d probably cause a scene, go into a full meltdown, hyperventilate, or something. I just never wanted to make myself visible for potential harm.

The Shame Spiral That Follows

After freezing, the overthinking sets in:

“Why didn’t I say something?”

“They probably think I’m weird.”

“I should have responded faster.”

“Why do I always shut down?”

The feelings afterward—the overthinking, the regret, the exhaustion—all set in. Why couldn’t I just speak? Why couldn’t my facial expressions at least show that I was interested? But no, I go completely numb, still, and dissociated. I can’t help the feelings of embarrassment and shame. I can’t even begin to tell you how much time I spend reflecting on said scenario. My brain will stir up emotions that I didn’t even realize I had. Going through a freeze response is internally traumatizing.

Learning To Thaw

I’m working on learning to recognize what’s happening before I disappear into oblivion. Here are things that help me slowly unfreeze:

Naming what I’m feeling (“I’m overwhelmed right now.”)

Taking one deep breath before reacting

Letting myself pause without guilt

Practicing scripts for stressful moments

Choosing environments where I feel safe to speak up

It doesn’t always work yet. But every small moment counts. I’ve learned that even if I’m in a freeze state, I can still sustain enough energy to remove myself from the situation.

At a friend’s wedding, I was so emotionally exhausted by the end of the night that I just couldn’t continue pushing myself to speak, engage, or just sit silently. So, I conjured up the strength to tell my friend that I was leaving to go home.

I didn’t say goodbye to anyone except her because I was, in fact, frozen with emptiness and anxiety, if you could imagine. Most of the time I can’t move, but I sat there before I left, took some time to breathe in a few good breaths, and chose to do what was right for me in that moment. I was proud of myself for not pushing through more burnout.

I Deserve to Take Up Space, Even When I’m Quiet

Silence isn’t weakness. It can be a sign of strength, of self-preservation. I’m learning that I can take moments to pause. I can come back to the conversation later. My voice is valid, even when it takes time to find.

Just because my brain freezes doesn’t mean I’m broken. Sometimes surviving looks like stillness. And healing looks like choosing to speak again.

Have you ever experienced the freeze response?

“When my voice disappears, it’s not because I have nothing to say — it’s because I’m learning how to feel safe saying it.” – Unknown

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Anxiety #ADHD #freeze

I’m constantly apologizing for taking up space. I can’t even begin to tell you just how many times a day I say the words, “I’m sorry.” It’s like a reflex I can’t switch off. If I’m at the grocery store and take too long to grab an item, I’ll apologize. If I feel like I’ve said something wrong, I’ll apologize. Heck, if someone bumps into me, I’ll still utter, “I’m sorry.”

It’s a bit embarrassing, but I even find myself saying sorry to inanimate objects because the habit is that ingrained. It’s exhausting, and honestly, it’s something I’d really like to do less of.

I believe the reason I apologize so often stems from my fear of conflict. For most of my life, I grew into a people-pleaser. I’d always put others first before myself and say yes to pretty much everything.

If someone needed a ride, I’d be there. If someone needed a little extra cash, I’d somehow find a way to help. “You need me? I’m there for you” — that was always my mindset.

But honestly? It drained me. It made me feel small. I lost tiny pieces of myself every time I gave in a little more. I just wanted to fit in, to belong, to be part of the group instead of always being on the outside. I longed for acceptance, and I thought pleasing others was the only way to get it.

There’s a lot of underlying pain that comes with constant apologies. I’ve realized that every automatic “I’m sorry” shrinks my confidence and chips away at my self-worth — two things that are absolutely essential for mental well-being.

For me, it reinforces the belief that I’m a burden. That I take up too much space. And honestly? It makes me feel like no one takes me seriously — like my needs are inconveniences to everyone around me.

I’m working on breaking the apology habit. I want to be able to replace “sorry” with alternatives like:

• “I can’t right now.”

• “Thank you for waiting.”

• “I need time to think.”

It’s hard for my brain to understand how not to apologize because I’m so used to it. But I’m learning to pause before reacting out of reflex.

Being able to take up space without guilt is the affirmation I need. I have the right to speak, rest, ask, and set boundaries. I’m worthy — just as much as everyone else. Needing validation for my feelings isn’t something to be ashamed of; it’s human.

Growth begins with awareness, and every time I choose a kinder response instead of “I’m sorry,” I’m reclaiming the pieces of me that I thought were lost forever.

“Stop apologizing for taking up space. Your presence is valid, your voice matters, and your needs deserve attention.” — Unknown

#MentalHealth #Anxiety #Neurodiversity #selfcare

For me, neurodivergent friendships feel different, somehow more whole, than neurotypical friendships. It’s not that neurotypical friendships can’t be meaningful, but there’s something uniquely comforting about being around people whose minds feel familiar. People whose energy feels safe.

I’ve always been the “quiet friend,” the “deep one,” the one who listened more than she spoke. People liked me, sure, but they didn’t quite get me. I felt the constant need to explain myself or apologize for myself.

I’ve always had at least one or two neurodivergent friends. My very first friend from pre-school is neurodivergent, and we’ve continued a friendship ever since then. Which in my opinion is remarkable — to be friends with someone from such an early age. But I remember us meeting that first day of school. It was as though we both recognized something similar within each other. We grabbed hands and walked in, and the rest is history.

I get together with her at least once a week. I feel so safe, so comfortable, and so much more myself around her. She just gets me. I don’t need to explain myself when I’m having anxiety, overwhelm, meltdowns, shutdowns, scattered thoughts — anything and everything, pretty much. We don’t need to mask around one another. It’s freeing to let your guard down fully around someone you trust. We support each other in ways that neurotypical friends often can’t.

I also have a best friend I consider my sister. We’ve known each other since elementary school and have shared countless secrets, memories, and stories over the years. She’s neurodivergent too, and she has an autistic son, my godson, who brings so much joy into my life. The bond I share with them feels irreplaceable. We laugh together, play pretend games, and share silly moments on Snapchat. They are essentially the glue that keeps my nervous system steady and cared for.

This is why neurodivergent friendships hit differently.

When I’m with neurodivergent friends:

There’s no pressure to perform. I don’t have to mask, pretend, or be someone I’m not. I can exist fully as myself, quiet and reflective, without fear of judgment.

We skip the small talk. We dive straight into feelings, identity, creativity, trauma, healing, fears, and dreams. When we don’t feel like talking, that’s okay too. No one expects words for the sake of words.

Shared silence is comforting. We can sit together, doing our own thing, and the silence feels warm, safe, and unforced.

Sensory overwhelm is understood. I don’t have to act fine when I’m overstimulated. Bright lights, loud noises, strong scents, textures, sudden shutdowns — none of it requires explanation or apology.

Communication is gentle and honest. We check in with questions like, “Are you tired?” “Do you need space?” “Wanna go home?” Interruptions, long paragraphs, short replies — all are normal and accepted.

Emotional intensity is embraced. We care deeply, attach strongly, and feel everything profoundly. Even if months pass without seeing each other, reconnecting is seamless — no guilt, no distance, no awkwardness.

We see each other fully. Depth, sensitivity, thoughtfulness, quirks — nothing goes unnoticed. With them, I don’t feel like a burden or a misfit. I feel seen. The whole me.

Neurodivergent friendships feel like home. They are spaces where I can exist fully, without apology, without fear, without pretending. They nourish my heart, soothe my nervous system, and honor my quiet, reflective energy.

And while I deeply treasure my neurotypical friends too, these connections with fellow neurodivergents have a layer of understanding and belonging that feels almost intuitive. They just get it — the way my brain works, the way I experience the world, the way I care and feel. That’s what makes these friendships feel so different, and so vital to my life.

“Neurodivergent friendships feel like home — a space where your quiet, reflective self is fully seen and deeply understood.” - Unknown

#ADHD #MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #AutismSpectrumDisorder #Anxiety

I’ve been quiet for as long as I can remember. The kind of quiet that often makes others tilt their head and ask, “Why are you so quiet?” or the one that really feels like a punch to the gut for me, “You need to speak up more.”

I remember being told that constantly. It’s now a trigger statement for me because of all the years of being told I should be a certain way. But honestly, what’s so wrong with being quiet? I don’t know why people often associate it with being cold, distant, or rude. I’m the furthest thing from that. I’m actually warm, inviting, and deeply caring.

I wish that people would recognize that my quietness isn’t a lack of personality or interest. It’s actually where my whole personality lives. It lives in a space beneath the surface where it feels safe.

There’s so many misconceptions about people like me, and so many assumptions sting more than people realize. So here are five things I wish others understood about my quietness. The things that show up in my actual life, in my body, and in my day-to-day experiences.

1. I’m not trying to be rude or cold. I’m trying to regulate myself.

When I walk into a social situation, I instantly go into observation mode. I don’t mean to. It just happens. It’s like my brain switches into a scan and access mode. I’m hyper vigilant and can read the room in an instant. I notice who’s talking, what the tone is, who seems stressed and who seems upset. And before I even say a word, I’ve already absorbed the whole atmosphere. That’s why I might look aloof or distant at first. I’m not trying to shut people out, I’m trying to ground myself, so I don’t get overwhelmed.

Inside, I’m trying to calm my nerves. I get anxious in unfamiliar situations or even more anxious around people I don’t know. So, it takes me a while to process warming up to someone, but I do warm up at some point.

2. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say — I just get nervous to speak.

People sometimes assume I’m silent because there’s nothing happening inside me. But honestly? There’s too much happening it makes my head spin. My inner world is so loud with overthinking every response, every word, and every gesture before I even open my mouth.

I’m always replaying conversations, often before they even happen. I’m thinking about sentences before I speak them. I worry about sounding awkward or saying the “wrong” thing. And most often, when I’m ready to talk, the topic has moved on, and then I feel weird for bringing it back up.

So, I stay quiet. I’m not empty on the inside. It’s my hesitation, anxiety, and self-protection for not speaking up. I just always want to say the right thing instead of the fast thing because I’ll usually blurt out something strange. And let me tell you, it’s incredibly exhausting trying to play out an ideal scenario.

3. I’m not as awkward as I seem — I’m just cautious until I feel safe.

I know I sometimes look uncomfortable or unsure of myself, especially around people I don’t know well. I’m usually unaware of my facial expressions, which I’ve been told always looks like I’m deeply concerned or confused, but I can’t control how my body reacts.

I can literally feel the stiffness in my shoulders, the way that I rub my hands together for self-soothing, the way I smile politely when I’m really overwhelmed. But on the inside, I’m not awkward or unsure. I’m actually pretty thoughtful, intuitive, and aware.

The awkwardness people see is really just me being careful. I’m reading the room and making sure that I’m not stepping into a space that will potentially hurt me. But once I trust someone, my whole personality comes out. My humor, my warmth, my sarcasm, and my depth. It unravels slowly, not all at once.

It’s like you have to earn it. Not because I’m guarded in some dramatic way, but because my energy is precious, and showing all of myself at once feels too vulnerable.

4. I’m sensitive and vulnerable — I feel everything intensely.

Being quiet is like my armor. I protect myself from pain. It’s not there to block people out, it’s there to keep me from getting stuck in situations of discomfort.

I absorb other people’s moods before they even realize what they’re feeling. A disappointed tone will stay with me for hours. A harsh comment or criticism makes me crawl back into my shell. The slightest misunderstanding stays with me for a long time.

I’ve always been told that I’m too sensitive, and for a long time I saw that at as a flaw because so many people made me believe it was. But my sensitivity is a part of why I care so deeply, love so fully, and understand people so intuitively.

5. I have so much depth — even if I don’t always voice it out loud.

My inner world is full of thoughts, reflections, questions, stories, creativity, anxiety, hopes, fears, ideas. If I could hear my brain, you’d wonder why I stay quiet at all.

But I don’t always know how to put everything into words in the moment. I need time to process, space to think, and I need emotional safety before I unfold myself.

I might not talk much, but when I do, it’s meaningful.

My quietness is who I am

For years, I felt like I had to apologize for my quietness. Like it made me less interesting, less confident, and less worthy of taking up space or being in the room. But now I see my quietness as an authentic part of who I am, and I don’t ever want to change that.

If someone takes the time to understand my quietness, they’ll see that I’m not cold, distant, or uninterested. I’m actually thoughtful, sensitive, intuitive, and full of depth and personality.

Do you feel misunderstood for being quiet? What are things you wish people would understand about your quietness? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

“Quiet people aren’t cold; they’re careful with who they show their warmth to.” - Unknown

#MentalHealth #ADHD #Neurodiversity #Anxiety #AutismSpectrumDisorder

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