I forgot my grocery list, but discovered the secrets of the universe
My neurodivergent brain and I are in a long-term, intense relationship.
Being neurodivergent often feels like living inside a constantly shifting firework display. One moment, I'm unraveling the quantum physics behind why particles can exist in two places at once; the next, I'm standing in the kitchen wondering why I'm holding an apple in one hand and keys in the other. It's the grocery list I made so carefully, sitting proudly on the kitchen table while I roam the store wondering if I need soap or broccoli.
And then there's the other ritual: spending 30 minutes preparing to face the harsh lights of the supermarket, slowing my breathing to keep my heart rate steady, and setting up the playlist that will drown out the background noise enough to make it bearable. I mentally rehearse the route through the store, picturing where everything is so I can move quickly, minimize choices, and avoid unnecessary interactions. I can't leave the house without my noise-cancelling headphones; the outside world is too loud and chaotic. I get quiet very easily. Conversations move too fast, and the noise drowns my thoughts, so I retreat inward. The "perfect" answers often come to me hours or even days later, when the pressure is gone and my mind is free to breathe.
When something captures my attention, the world narrows wholly and beautifully.
I dive into it like it's the only world that matters. Hours disappear in a flash. Time isn't real during a deep dive; it's just me and the intricate universe I'm living in. These hyper-focused moments are pure magic, but they come at a price. Responsibilities pile up unseen, and reentry into "normal life" feels jarring.
Jumping from thought to thought is exhilarating — until you crash into unfinished tasks, forgotten appointments, and sometimes, the harsh truth of no job to return to.
Autism brought me a different flavor of exhaustion: masking. Learning early that my natural behaviors were often "too much," "too blunt," "too weird," I built an armor. I learned to mirror, nod, and laugh at the right beats, even when I didn't fully understand the rhythm. I'm running an endless simulation — calculating, adjusting, doubting.
Peeling it off sometimes feels like taking off a too-tight costume at the end of a long performance, only to realize the audience is still watching.
I can't survive within typical systems. The traditional 9-to-5 structure crushed me for years. Autism brings sensory sensitivities, intense focus, and social exhaustion. ADHD adds a mind that refuses to move in a straight line. Together, they create a vivid, intense, deeply challenging experience in a world not designed for it. It’s a constant collision against a system that doesn't understand — a silent, exhausting resistance many of us are forced to master without ever being taught. I find joy in patterns others miss, cry at sunsets, and connect the hidden threads between ideas that seem unrelated. Curiosity isn’t an interest I pick up — it’s a current that carries me forward whether I want it to or not.
There’s a tenderness, too: seeing past other people's masks, feeling the depth of things most others brush past, and realizing how rare and fragile genuine connection is.
It’s a form of perception — a deeper kind of knowing.
A way of sensing the currents beneath the surface of things.
The long road to diagnosis
It took years before I realized my brain worked differently. For most of my life, I thought I was "bad at life" — too sensitive, too distracted, and too much.
I survived, adapted, and excelled in short bursts, but carried a quiet, persistent wrongness inside me.
Diagnosis wasn’t the final answer.
It was an invitation:
- To unlearn shame
- To understand why I moved through life differently
- To name the invisible battles I had been fighting alone for years
It gave me a map, not a cure — a way to stop blaming myself for feeling the world too much, or moving through it too chaotically. It was the starting point for a different relationship with myself — one built on compassion instead of criticism.
How I dance through life
I thrive by building a life that listens to who I am, not who I’m expected to be. I create routines that offer softness and predictability: rituals, quiet spaces, a rhythm that lets my nervous system breathe. I choose bursts of creativity over forced consistency. I allow myself to say no. I let myself move slowly and leave when the world feels too much. I choose work that aligns with my values: authenticity, creativity, curiosity, and kindness.
Without meaning, my energy collapses.
It’s a different way of noticing and caring — radical engagement with the world. But protecting it is essential.
It’s a sacred fire, not a limitless resource.
I am often tired of my brain, deeply, endlessly. There are days when the weight of masking, forgetting, and adapting is almost unbearable. There are days when I dream of a quieter mind, a softer world. But this is the mind I was given. This is the life that is mine to live.
And even in the exhaustion, there is wonder:
- In the fierce way I love
- In the beautiful, sprawling tangents, my mind creates
- In the quiet moments, I see things others miss — the glint of a small kindness, the intricate thread between two ideas, the ache and glory of simply being alive
I live in a world that overwhelms me, and still, I choose to stay curious.
I live in a body that tires easily, and still, I find ways to dance.
This isn’t resilience because I’m invincible. It’s resilience because the alternative — abandoning myself — would be a much greater loss.
If my words feel like home
Maybe you know this exhaustion too. You might recognize how small things can feel enormous, or how wonder and overwhelm can live side by side in the same breath.
If you do, know this:
You are not broken.
You are not failing at life.
You are living a life that demands more from you, yet you somehow find ways to stay.
You don't need to be less. You are not a problem to solve. You are a mind, a heart, a whole world still unfolding. You are living a story that demands more courage, nuance, and emotional labor than most will ever experience. You are evidence that sensitivity, complexity, and depth are survival skills, not flaws. You deserve—without question—a life that honors your fire, tenderness, and fierce, sprawling mind.