neurodiversity

There was a moment where I just sat there staring at the “publish” button, and I didn’t click it right away. I kept rereading what I wrote, overthinking it, wondering if I should take parts out or make it less personal.

Because lately, I feel like I’ve been very open and vulnerable about my feelings.

Usually, I never like for anyone to see my deeply personal writing. But, with newfound confidence in sharing my stories with you all, I felt safe enough to do so.

Even then, it still felt like a risk. It’s always a risk putting yourself out there—for judgement, criticism, rejection—and that’s something that I’ve feared my whole life.

And honestly, that fear didn’t just show up recently. Even when I was in college studying journalism, that same feeling followed me everywhere.

I was too afraid to share my thoughts or my writing in general. I always felt like I couldn’t handle any negative feedback, because it would sit with me. It would genuinely hurt my feelings and make me greatly doubt myself.

And it did.

I remember one class required us to actually get up in front of the class and read what we wrote.

Needless to say, at the time, I just couldn’t handle it.

I couldn’t handle the fear of public speaking, let alone sharing something personal.

So I dropped the class.

And even now, that moment still stays with me. It still kind of haunts me, because it changed the trajectory of my education. That moment isn’t one that I’m proud of.

But at the same time, it’s part of my story.

Looking back, I went through my whole school career undiagnosed and unmedicated. I don’t know how I did, but I did.

And because of that, that wasn’t a risk I’m proud of either.

But still, I know who I am now.

Or at least, I’m starting to.

And I’m trying to embrace that in a way I never really did before.

So when I say I found the courage to put myself out there with my writing, I really mean it.

Because for me, this isn’t small. This is years of fear, self-doubt, and holding everything in… slowly starting to loosen its grip.

And eventually, I clicked “publish.”

And I must say, it’s been so therapeutic, so fulfilling, so positive in my life that it brought forth a change in myself.

That doesn’t mean it’s been perfect.

Yes, I’ve been criticized for my writing (by an ex-friend), and that still stings.

But still, I keep going.

Because here, I’m not trying to be perfect.

I’m not offering professional advice.

I’m simply sharing raw, vulnerable reflections that have happened in my life and shaped who I am.

And more than anything, it always makes me feel good when I make a connection with others out there who resonate.

Because it helps me feel less alone.

So no… I don’t regret hitting “publish.”

Even if it scared me.

Even if it still does sometimes.

Because for once, I didn’t let fear stop me.

I let myself be seen anyway.

What is something you’ve been afraid to share—and what might happen if you let yourself be seen anyway?

“Everything you’ve ever wanted is on the other side of fear.” — George Addair

#MentalHealth #Anxiety #Neurodiversity #AutismSpectrumDisorder #MightyTogether

There have been so many circumstances in my life where I didn’t take action, but I wish I had. For me, I’ve been a pushover for most of my life. I let people take advantage of my kindness, my generosity, and my care. I don’t know what it is about me that made me this way, but it’s always affected me and my self-esteem

I’ve been the supportive one, the shoulder for people to cry on, and the one who offers good advice but never takes it myself. I’ve been there for others through thick and thin, regardless of whether or not I’ve been taken advantage of.

I remember one time when a friend of mine had me drive all over town to pick up some items. I initially didn’t feel like going and doing that, but I never want to let a friend down, so I did it. It turns out I ended up driving a very long distance just to satisfy his needs.

When we got to one destination, we were there for hours. I was led to believe it would only take a few minutes. So there I was, stuck. I couldn’t just leave him.

And the thing that shocked me was that I didn’t get one thank you for it.

In that moment, I wish that I would’ve stuck up for myself. I wish I would’ve expressed my feelings of being used for their own gain. But no, I stayed quiet, sucked it up, and never said a word about it.

Today, I wouldn’t let that fly. After so many years of playing second fiddle to everything, I now stand my ground and use my voice. I’m no longer fearful of doing that. It’s a change within myself that I never thought would come to fruition. I think I finally reached a breaking point and just refused to be stepped all over. It’s not who I am anymore, and I’m proud of that.

So, I would’ve handled that situation differently. I would’ve told my friend that I didn’t appreciate being misled on that little venture. What I thought was going to be quick ended up taking forever—the whole day, in fact. I would’ve told him that I wanted to leave the moment I found out it would take longer, because I sat there miserably, just waiting and waiting.

And most of all, I would’ve demanded a thank you. A thank you for driving all over town, for waiting for him to finish whatever errand he had me on, and for being used because I was the only one at the time with a car.

I’ve learned so much about myself recently, and I’ve noticed how much bolder I am. How much stronger I am than I ever thought possible. I couldn’t be prouder of myself for using my voice when I feel taken advantage of.

Sure, I’ve lost friendships in the process of standing up for myself, but I’ve realized it’s okay to let those friendships go because they never cared about me to begin with.

I used to care deeply about losing any of my friends. But a recent experience opened my eyes and made me see, perhaps for the first time, what a real friendship actually is. It’s a two-way street, and I grew tired of one-sided relationships. I’m done.

My healing journey has led me down a path of self-acceptance and a newfound confidence. I’m forever grateful that I no longer fear confrontation. I tell someone how I feel, and if they don’t accept it… goodbye.

Sometimes the hardest part isn’t what happened—it’s what we didn’t say. But growth is realizing we don’t have to stay that version of ourselves.

Where in your life are you ready to take action instead of staying silent?

“Courage starts with showing up and letting ourselves be seen.” — Brené Brown

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #ADHDInGirls #Autism #Autism #Anxiety #MightyTogether

A quiet reflection on what it feels like to be physically present, but mentally somewhere else—and the slow process of finding your way back.

There I am, sitting in a meeting, trying to pay close attention to what is being said—but my mind slowly drifts. It happens so automatically that I barely notice it at first. Like I’ve slipped into autopilot without realizing it.

Thoughts start to take over. Completely off topic. I think about what I want for dinner. How I want to spend my weekend. Uninvited memories that slip into every corner of my mind.

And in that moment—along with many others, if I’m being honest—I realize I’m there in the room, but my brain is elsewhere.

This happens quite frequently. No matter how hard I try to stay in the present, my mind decides it’s bored and would rather move on to something more stimulating. It usually ends up being a daydream of sorts, where I imagine my life as something different than what it is.

I’ve noticed just how difficult it can be to stay in the moment. To listen and respond without losing my train of thought. My mind can’t help but meander to places that feel scattered and in-between. Sometimes I reflect on happy moments, and other times I drift into places that feel heavier—emotional, sensitive, and hard to sit with. I try to avoid going there, but I never really know where my mind is going to take me.

Just the other day, I was in the middle of a conversation that was light-hearted and intriguing, but still, my mind wouldn’t stay with it. I was trying so intently to listen to every word and fully absorb it, but the moment I went in for my response, it fell apart the second it left my tongue.

I’d completely lost my train of thought.

I had to stop, apologize, and admit that I didn’t know where I was going with it.

In moments like that, it feels like I’ve stepped out of the conversation without meaning to—like I’ve left the room while my body stayed behind.

I’ve spent a lot of time wondering why this happens. Why it’s so hard for me to stay present. Why my mind always drifts somewhere else, even when I want to be fully there.

I want people to understand that there are moments where I am fully involved—listening, present, able to respond. But a lot of the time, I’m off in my own world.

Living on autopilot has made me realize that even though I’m physically there, mentally I’m not as involved as I’d like to be. Sometimes I can barely feel my body being present either. It’s like I’m sitting in the room, but I’m not fully inside myself.

There’s a kind of haziness to it. A feeling that’s hard to describe—like a rush of overwhelm mixed with anxiety. My heart starts pounding, my mind goes foggy, and everything feels uncertain. It’s like I’ve been stunned for a moment, trying to stay clear-headed while everything inside me feels scattered.

I think part of it comes from how anxious I can be. When I feel put on the spot or expected to stay fully focused, something in me starts to shut down instead. I falter. I drift.

It becomes this cycle of trying to stay present and then slipping out of the moment anyway.

I don’t think I chose this on purpose. I think at some point, it just became easier to drift than to fully feel everything. I’ve always had a hard time sitting with certain thoughts or emotions, especially the ones that feel overwhelming. So instead, my mind moves away from them.

And over time, that drifting just became automatic.

Instead of trying to solve it, I’m learning to notice it.

To catch the moment before I disappear too far into my own head. Not to judge myself for it or force myself to stay, but just to recognize it for what it is.

I’m not always able to pull myself back right away. Sometimes I still feel distant, still half-present. But even noticing it feels like something.

Even though I’ve struggled with this for most of my life, I’m starting to realize that awareness might be where it begins.

I may still have the brain fog, the scattered thoughts, the moments where I lose track—but that doesn’t mean I’m not capable. People still show up for me, and I show up for them.

So I have to believe I’m doing something right. I’m trying not to be ashamed of it anymore. Not to judge myself every time I drift.

I just remind myself—I might have left for a minute, but I can come back.

And that’s enough right now.

When do you notice yourself slipping into autopilot the most—and what does it feel like in your body when you do?

“Wherever you are, be there totally.” — Eckhart Tolle

#MentalHealth #ADHD #ADHDInGirls #Neurodiversity #MightyTogether #AutismSpectrum #Anxiety

What do you do when someone takes advantage of your kind heart? It’s a question that has been circling in my mind lately. I didn’t realize I was experiencing emotional abuse in a friendship until I began to notice a pattern: after every interaction, I was left feeling confused, dismissed, and unsure of myself.

I recently went through an experience where I was lied to, manipulated, gaslit, emotionally neglected, and undermined. For someone like me, that kind of dynamic is deeply destabilizing. It feels like standing under a harsh light with nowhere to turn—visible in all the wrong ways, exposed to judgment, and left to absorb rejection as if it is proof of something wrong within you.

I’ve been here before.

In relationships, in friendships, even in passing connections with people who never stayed long enough to truly know me. I used to tolerate what I now recognize as emotional abuse because leaving felt heavier than staying. I accepted distortion, silence, ego, and manipulation because it seemed safer than the emptiness I imagined would follow if I walked away. And I told myself, quietly, that having people like that was still better than having no one at all.

But emotional abuse rarely announces itself clearly.

It doesn’t always arrive as cruelty you can point to. More often, it is erosion. Subtle invalidation. Conversations that leave you confused rather than understood. Feelings dismissed until you begin to second-guess whether you are allowed to have them at all. Words that are bent just enough to make you doubt your own memory. Silence that replaces accountability.

And over time, that confusion settles into something heavier.

You stop trusting your reactions. You start rehearsing your words before you speak. And you begin to measure yourself against someone else’s shifting emotional landscape. And without realizing it, you begin to disappear from your own life.

Over time, that pattern doesn’t just hurt—it becomes emotional abuse. It reshapes your sense of reality and makes you question your own inner world.

For me, friendship has always been where I try to anchor myself. My close friends mean everything to me because they see me without requiring performance. They allow me to exist as I am. But there is one friendship I’ve carried my entire life that never felt safe in the same way.

Even with years between us, I never fully felt at ease in her presence. She is someone who fills space easily, who speaks over silence rather than sitting with it. I learned early to stay small around her, to keep my thoughts folded inward. And for a long time, I mistook that adaptation for peace.

Until I couldn’t anymore.

When I finally reached out to her, I did so hoping for understanding. Instead, I was met with absence. Hours passed. Then silence became explanation: she had fallen asleep. But I had already done what was hardest for me—I had been honest. I had opened a door I don’t often open.

When I tried again, explaining that the silence was painful, the dynamic shifted. My words were returned to me altered, reframed, turned into evidence against me. Suddenly I was no longer expressing hurt—I was causing it. There was no accountability. No recognition. Only reversal.

And I remember thinking: how does a conversation become a defense?

What began as an attempt at clarity became something else entirely. A rupture. And in that rupture, the language turned sharp. The same places she had always known in me—the places I try to protect—became the points of impact. I was insulted, reduced, and spoken to in ways that did not feel like disagreement, but dismissal.

I was left with something that felt less like conflict and more like damage.

In that exchange, I was called delusional. I was called stupid. I was told I was the problem.

And what hurt most was not only what was said, but how easily it was said—how quickly care dissolved into contempt.

She told me my understanding was invalid because I do not hold a psychology degree. She dismissed my writing, the one space where I try to make sense of my inner world, and called it fraudulent. But my blog has never been an authority. It has only ever been a record of lived experience—a place where I try to translate what I have survived into something understandable, at least to myself.

To have that space ridiculed felt like something quietly breaking.

Because emotional abuse often works like that. It doesn’t only attack what is said—it undermines the legitimacy of the person speaking.

I’m aware that I’m sensitive. I feel things deeply and sometimes struggle to hold them lightly. And when that sensitivity is met not with care, but with distortion, it doesn’t just hurt in the moment—it lingers. It settles into self-perception.

She is neurodivergent too, and I have always tried to communicate my rejection sensitivity openly, in the hope that it would create understanding rather than harm. But understanding was not what I was met with.

There is a difference between disagreement and harm. Between misunderstanding and erosion. And I am learning to no longer confuse the two.

I don’t take that kind of dynamic with me anymore.

Something in me has shifted—quietly, but permanently. I speak now when something feels wrong. I no longer stay silent to preserve comfort at the cost of myself. And if that means some connections do not survive my boundaries, then so be it.

Because a relationship that requires me to abandon myself in order to maintain it is not a safe one.

I am learning that effort is not the same as reciprocity. That kindness is not a contract for endurance. And that being deeply feeling does not mean I am meant to be deeply tolerated without care.

I am tired of emotional abuse—not only naming it, but living inside of it.

So I am choosing differently now. Even when it feels heavy. Even when it is unresolved. And even when part of me still looks back.

Healing, I am learning, is not certainty. It is return. A slow, repeated coming back to oneself after being pulled away.

And I keep returning to one question: Why do I feel so small in a place where I was supposed to feel safe?

Maybe the answer is not something I need to justify anymore. Maybe it is something I already know.

After interacting with this person, do I feel more like myself—or less like myself?

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” — Eleanor Roosevelt

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Loneliness #ADHD #EmotionalAbuse #AutismSpectrumDisorder #Anxiety

A couple of years ago, I made a decision that ended up changing the direction of my life, even though I didn’t realize it at the time.

I went to an ADHD conference.

When I got there, I was immediately overwhelmed by the amount of people inside the hotel. I was also extremely nervous to meet my aunt because I hadn’t seen her in years, but once we saw each other, I started to calm down. I think it was all of the anxiety I had already built up in my mind. I’d already overthought every scenario that could happen. That’s what I always do—think and think about things before they even occur. It’s exhausting.

We went to our first seminar, a keynote speaker who shared his personal experience of having ADHD. I of course chose to sit in the back in case I needed an escape. The chairs were so close together that I started to feel trapped. I began sweating, rubbing my hands together incessantly, and my legs began to shake. I’m always nervous that I’ll cough or choke on my water and cause a scene.

But I sat there quietly, and I made it through.

The seminar—and the ones I attended after—were incredibly inspiring. It made me feel seen for perhaps the first time in my life. There were people who shared parts of their stories, along with others who were there for advocacy and support for someone they knew. It felt like a camaraderie, a community of people coming together to celebrate neurodivergence.

I made some connections with people who were life coaches, and our conversations were so enthralling. Some even told me that I should consider a career as a life coach. That made me pause—the compliment made me bashful and emotional, my eyes swelling with a slight tear or two. In that moment, I felt accepted and acknowledged for strengths I just couldn’t see in myself.

After having been a part of that experience, I made the decision to focus on my mental health for the very first time. I chose to embrace myself for who I am and learn to love the parts of me that I once considered to be flaws.

That decision led me to something I never thought would ever happen to me—I started using my voice.

I speak up and stand my ground. I set boundaries so I don’t exceed my limits. I’ve become more open and vulnerable with others about my feelings. I became somewhat fearless.

Going to that conference was a turning point in my life. It inspired me to write again, to learn more about neurodiversity, and to engage with others who share similar experiences. That’s how Embrace the Unseen was born.

My blog has turned into my haven of comfort. It’s been a freeing experience sharing my stories, and when people tell me they can resonate and feel seen, I feel validated, accepted, and no longer invisible.

It gave me my voice back.

And above all, I chose myself—and that is the most important thing I’ve ever done.

What is one moment in your life where you felt truly seen—and how did it change the way you see yourself?

“Sometimes the smallest decisions end up changing the entire direction of your life.” -Unknown

#ADHD #MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Anxiety #MightyTogether

I don’t know how to feel things halfway.

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Loneliness

Dear Friend,

It shouldn’t have ended.

All I wanted was to be heard.

But you left me

during a time when I needed you most.

Now I’m left grieving a friendship that still exists—but not in my life anymore.

There’s a pain that’s indescribable.

I feel a deep sadness having to grieve someone who is still there.

It’s hard to stop thinking about it—

because it consumes my every thought.

I remember our childhood.

The first day we met, we saw each other.

We grabbed hands on the first day of school

and silently told one another,

“We’ve got this.”

We can make it through together.

Countless sleepovers.

Soccer games.

Birthday parties.

We rarely left each other’s side.

There were years where we drifted,

but we always remained close.

We went through a lot together,

and I thought we understood one another.

The past six years, we formed a stronger bond.

We saw each other nearly every week.

And now, there’s an emptiness—

a hollowness without you in my life.

Discovering What Brings Me Peace

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Discovering What Brings Me Peace

You still shine in my eyes.

You still hold a piece of my heart.

And for that reason, I can’t let you go—

but I will if I must.

I’m sorry for my approach,

but I felt hurt by your silence.

I have a lot of big emotions,

and my sensitivity makes things harder sometimes.

I hope one day we can apologize to one another.

I hope one day you’ll have it in your heart

to have a conversation.

Until then, know this:

I love you, and I always will.

You were a great friend throughout the years,

and I could never replace you.

My love knows no bounds.

It’s endless, even for people who leave.

I’ll hold on to memories of the past

and be hopeful for the future.

“It is so hard to forget pain, but it is even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness.” — Chuck Palahniuk

#MightyPoets #MentalHealth #Grief #Neurodiversity #MightyTogether

There I am, sitting in a room where conversations are flowing, laughter is filling the air, and somehow, I was on the outside of it all. Sure, I nodded along, smiled, and responded when spoken to, but on the inside, I felt an ache—a loneliness that never seems to leave me.

It’s a feeling that tells me no one really sees me. For a long time, I’ve felt loneliness in the company of others. I could be with friends, with family, and still feel completely invisible. It feels like an internal emptiness that my mind feeds off of, and I spiral with thoughts that consume me. I think of the worst-case scenarios in most social situations, and it’s truly me that gets in my way.

I can’t help but feel lonely. I’ve spent most of my life alone. Sometimes I even enjoy the solitude. It gives me space, away from others, to just be myself and not have to mask all the time. I’m not going to lie—even with close friends and family, I still mask. It has always been my way of protection in such a loud world where I feel like I don’t belong. And sometimes, that isolation I’m drawn to becomes so lonely that it’s painful.

I’ve been used to being the listener, but I feel like I’m never the one heard. I’ve opened up, been vulnerable, and still got rejected. So now, I’ve built thick iron walls that are impenetrable. No one can get in unless there’s a level of trust.

When you feel invisible long enough, it changes you. Personally, I start to question my place in people’s lives. I start to think if my voice even matters at all. I’ll replay situations over and over in my mind, wondering if I was being too emotional. I have such big feelings, and it’s hard to manage them because I’ve been hurt so many times before.

I start to believe I’m just a problem. I’ve self-sabotaged because I make too many assumptions. I assume that people tolerate me. I assume that they don’t like me deep down. Overthinking everything is one of the loneliest places to be. You doubt yourself and start to feel like you are just an inconvenience.

Mostly, I’ve stayed quiet because it feels safer than using my voice. It makes me feel like less of a burden. I’ve convinced myself it’s easier that way rather than risk being overlooked again.

There’s so much noise inside my head when I’m with people. I keep wondering if being quiet is too uncomfortable for them, or if being too vocal is too much. I try to keep a balance between my quietness and my communication, but I still feel sensitive to nearly everything. My rejection sensitivity is heavy and eats away at me nearly every day.

It’s a constant disconnect between how I feel and how I’m perceived. And that’s where the loneliness lives. Heavy. Exhausting. Silent. Because I appear fine on the outside, but inside I feel like it’s a disaster.

I’m slowly learning that I’m not invisible. I do have people in my life who truly see me and don’t judge me. The right people don’t make you question your worth. They don’t make you feel like you have to fight to be acknowledged. They don’t leave you wondering if you matter.

I know now that I was never meant to disappear just to fit into someone else’s world. My loneliness may make me question my place in the world, but it doesn’t define my worth. I’m still here—feeling, trying, and that alone counts for more than I realize.

When do you feel most invisible?

“Loneliness does not come from having no people around you, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to you.” — Carl Jung

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #AutismSpectrumDisorder #Loneliness #lonely

I finally spoke up…

and somehow I became the problem.

I knew you my whole life.

I showed up for you—every time.

Listened to everything.

Made space for you

like it was second nature.

But when it was my turn,

you weren’t there.

So I did something scary—

I was honest about how you hurt me.

And instead of listening,

you flipped it on me.

Blamed me.

Belittled me.

Made me question myself.

I sat there overthinking,

waiting for your response—

on your terms, of course.

And when it came,

it wasn’t care.

It was manipulation.

That’s when I realized:

I wasn’t losing a friend.

I was letting go of someone

who never knew how to be one.

“The friendship ended where silence used to live.”

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #MightyPoets