When people talk about ADHD or autism, they usually default to the highlight reel of visible traits: the fidgeting, the interrupting, the zoning out at the worst possible moment, the messy desk that somehow multiplies overnight… but that’s the tiniest fraction of the story.

The real experience of neurodivergence lives underwater; in the unseen, unfelt-by-others, impossible-to-explain layers that shape every moment of daily life. When those layers go unrecognized (or worse, dismissed), it creates shame, burnout, maladaptive coping, and a deep sense of “Why can’t I just get it together?”

So let’s map the iceberg with honesty, compassion, and the clarity neurodivergent adults deserve.

If November felt like one long performance review you didn’t sign up for, you’re not imagining it. This is the time of year when neurodivergent women are quietly holding three worlds together: the emotional world, the holiday world, and the “everyone expects me to be okay” world.

The wildest part is that most people around you think you’re doing great.

Why? Because masking is persuasive. It’s polished. It’s practiced.

It’s decades of micro-adjustments layered on top of each other so you can make it through conversations, dinners, family expectations, school events, and holiday pressure without showing how loud it feels inside your body.

But masking isn’t free. It never was.

If you’ve ever panic-bought a gift three hours before dinner—same.

You swear you’ll plan ahead this year, but somehow you end up in that same decision-paralysis spiral. Tabs open. Cart full. Budget? Vibes only.
And while the holidays are supposed to feel magical, they usually just feel... overstimulating.

That’s not because you’re bad at giving or planning. It’s because traditional shopping wasn’t built for our kind of brain. The one that craves connection, novelty, and meaning—but melts down under fluorescent lights and 47 “perfect gift” guides that all assume we can stick to a list.

So this year, I’m doing things differently.
Instead of shopping from pressure, I’m shopping from pattern recognition. I’ve learned that knowing what kind of shopper I am (and what kind of receiver my people are) makes the whole thing easier, kinder, and—dare I say—fun.

You know what no one tells you about the holidays? 

They’re secretly the Olympics of emotional regulation.

Every neurodivergent adult is out here juggling flashing lights, ten overlapping playlists, travel chaos, and at least one relative who thinks “ADHD isn’t real.” You’re smiling, you’re nodding, you’re pretending that being asked “So, are you seeing anyone yet?” doesn’t make your soul leave your body.

Meanwhile, your brain is in full sensory meltdown mode, whispering: “Can I just… not?

So this year, we’re doing something radical. We’re opting out of the performative holidays and into the Ease Era: that sweet, rebellious space between “I should” and “I simply won’t.” 

What if joy didn’t have to be loud? What if peace was actually the point?

I once threw out an entire week’s meal plan because I forgot to defrost the chicken.

Did I need to do that? Of course not. I could’ve just pivoted, made pasta, or shoved the chicken in the microwave and called it a day… but in my brain, the second the plan wasn’t “perfect,” the whole thing was ruined. Into the trash it went.

That’s all-or-nothing thinking in action, and if you live with ADHD, I’m guessing you’ve got your own version of this story too. (Would love to hear about it btw - it helps to know I’m not the only one :D)

Money shame has a way of sneaking into your day. It shows up as the unopened bill on the counter, the credit card app you can’t bring yourself to tap, or the budget spreadsheet you promised yourself you’d “get serious about” back in January… of 2023.

Somewhere between ignoring those emails and frantically shoving envelopes into a drawer, the self-talk starts. Am I just bad at this? Am I lazy? Why does it feel like everyone else has this figured out except me?

Nobody talks about how financial overwhelm isn’t about laziness; it’s about your nervous system.

It starts with a look. You know the one.

The Amazon package shows up. Or a bill goes unpaid. Or the spreadsheet your partner made three months ago (that you swore you’d start using) is brought up again — gently… but not really. And suddenly, you're both in it.

Defensiveness. Silence. Frustration. You’re not even fighting about the money anymore. You're fighting about what the money means. If one or both of you is neurodiverse as well, then the stakes, the patterns, the emotional landmines get even more complicated.

It’s not just about money. It’s about memory, executive function, rejection sensitivity, burnout, decision fatigue, control, masking, and shame. It’s about survival strategies that started long before this relationship and have nothing to do with how much you love each other.

You scroll past a post that makes you feel behind, overwhelmed, like you’re the only one still living paycheck to paycheck or still fighting with your partner about bills. Then, two swipes later, a “solution” appears: a new budgeting app, a mindset coach, a productivity planner in pastel dopamine colors promising financial peace.

The contrast is jarring… and addictive. If you’ve got an ADHD brain (like me), the urge to take action right now — to fix something fast — is real.

Money is never just about money.

It’s about the moment you realize the bills are late again… not because you didn’t care, but because it slipped through the cracks for the third time this month. It’s about the tension you feel when your partner makes a passive-aggressive comment about Amazon boxes, or when you freeze up trying to remember your online banking password… again. It’s about the shame spiral that follows a “quick” spending binge — the one that was supposed to make you feel better, but just made things worse.

If you’ve ever found yourself whispering, “We should be further along by now,” you’re not alone, and you’re not broken.

The ADHD tax is the hidden cost of navigating daily life with a brain that doesn’t operate in a neat, linear, time-aware way. Yes, it includes the obvious: late fees, missed due dates, overdraft charges, and paying for things twice. But it also includes a thousand invisible moments where executive dysfunction and emotional dysregulation quietly drain your energy, your confidence, and your sense of agency.

Last month, I opened my Amazon cart and laughed.

There were three different planners (all undated, because… ADHD), a weighted stuffed animal I convinced myself I needed for “work stress,” and a fancy water bottle that promised to fix my hydration habits once and for all.

None of these things were inherently bad. In fact, I can justify every single one.

But when I took a step back and asked myself what I was really trying to solve by clicking “add to cart,” the answer wasn’t organization, stress relief, or thirst.

It was dysregulation.

I used to think I was just bad at life. Late to coffee dates. Forgetting appointments. Ghosting people I genuinely liked. Overcommitting to plans I never had the bandwidth to keep. Apologizing—constantly—for being “flaky.”

The truth: It’s not a character flaw. It’s time blindness.

Mix that with rejection sensitivity, perfectionism, and a nervous system running at full tilt, and you don’t just lose track of time… you lose trust in yourself.

I used to think summer would make me more productive...

Like the sun would magically give me the energy to declutter the garage, deep clean the house, plan epic adventures, and somehow become a barefoot goddess who journals every night and eats berries from her garden.

But here’s what I’ve learned—especially as a neurodivergent mom in her 30s:

Summer doesn’t fix executive dysfunction.
Optimism isn’t the same as capacity.
You don’t have to “do more” just because the sun’s out.

I turned 37 this month.

And while I could give you a polished, motivational list about success, habits, or morning routines that changed my life… that would be a lie.

Because the real lessons—the ones that actually shaped me—came through sticky counters, missed appointments, forgotten field trips, late-night Googling, shame spirals, messy makeups, and moments where I truly thought I might never get it “together.”

So here’s what I’ve actually learned. 

Some of it’s silly. Some of it’s sacred. All of it’s real.

There was a time—not that long ago—when I truly believed I just didn’t try hard enough.

I’d cancel plans last minute because I was “too tired.” Put off emails until the guilt was so loud I couldn’t think straight. Bounce between tabs for hours while half-finishing everything and completing nothing.

And then I’d spiral: Why couldn’t I just do the thing? Why was something as small as choosing a dinner recipe or replying to a message suddenly a mountain?

It felt like I was broken. Lazy. Scattered. And worst of all? I kept it all to myself… because I thought it was just me.

Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t care how “trendy” or aesthetic your tool is—if it doesn’t actually work with your brain, it’s not helpful.

And if you’re anything like me (late-diagnosed ADHD, neurodivergent, sleep-deprived, probably drinking iced coffee even if it’s snowing), you’ve been burned by enough overhyped “productivity hacks” to know that not all tools are created equal.

But through trial, error, and way too many Amazon impulse buys, I’ve found a few tiny tools that pack a surprisingly big punch.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re performing your way through life—smiling when you’re exhausted, saying yes when you’re screaming no inside, or agonizing over the perfect text to send someone you barely know—hi. Welcome. You’re not alone.

Have you ever taken a day off, cleared your schedule, even treated yourself to something calming—and still felt totally depleted?

I’m not talking about being tired. I’m talking about that heavy, bone-deep fog that no amount of sleep, coffee, or bubble baths seems to lift. The kind that leaves you staring at your to-do list like it’s written in another language. Or picking fights with your partner over how they chew (true story).

That’s burnout. And for a lot of us in the ADHD and autism community, it’s not a one-time crash. It’s a loop we keep spinning in—and even when we think we’ve escaped, it pulls us back in.

Let’s be real: screen time is a hot topic in every household, but for neurodiverse families, it’s even more complex. Screens can be a lifeline—a way to decompress, explore interests, and even connect with others. But too much screen time can lead to overstimulation, meltdowns, and family conflict.

Spring Break—those two words can bring excitement… and a little panic, especially if you’re a parent navigating neurodiverse challenges. The break from routine can feel like both a blessing and a minefield. Schedules change, activities ramp up, and your kids are bouncing between excitement and overwhelm. Sound familiar?

Here’s the thing: it’s not about perfect parenting or sticking rigidly to a plan. It’s about finding small, meaningful ways to create stability amidst the chaos.