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

Being neurodivergent comes with its own trials and tribulations. To truly feel that sense of belonging is something we chase after, day in and day out. I always thought that if I act “normal,” and hid my “flaws,” then I would be accepted and feel less different. But the thing is, I want to be accepted and recognized for being my true, authentic self.

Trying to belong in that way honestly left me feeling lonelier. My goal ultimately was to just blend in with the crowd, and I did, but it didn’t feel natural, and I felt like each time I masked, I’d lose a little piece of myself.

I’ve learned that belonging doesn’t come from making yourself shrink or being easier to understand. It comes from being seen for who you really are, quirks and all. I want to be accepted because of my differences, not in spite of them.

When you’re neurodivergent, you spend so much time trying to decipher the world. For me, I study people’s reactions, mirror their tone, and their energy. I masked so well that sometimes I even forget what my unmasked self feels like.

Growing up, I didn’t understand why I felt so different. I just assumed that I was a very shy person who had some difficulties with communication and connecting with others. I definitely made friends, but not exposing who I really was on the inside. My entire goal was just to blend in and not be noticed for my “oddities.” But that made me feel so incredibly lonely and isolated that I lost my sense of self.

Belonging feels exhausting after essentially holding your breath for years. It’s sitting with someone who doesn’t flinch when you need some quiet time, someone who doesn’t judge your pacing and fidgeting, and someone who doesn’t take things personally when you cancel plans because your brain is just too tired for people that day.

The real belonging that lasts, starts with finding yourself. I know that when I stopped trying to keep up with neurotypical expectations and started honoring what actually worked for me, felt liberating.

I’ve realized that the more I accept myself, the more I attract people who do too. I want to be around people who reach out with understanding, not judgment. People who don’t need me to explain myself on why I am the way that I am. They just know. With people like that, I don’t feel broken, I feel whole.

Belonging, I’ve learned, doesn’t happen when the world finally makes space for you.

It happens when you stop trying to squeeze yourself into spaces that were never meant to hold you.

“Belonging starts with self-acceptance. Your level of belonging, in fact, can never be greater than your level of self-acceptance.” - Brené Brown

#Neurodiversity #MentalHealth #ADHD #AutismSpectrumDisorder

I never learned how to be a friend in the way people expect.

So I give things.

Little offerings.

Snacks, coffee, books, a plant,

pieces of myself wrapped in gestures of care.

I do it without thinking. It’s the language my heart learned before words.

I thought kindness was the language of belonging.

I thought if I gave enough, maybe someone would open a window,

just a crack,

and let me in.

But they didn’t.

They took the gifts.

They smiled, said thank you,

and left me standing outside,

hands still full of love I didn’t know how to spend.

Later, I heard the laughter.

My name, my awkwardness,

the way I tried too hard, cared too loudly, loved too obviously.

They called it strange.

They called it unnatural.

But I was never cruel.

I was never false.

And if you’re like me,

if you love too visibly,

if you hand people pieces of your heart hoping they’ll understand,

please, listen.

You don’t need to trade your warmth for entry.

You don’t need to prove you’re worthy of care.

People will take what they don’t understand,

and they will call it too much.

Protect your warmth.

Guard it like a small fire cupped in your palms.

Let it burn for you first,

and for those who meet you gently.

The right ones won’t take it.

They’ll sit beside you, quietly,

and glow with you.

#Autism #ADHD #AutismAcceptance #adhdawareness #Neurodiversity #Masking #unmasking #MentalHealthAwareness #youareenough #pebbling

Lazy days make me feel both rested and unproductive. Some days, slowing down and having some quiet time to relax is peaceful and makes me feel like I’m exactly where I should be. Other times, rest feels…restless. My mind tells me I should be doing something productive instead of lying around doing nothing. It’s uncomfortable to be in that in-between zone of feeling both at the same time.

For me, it feels like this internal tug-of-war between my body telling me to slow down, while my brain is shouting for me to keep going. I feel such a strong sense of guilt on lazy days because I was taught by society that laziness equates to weakness. So, I’m always thinking that I’m less than or undeserving of rest. But I’ve learned that it’s essential for my mental health, and I’ve been trying to care and nurture that.

I’ve been trying to view lazy days as restorative ones. It’s not a waste of time or anything to be ashamed of. Since I’ve had such a hard time in the past struggling with these feelings, I’ve finally decided to try to see rest in a more positive light. I honestly don’t even like using the word “lazy” at all because of the correlation to weakness, and I think we should debunk this myth.

Honestly, rest is strength. I’m recognizing my limits instead of pushing myself day in and day out to do more just for the sake of societal expectations. I’ve been putting my best food forward and doing things at my own pace, and I’m learning to trust that’s enough. If I’m in desperate need of rest, I no long blame myself for slowing down.

“Rest isn’t a reward for doing enough. It’s a right — because you’re human.”-Unknown

#MentalHealth #ADHD #Neurodiversity