neurodiversity

One thing that I’m slowly learning is just how much damage my inner critic has done to me over the years.

That voice inside is relentless. It tells me that I’m worthless, useless, and a burden to the world. It critiques my every move, my every action, my every thought, as if I’m constantly being evaluated. Everything feels like there’s evidence stacked against me.

This has been with me for most of my life. In my mind, there’s constant judgment, constant self-surveillance. The thing is, I don’t just experience things, I analyze and punish myself for how I experience them. I attack my character, my personality, my intentions. I tell myself that I’m essentially just a waste of space. It’s detrimental.

Self-comparison only fuels this fire. I’ve learned how harmful it is, yet it’s something I fall into easily. Watching others exude such confidence, ease, or certainty makes my inner critic louder. It tells me that I’m behind in life and broken in ways that I can’t fix. And once I see that narrative come into the picture, it’s hard to see anything else.

The truth is, I haven’t thought very highly of myself for a long time. I don’t just criticize what I do, I criticize who I am. The way I look, the way I talk, the way I speak, it makes me cringe sometimes. I walk with my eyes down, shoulders tense, as though I’ve been placed in a corner, quietly apologizing for existing at all. Shame lives in my posture, not just my thoughts.

But something changed with my newfound understanding of neurodivergence.

It didn’t erase the inner critic, but it gave me context. For the first time, I wasn’t just “bad” or “failing,” or “lazy.” I’d been walking through life believing that I was indeed a problem to be corrected. I had been navigating a world that wasn’t built for the way my mind works, without knowing why everything felt so hard.

I’ve started to recognize my strengths—my empathy, my insight, my sensitivity, my depth. I started to notice that I do have something to offer, even if it doesn’t look like what the world typically rewards. I’ve become a little more compassionate, patient, and a little less cruel to myself in moments when I struggle.

Still, I’m unlearning a lifetime of negative-self, and it’s not easy to do.

When you’ve been stuck in that pattern for so long, it becomes familiar, almost automatic. The inner critic appears before you can stop it, repeating old habits that once felt like protection but now only cause harm. Some days I can catch it, but other days, it catches me first.

Trying to silence the inner critic doesn’t mean pretending I suddenly love myself. It means noticing the attack and choosing, when I can, not to pile more shame on top of it. It means reminding myself that this voice was shaped by years of misunderstanding—not truth.

I think acknowledging that my inner critic exists, and that it isn’t me, feels like a meaningful step toward self-compassion and self-acceptance. I believe that’s where the healing starts. Not in silencing my voice entirely, but by choosing not to believe everything it says.

How does your inner critic show up?

“Talk to yourself like you would to someone you love.”— Brené Brown

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

Most of the time, I keep it all together. I don’t like drama or confrontation of any sort, so I keep the peace, keep it calm, maintain a vibey flow. I put on a smile when I’m feeling down. I manage because I don’t want to let my walls down and let others see my pain. I never want to burden anyone with my problems, so I keep them tucked away.

I’m also not comfortable expressing myself, even with my closest friends, because I can’t get through a sentence without tears welling up. I just don’t like showing that side of myself.

When Everything Boils Over

But there are times when everything boils to the surface. When I crack. When I explode into an array of emotions.

It happened just the other day during an intense RSD episode. I took an idea, ran with it, and ended up harming others and myself. I made this whole big thing out of nothing, and now I’m left feeling embarrassed, guilty for jumping to conclusions, and hurting the people closest to me by calling them out.

“Most of the time I keep it together. But underneath it all, there’s this underlying exhaustion.”

Exhaustion from trying to keep up appearances, trying to be put together, trying to hold myself in check while my mind and body are carrying a heavy load.

The Weight of Depression

Lately, I’ve been going through a major bout of depression. I don’t even know what triggered it—whether it’s seasonal, situational, or the weight of too many unresolved stressors piling up at once. My habit is to push it all to the side, essentially erase it from my brain until it all reaches the surface.

And when that happens, I’m forced to confront it. My emotions go all out of whack. I cry. I scream. I meltdown. I freeze. I feel everything at once.

It’s a major heavy load to carry. I feel like I’m always walking around with a rock tied to my shoulders. I’m always tense, always doubtful, always anxious.

And yet, I still manage to keep it together. I keep it together because I don’t want to burden anyone. I keep it together because I don’t want people to see how much I’m struggling. I keep it together because that’s what I’ve always done.

The Cost of Keeping It Together

But it comes at a cost. Holding it together is a vicious cycle of “pretend I’m okay” while being emotionally and physically exhausted. It’s carrying so much inside and rarely letting it out until it all erupts. And even then, even in the explosion, it feels messy and hard to handle.

This is the quiet cost of always holding it together.

It’s not something that people notice because from the outside I look fine, capable, calm, functioning. But inside, there’s a constant effort to stay composed, regulated, and to keep everything from spilling over.

I’m learning that holding it together all the time is more about survival than strength. And surviving this way leaves very little room for rest. It leaves me holding everything alone, even when I don’t need to.

Learning to Loosen the Grip

I don’t suddenly know how to let my guard down or express myself without tears. But I’m starting to recognize the pattern.

Maybe the work isn’t about falling apart or fixing it all at once. Maybe it’s more about loosening my grip just a little and stop pretending I’m okay when I’m not.

Because constantly holding it together has a cost, and I’m learning that I don’t have to pay it alone.

Where in your life are you holding it together at the expense of your own well-being?

“You don’t have to control your thoughts. You just have to stop letting them control you.” – Dan Millman

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

What is the greatest gift someone could give you?

I believe the greatest gift that you could receive from someone is their love and appreciation.

The word love is tossed around like a ragdoll. You have people constantly saying they love you, but do they really when their actions don’t meet their words? When I say I love you, I mean it with my whole heart. Sure, I say it frequently to my friends and family, but that’s because I genuinely feel that emotion toward them. I don’t say it just to say it.

From my experiences, I’ve had people in my life tell me they love me, but I don’t feel the depth or emotion behind it. Maybe there is, and I’m just misconstruing it all, but I’m intuitive enough to know when someone means it or not.

Because of this, I’m also the type of person that seeks validation at every corner. I want to know that I’m included, that I belong, and that I’m worthy of love and appreciation. I need to hear words of affirmation, a long hug that feels real, and maybe a compliment or two.

Because of my rejection sensitivity, hearing that the love I give is reciprocated is essential for me.

I’ve never experienced having a partner who loved me for me. It’s an incredibly lonely place to watch others thrive, be in healthy relationships, and notice the strong amount of love shared. And while I honestly love to see love, I yearn for it and want it for myself.

Over time, that longing has made me feel unlovable. I’ve had more situationships than real ones—ones who never take the leap and actually want to date me, and instead just use me for their own gain. I know this to be true because there always seem to be other people in line waiting to make me feel worthless.

In turn, I’ve made myself vulnerable and more susceptible to hurtful situations. I’ve placed myself in the category of being unworthy of love. I think very negatively about myself and am constantly wondering why true love is so hard to obtain. I pretend like I don’t care because I know that they don’t, but deep down, it’s the total opposite.

Because of that, I like to hear words of reassurance to make me feel seen. Otherwise, I’m still the invisible girl—standing in a circle with people, having them step in front of me, and quite frankly, all over me.

At the end of the day, I still believe that the greatest gift you could receive is to love and be loved. To feel admired and appreciated among those you view as close people in your life.

I think it’s important for us to show our love because, from past experiences of losing people, I tell them all of the time. Tomorrow is promised to no one, so make sure you tell the ones you love how much you appreciate them.

Where in your life do you need love to be shown, not just spoken—and what would feeling truly seen look like for you?

“To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides.” — David Viscott

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #AutismSpectrumDisorder

I experienced a heavy wave of rejection last night.

I noticed that my close friends had gathered together for what I can only assume was a New Year’s celebration. The thing is—I didn’t get an invite. The day before, I had spoken to one of them and we’d made plans to hang out. When the evening came and I hadn’t heard anything, I reached out. No response.

Fifteen minutes later, I saw a friend post an Instagram story of them all together, laughing and having a great time.

I texted again, asking about the get-together. Still nothing.

I felt incredibly hurt—overlooked, unseen, invisible. In my body, the pain was joined by rage. My immediate reaction was to cut them off entirely. That you don’t care, so I don’t care instinct kicked in hard. I wanted to go for the jugular and make them feel as hurt as I did.

But I’ve lived with RSD long enough to know how this usually goes.

It always gets turned back on me. I become the bad guy for having feelings at all.

Rejection sensitivity dysphoria doesn’t just show up in dramatic moments. It lives quietly inside everyday social dynamics. Missed invitations. Unanswered texts. A shift in tone. For many people, these moments sting and pass. But for those of us with RSD, they can feel catastrophic, as if our sense of safety, belonging, and worth is suddenly on trial. It’s not about wanting special treatment. It’s about how our nervous systems interpret perceived rejection as something deeply threatening.

I vented to other friends. I know they were trying to help, but nothing they said landed.

“Tell them how you feel.”

“They love you—they didn’t do it on purpose.”

“They probably just wanted to keep it small.”

To me, it all felt like phony bologna. If they cared, wouldn’t they have invited me?

Instead, I felt like an afterthought—or worse, not a thought at all. Like they secretly don’t like me, or maybe even loathe me. I’ve known these people for over twenty years. You’d think I’d cross their minds.

I know adulthood creates distance. Life happens. People move away. Some stay. I stayed too. But this group was once incredibly close. And now, the friends I still have here don’t seem to want to see me very often. My truest friends live out of state.

So, I’m lonely here. I’m alone. And when you’re lonely, everything feels sharper. Louder. More painful.

I know how this probably sounds to some people.

Why can’t she just get over it?

Why can’t she see it wasn’t intentional?

Believe me—I hear those thoughts too. And every time, they come back to bite me. I end up feeling foolish. Too emotional. Too reactive. The one who jumps to conclusions too fast.

Rejection sensitivity follows me everywhere. It leaves a lasting imprint. Today, I still feel hurt—and I know I’ll think about this for years. I’ve already laid there numb and crying, replaying every possible scenario. Every why. Every what if.

Now, I feel guilty. Guilty for venting. Ashamed for calling a few of them out and saying they all suck. Once again, my RSD has painted me as the villain.

I wish people understood how consuming and painful rejection sensitivity dysphoria can be. It’s real. It’s not something you can simply control or logic your way out of. My reactions are instinctual—and often turn inward in self-destructive ways before I even realize what’s happening.

RSD shows up when you least expect it. But it’s also always there, waiting—ready to crack and shatter you into a million pieces.

RSD is closely tied to ADHD and autism. I have both. So, for me, it’s ever-present. A given. I just want more control over it. and I want to think clearly without being clouded by intrusive thoughts. I want space between the trigger and the spiral.

It’s hard to live this way—especially when people don’t understand you.

Have you ever reacted strongly to feeling excluded or overlooked—and later wondered if rejection sensitivity played a role in how deeply it affected you?

“Rejection sensitivity doesn’t mean I am too much. It means my nervous system has learned to brace for loss.” – Unknown

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #ADHDInGirls #Anxiety #AutismSpectrumDisorder #Autism

Most of the time, I’ve always enjoyed being alone. I think it’s because from an early age, I often played alone. I made friends in preschool, so I had many playdates and developed more friendships over the years throughout school and such. But still, I’m an only child, so there were many times I was left to my own devices to entertain myself.

The feeling of loneliness didn’t really come until my teenage years, when I started realizing that so much solitude had made me disconnected from others. In high school, I had a hard time making friends because I was just so used to being alone, and I struggled to approach people. Eventually, I did find a close group, but it made me realize that even when I’m in the presence of others, I still feel utterly alone. I still feel this way to this day.

The thing is, I make myself hidden, unavailable, and distant. I think loneliness has always cradled me in some way. And now, I know that too much solitude can be harmful when it starts to interfere with developing friendships or relationships. I love being alone — just not actually being alone. I like having others around, even if we’re not constantly interacting.

Here are some of the lessons solitude has taught me:

-Being alone can feel safe, especially when vulnerability feels risky

-Solitude can be comforting without actually being healing

-Feeling lonely doesn’t always mean being physically alone

-Too much independence can make it harder to ask for connection

-Hiding can protect you from pain, but it can also keep you invisible

-Wanting solitude doesn’t mean you don’t want relationships

-Balance matters — alone time is healthy, isolation is not

I’m learning that solitude doesn’t have to be something I retreat into out of fear. It can be a place to rest, to reflect, and to recharge, not a permanent state of disconnection. I want to be alone without disappearing. I want presence without pressure, connection without expectation, and relationships that feel safe enough to step into.

This is still something that I’m learning how to navigate. I don’t want to abandon solitude, because it has shaped me and protected me in many ways. But I also don’t want to stay hidden inside it forever. My goal isn’t to change who I am, but to ease the distance I place between myself and others. To let solitude be a place I return from. Not a place I stay stuck in.

Where in your life are you choosing solitude — and where might you be choosing invisibility instead?

“The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.” — Michel de Montaigne

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #Depression

The biggest challenges and hurdles that occupy my life are the ones focused in areas of my mental health. For me, my greatest challenge is to be kinder to myself. I often view myself as unworthy, doubtful, and full of self-hatred. I wish that I could have a little more self-respect and self-compassion.

When you’re constantly feeling low, it’s hard not to put yourself down and compare yourself to others who you observe thriving while you’re stuck in a place of turmoil. The thing is, I don’t think very highly of myself. I’ll tell myself that I’m awkward, boring, and cold. This has held me back from forming new friendships and intimate relationships.

I’ve longed to have a significant other who genuinely loves me for me, but I have yet to find that. Constantly feeling like you’re not good enough to be loved really takes a toll on you mentally. The more I experience rejection, the more I retreat inward and build up a tough exterior. I create this barrier that shields me from potential harm, but it also keeps me trapped, away from forming deep connections. You can’t expect to find someone when you choose to stay invisible.

So, that’s my biggest challenge: to overcome self-hate and turn it into self-love. Even though this is a struggle, I truly have grown so much over the past year, and I’m fairly close to seeing myself in a new light. It’s just hard to unlearn years of self-doubt, rejection sensitivity, and constant negative thinking.

Some days, I feel like I’m making progress. I’ll sometimes look in the mirror and actually appreciate the person staring back at me. Those often rare moments are what I hold onto. But other days, I fall back into old patterns, and my inner critic becomes deafening.

I’ve learned that self-love is something that requires patience, persistence, and daily practice. It’s about small moments where you speak kindly to yourself and acknowledge that you are enough as you are. On days when I need extra comfort, I often repeat this mantra to myself in the mirror.

I’ realizing that self-love doesn’t mean ignoring my struggles or pretending everything is alright when it isn’t. It means challenging the thoughts that tell me I’m not enough and replacing them with truths that I’ve long denied: that I’m deserving, capable, and worthy to love and be loved.

This is my goal for this year: to step into myself with compassion, slowly dismantle the armor I’ve built, and let myself be seen — quirks and all. It’s not an easy journey by any means, but it’s the most important one I’ve ever taken.

What’s one way you can be kinder to yourself today?

“You don’t need to be perfect to be worthy of love — especially your own.” – Unknown

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD

Making healthy changes isn’t about pretending the past version of you didn’t exist. It’s about acknowledging who you were, honoring what you survived, and meeting yourself exactly where you are right now.

Real change doesn’t start with shame or pressure. It starts with honesty. With noticing what worked, what didn’t, and why you coped the way you did at the time. Those choices made sense then—even if they don’t serve you now.

Growth is less about forcing yourself into a “better” version and more about building a bridge from where you are to where you want to be. One small shift. One kinder thought. One realistic step at a time.

You don’t have to rush, erase your past, or have it all figured out. Progress happens when self-compassion leads the way. Be patient with yourself—you’re learning, not failing. #MentalHealth #ADHD #ADHDInGirls #Anxiety #SubstanceRelatedDisorders #BipolarDisorder #Neurodiversity #Addiction

All it took was two words… “I know.”

Two simple syllables that she probably didn’t think twice about. Two ordinary words that anyone else might have brushed off without a second thought. But for me, those two words hit me like a punch straight to the chest.

One of my best friends was visiting from out of town. She was staying for a few days, and because we rarely get to see each other, I wanted to soak up every moment that I could. We spent time with friends, went to an event in the city, laughed, caught up, and just enjoyed each other’s company.

But the moment I said goodbye changed everything.

When we hugged, I told her how much I loved her. I probably said it a few times because I genuinely meant it and wanted her to feel it. Maybe I wanted to make up for the physical distance between visits. Maybe I wanted that reassurance without even realizing it. It could’ve been both.

And her response, said casually, almost automatically, was simply:

“I know.”

It wasn’t rude. It wasn’t dismissive, at least not intentionally. Just a mere response. But when those words hit my ears, something inside me shattered. It felt like I had exposed something precious and tender. I shared my love, my excitement, my vulnerability, and it was met with a shrug.

Or at least, that’s what my brain told me.

That’s what rejection sensitivity does. It turns an ordinary moment into an emotional earthquake.

And that small moment, that simple phrase, stuck with me. I replayed it in my mind over and over and wondered If I was being too much. I was worried that she didn’t mean it back. My brain spiraled quickly, like it always tends to do.

This is what rejection sensitivity feels like for me. It’s not about what people do. It’s about how my nervous system reacts. I feel everything so deeply, and the slightest perceived brush-off can send me into a barrage of shame, panic, and hurt.

What Rejection Sensitivity Actually Feels Like

Honestly, there isn’t a single day where I’m not affected by my rejection sensitivity. It’s something that sits with me in every interaction, every conversation, every moment where there’s even a possibility of misunderstanding.

Something as small as a car horn can send me spiraling. If someone honks at me while I’m driving, I immediately assume that I did something horribly wrong. My body reacts instantly—my heart races, my stomach twists, and this wave of embarrassment washes over me. I take it personally, even though I rationally know it’s just a noise.

That’s the exhausting part. My mind understands logic, but my body doesn’t.

Living with rejection sensitivity feels like you’re walking on eggshells, every emotion trembling just beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest trigger. Everything touches you, and everything gets in, even things that were never meant for you.

When someone rejects an idea that I share, I feel it physically. My heart pounds through my ears, I start trembling, and a shockwave of emotion just shocks my nervous system. It all happens in a matter of seconds. It’s not because I think my idea is perfect, it’s because rejection hits in me in the most personal way possible. It hits that vulnerable part of me. The part that tells me I’m “not enough.”

Criticism is another story entirely. I don’t handle it well, and I wish I did. My reaction tends to swing in one of two directions: I either collapse inward and cry, or I burst outward in frustration because the pain is too big for my body to hold. It’s not that I don’t want to improve, it’s just that criticism feels like an attack on my entire being.

Early Lessons: Learning to Hide

Growing up, I learned rather quickly that if I stayed quiet enough, stayed small, invisible even, I could protect myself. My Quietness became my shield. I figured that if I didn’t attract attention, I couldn’t be judged. If I didn’t volunteer answers, no one could point out if I was wrong. If I kept my thoughts to myself, no could use them against me.

I remember being in elementary school, sitting in the back of the classroom, observing while my peers confidently raised their hands. Their energy was magnetic, drawing smiles and praise from teachers. I always wanted to participate, but the thought of being wrong paralyzed me. So, I stayed silent, and the let others take the spotlight. Early on, I learned to disappear into the background, thinking that my invisibility kept me safe.

One time in college, I was required to give a speech. I remember it being well thought out, well written. I had rehearsed it over and over again and memorized each word. But when it came time to present, I nearly had a panic attack. My hands were shaking, my voice was stuttering and cracking, and I started sweating profusely. While everyone else seemed to get through their speech with ease, I was the only one that had this kind of reaction.

I went home feeling so ashamed and embarrassed, thinking that my worth was tied directly to how others perceived me. That moment stayed with me. Even now, I can still feel the humiliation, the awkwardness, and the overwhelming discomfort.

But truthfully, hiding isn’t the same as healing. And while my quietness protected me from immediate judgment, it didn’t prevent the internal hurt that built up over time.

My rejection sensitivity has shaped me in ways I didn’t even realize until recently. It taught me to be a people-pleaser, to say yes to everything, to make myself constantly available so no one ever had a reason to be disappointed in me. It taught me to anticipate criticism before it happened to adjust myself so that no one ever got upset. And it took a toll on me. It drained every part of me—my energy, my confidence, my boundaries, my joy. But it was all I knew how to do.

The Need for Reassurance

I never liked to admit it, but I need reassurance. I need to know that everything is okay, that people still care, and that they still want me around. Compliments are awkward for me because I don’t know how to receive them, but on some level, I’m searching for any sign that I’m valued.

I remember a group project in high school. I did all of the research, stayed up late crafting the final presentation, and essentially carried the entire assignment on my back. My group mates assumed that because I was the quiet, agreeable one, I would just handle everything. And even though I felt taken advantage of, the people-pleaser in me couldn’t bring myself to say no.

After we presented, I felt mortified. My group mates didn’t know the material at all. I had tried to teach them, but they either didn’t grasp it or simply didn’t care. Either way, the presentation was a disaster — and somehow, I felt like it was all my fault. Even though I was the one who put in all the effort, my hard work went unnoticed, and I didn’t receive the praise and reassurance I desired.

When rejection sensitivity gets triggered, even in the smallest ways, the inner narrative in my mind becomes brutal. I assume that everyone hates me, that I messed everything up, ore that I’m not good enough. These aren’t just dramatic thoughts, they’re automatic, and they take a major toll.

RSD affects every part of my life—my friendships, my work, my communication, my self-worth. It makes me second-guess everything that I say, everything I do, and whether people actually want me around. It makes small misunderstandings feel like catastrophes. And it leads to spirals.

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#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #ADHDInGirls #Anxiety #Depression #rejection sensitivity dysphoria

Letting last year’s words rest. Listening for the voice that’s ready to emerge.

#Neurodiversity #MentalHealth

Lately, I’ve been feeling raw, like my nerves are exposed and everything touches a little too deeply. I’ve been on-edge, emotionally fragile, sensitive to the smallest shifts. Reactive. And beneath all of that… depression.

Last night, familiar shadows returned. Dark, dreary thoughts — the kind I haven’t visited in a long time — quietly slipped back into my mind. Once they were there, they multiplied. Self-critical thoughts. Intrusive spirals. A heaviness that pressed down on my chest until it felt hard to breathe. I came frighteningly close to panic, overwhelmed by my own mind.

Christmas itself wasn’t bad. I spent it with my parents, and there was comfort in that. But emotionally, something was missing. The warmth I usually feel never arrived. Instead, the day felt muted, colorless — like everything was happening behind a pane of glass. I felt flat. Drained. Exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t fix. There was a quiet, persistent thought humming in the background: let’s just get this over with. I didn’t feel like myself this Christmas.

There were several moments leading up to the holiday that seemed to chip away at me, one by one.

On Christmas Eve, a storm knocked out our power for the entire day. The house felt cold and unsettled, both literally and emotionally. That night, I went to a friend’s house, hoping a change of scenery might help. Instead, I found myself struggling to stay present. Conversations blurred. I drifted off mid-sentence, losing my train of thought, forgetting how to respond. My body felt frozen — stiff, heavy, uncooperative. I could barely talk, barely move, barely function. I left early, shame clinging to me like a second skin, replaying the night over and over, convinced I had made a fool of myself when in reality, I was simply overwhelmed.

Christmas Day followed with its own quiet ache

Normally, this is a time filled with extended family, noise, and familiar chaos. This year, we stayed home. There had been a misunderstanding — my cousins did get together, but I didn’t find out until the day of. That realization landed hard. My rejection sensitivity flared instantly, sharp and unforgiving. I felt abandoned. Overlooked. Left out in a way that felt deeply familiar.

It hurt more than I expected.

I thought I would have at least received an invitation, but when my cousin later said I could come over, the invitation felt hollow. It was too late to undo the sting. Once that sense of rejection settles in, it’s hard to shake. I didn’t have the emotional strength to show my face, to pretend I was okay when I wasn’t.

Lately, depression has been tightening its grip again. And I won’t sugarcoat this, I’m scared. I know this terrain too well. I’ve walked this path before, one that leads into a deep, dark hollow where hope feels distant and everything feels heavy. Right now, I feel like I’m standing on the edge, trying to ground myself before I slip.

I don’t have a tidy resolution. I don’t have a lesson wrapped in a bow. What I do have is honesty.

If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself in these words — the numb holidays, the social exhaustion, the sting of being left out, the quiet fear of slipping back into darkness — you’re not alone. Maybe the most powerful thing we can do right now is name what hurts and sit with it gently. Maybe community begins simply by saying, me too.

If you feel comfortable, I invite you to share your thoughts or experiences. Did this holiday season feel different for you? Have you ever felt disconnected, overwhelmed, or quietly sad when everyone else seemed to be celebrating?

“Not every holiday is filled with light — some are meant to show us where we’re still tender, and remind us we’re not alone in the quiet.” – Unknown

#MentalHealth #Depression #SeasonalDepression #Anxiety #Neurodiversity