neurodiversity

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

Standing there, anxiously rubbing my hands together, I froze in silence. A million thoughts swirled in my mind, but I couldn’t translate them into words. Intense anxiety and sensory overload led me down a path to exhaustion as I tried to socialize. All I could do was stay silent, even though my mind wanted to scream. I felt alert but numb, present yet elsewhere in spirit. My mind was up and down, left and right, running in circles. Everything felt heightened, intense, and extreme, like feeling everything and nothing all at once. That constant back-and-forth is exhausting.

This is what it’s like living with AUDHD — the overlap of ADHD and Autism. It feels like having two operating systems running at the same time, constantly tugging in opposite directions. My ADHD wants movement, stimulation, and change. My Autism wants comfort, safety, and routine. I want to go out, explore, and do something new — even if it’s just being alone somewhere else — but I also want to stay home, where things feel familiar and predictable. There’s rarely any middle ground.

Growing up, school was difficult. I’d drift off during class, struggling to focus, needing to see and write things down to understand them. Social situations confused me. I didn’t know what to say, how to act, or when it was my turn to speak. I remember trying to join group projects, only to freeze and retreat into my notebook, doodling swirls and losing myself in thoughts no one else could see. At the same time, I had intense interests I could lose myself in for hours — like building elaborate imaginary worlds or meticulously organizing my book collection. I didn’t know it then, but these were early signs of both ADHD and Autism. I just thought I didn’t fit in.

It wasn’t until adulthood that I finally discovered AUDHD. Receiving my diagnosis gave me a name for everything I’d experienced. What I had long thought were flaws were actually answers I’d been searching for. Even with a name, living with AUDHD is intense. My mind constantly plays tug-of-war, and I often feel overwhelmed or unsure which part of me will take control. Sometimes I withdraw entirely, letting the day slip away under the weight of mixed emotions. I’ll spend hours scrolling or pacing, feeling restless yet wanting nothing at all — caught between extremes that never seem to meet.

Social situations remain draining. I crave connection, yet I feel awkward, anxious, and lost. I often retreat to corners, just listening while everything goes on around me. It’s more comfortable to sit in silence — unless I feel a deep connection with someone. Then, for a fleeting moment, I’ll open up in ways that feel natural and genuine, sharing a joke or story I never thought I’d voice. On the outside, I appear calm, capable, and put together. Inside, my mind is crowded and loud. Emotions swing from intense to numb. Overthinking, sensory overwhelm, and constant mental noise are exhausting, and most people don’t see it.

Still, there’s beauty in AUDHD. I notice details others overlook — the way sunlight hits a leaf, the texture of a page in a favorite book, or the subtle emotion in someone’s expression. I can deeply focus on what matters to me, whether it’s creating, researching, or immersing myself in a passion. I feel empathy and creativity in ways that others might not understand. Living with AUDHD has taught me resilience, self-awareness, and compassion — for myself and for others.

I’m learning to coexist with both parts of myself, to honor the push and pull without letting either dominate. I journal, I create small routines, and I give myself permission to rest when I need it. Living with AUDHD has shown me that my brain doesn’t need to follow a standard rhythm. I’m not broken. I’m different, and that difference is worth honoring.

How do you navigate the tension between different parts of yourself? What makes your unique rhythm worth embracing?

#MentalHealth #ADHD #AutismSpectrumDisorder #Autism #AutismSpectrum #Neurodiversity #Anxiety #Depression

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