neurodiversity

On the outside, I look like I’m doing just fine. People often see me as capable, responsible, and put together. I show up every day, get things done, and smile when expected. But what most people don’t see is how much effort it takes just to hold everything together. Some days, even just existing feels like a full-time job.

My inner world is comprised of anxiety, constant overthinking, exhaustion, and burnout from masking all the time. I can be sitting in a room full of people, nodding along, appearing engaged, while my mind is racing through everything I’ve said, everything I might say, and everything I’m worried I said wrong. There’s a deep disconnect between how I’m perceived and I actually feel.

Being labeled “high-functioning” makes it seem like I don’t have any outward struggles. Like daily tasks come easily for me. But honestly everything requires extra effort. I have to adapt, mask, and push through even when my body is begging me to slow down and rest.

I often wonder why doing “normal” things takes so much out of me. Even just going out for a walk with my dog, I feel hyper alert, ready for a social interaction to come my way. And in those moments of alertness, I feel on edge and like something wrong will happen. My mind will start racing with thoughts on how to get out of a situation, or even how to handle one.

This label makes my struggles invisible. It makes me question whether my feelings are valid at all. If I’m managing does that mean I’m not allowed to struggle? I’ve had moments where I thought, other people have it worse, and I shouldn’t feel this way. But just because I look fine doesn’t mean I’m not fighting battles every day.

I constantly live with mental exhaustion, emotional burnout, and sensory overload. Things like loud environments or even quiet ones will drain me quickly. If I’m too overstimulated by noise, lights, and conversations, they can make my body feel like it’s short-circuiting.

I’ve always felt off balance, like I’m stuck at the top of a teeter-totter, frozen in panic, waiting for something or someone to bring me back down to the ground. When that doesn’t happen, I retreat further inward, and it gets lonely and isolating there. I can be surrounded by people and still feel completely unseen, trapped inside my body with and ache that’s indescribable.

My big thing is social interactions. They take more from me than most people realize. Even in short conversations, I’m left feeling depleted. When I get home, I shut my bedroom door and let everything spill out. All of the heavy sighs, tears, and silence.

What no one sees is how much energy it takes to perform “okay.” I put on the charm, laugh at the right moments, and speak with enthusiasm. Something that has never felt fully me. Masking is how I survive, but it’s also something that pulls me further away from myself.

For neurodivergent people, hiding becomes second nature. We learn early which parts of us are acceptable and which aren’t. So, we tuck away the stimming, the emotional intensity, the confusion, the overwhelm.

Our brains process information rapidly and deeply, creating constant internal noise. Conversations replay on loop. Small moments get analyzed from every angle. Rest doesn’t come easily because our minds are always working, always scanning.

What I’m learning is that being “high-functioning” doesn’t mean I’m not struggling. It means that I’ve figured out ways to get by that aren’t always visible. I know that my exhaustion isn’t imagined, and that my overwhelm isn’t a sign of weakness. I don’t need to prove my pain by falling apart to deserve care.

Have you ever felt invisible while trying so hard to keep it together?

“Just because I look fine doesn’t mean I’m not fighting battles every day.” – Unknown

#MentalHealth #AutismSpectrumDisorder #ADHD #Neurodiversity #Anxiety #Depression

My family has had a major impact on my mental health and how I view the world. I truly believe it shaped me into the person I am today—for better or worse. I’m understanding just how much the impact of family can have on mental well-being.

Growing up, I inherited two very different energies. My mom instilled worry, fear, and anxiety. She’s a worrywart. To this day, I can’t even leave the house without being asked where I’m going or what I’m doing. There’s always concern, always anticipation of what could go wrong instead of what could go right.

My dad, on the other hand, is calm, cool, and collected. He has the patience of a saint and an inner strength I didn’t fully understand until recently. He and I are a lot alike—quiet, shy, reserved. I realized he didn’t really instill much emotionally, but he inspired a quiet steadiness that I now know I carry.

Somehow, I became a spitting image of both of them.

Anxious, yet calm.

Alert, yet reserved.

Constantly thinking, yet often silent.

Growing Up in Stress and Silence

There are many moments from my childhood that still stay with me. I witnessed a lot of stress. I experienced a lot of yelling. And I felt lonely and isolated from all of that. I never had a sibling to help get me through it or understand how I felt, so unfortunately, I was on my own.

What made it harder was feeling like there was no one in my family that I could really talk to. No one seemed to understand my mental health struggles. I don’t think it was ever something that truly crossed their minds, even though I often expressed my feelings intensely and unpredictably.

Feeling “Different” in a Family That Felt “Normal”

From other family members, I was often made to feel guilty or ashamed of who I was. My shyness was misunderstood and people didn’t see that it went beyond being “quiet.” My quietness had underlying noise because my thoughts were sensitive, anxious, and loud.

I felt out of touch with my family because they seemed “normal,” and I felt like I wasn’t. That sense of being different followed me everywhere, and I internalized it.

The Mental Patterns I Still Carry

I’ve done a lot of damage to myself over the years—and honestly, I still do—by overthinking everything.

I create these scenarios in my head and believe them to be true. I convince myself that people are judging me, don’t like me, or think negatively about me. Sometimes those thoughts are rooted in reality, but most of the time, they aren’t.

Either way, they hurt. And those patterns didn’t come from nowhere. They were shaped by an environment where emotions were loud, safety felt inconsistent, and my internal world was never fully met with understanding.

Holding Love and Truth at the Same Time

What’s important for me to say is that I love my family dearly. I truly did have a great childhood in so many ways. But both things can’t exist at once.

I can be grateful and acknowledge the ways my mental health was impacted. I can love my family and wish that someone had paid closer attention to the signs of my neurodivergence.

Often, I wonder how different things might have been if someone had noticed sooner. If my sensitivity had been understood instead of dismissed, if my emotional depth had been supported instead of overlooked. It wouldn’t have erased the struggles, but it might’ve helped me feel less alone inside them.

What I’ve Come to Understand

My family may have helped shape the way I think, feel, and navigate the world, but in an unexpected way, they helped me understand who I am.

I am sensitive, deeply emotional, anxious, and calm all at the same time.

For me, healing has meant unlearning shame, practicing self-compassion, and reminding myself that the ways I learned to cope were once necessary. I wasn’t wrong for surviving the way I did.

Family dynamics can leave a lasting imprint on our mental health and sometimes it’s in ways we don’t understand until much later in life.

How have your family dynamics shaped the way you see yourself?

“Sometimes the hardest battles are fought quietly, where no one can see, yet they shape who we become.” – Unknown

#MentalHealth #Depression #Anxiety #ADHD #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