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Christmas: the season of joy, excess, twinkly lights and — if you’re neurodivergent — mild to moderate existential dread wrapped in tinsel.
Every year, the world seems to erupt into a frenzy of socialising, gift-buying, sensory overload and forced fun, while those of us with neurodivergent nervous systems quietly whisper, “This feels… a lot.”
So in the spirit of festive honesty, and inspired by our Christmas Special on The Business Oddcast, we present to you: The 12 Neurodiverse Traits of Christmas — a gently chaotic, deeply truthful, and slightly feral look at why this season can feel like an endurance sport for ND folk.
Each trait comes with humour, chaos, and the lived experience of two neurodivergent adults just trying to survive December without ruining yet another Christmas for everyone else. (You’re welcome, families.)
Let’s begin, shall we?
Ah yes, the annual performance review conducted by… myself, in the bath, on Boxing Day. Everywhere you look, people are talking about “new year, new me”, as if some miracle occurs as January limps into view. Spoiler….it doesn’t. Or rather that’s been my experience for the last 50 or so years. Us ND’s can get this special extra layer of festive joy: the delusional belief that next year we’ll suddenly be organised, consistent, socially competent, and able to reply to emails without needing a lie-down afterwards. Double spoiler: we might well not. And that’s ok. This whole self-improvement-at-gunpoint thing is basically the Christmas cracker of internal pressure — loud, dramatic, and inside you’ll find a tiny plastic disappointment. P.s. If you must make a resolution, make it something achievable like “drink water occasionally”.
It’s just about bearable, esp. with people you might not have seen for a while as you get to have a bit of a catch up but… then 5 mins in and you forget you are having a conversation in the middle of the conversation – the other person says something that your brain latches onto and yoinks you out of the flow of the story like a cartoon character pulled off stage with a hook.
Why do we need to know what your friend’s sister’s dog did last week? Your conversational partner is clearly no Scorsese, and rambles down side streets, and off on wild segues into other boring stuff. It is the conversational equivalent of being handed bags of stuff, and being asked to deal with it. You end up with armfuls of garbage and guff, the feeling that if this doesn’t end soon you might just run headlong into the nearest wall persists. It may be less painful than a deep dive into Marion’s colonoscopy last week. I tell you what, you can stick her colonoscopy up your… oh.
Christmas is basically a month-long assault on all five senses, no doubt created by a neurotypical person (Just kidding, or am I?). Flashing lights, loud music, small children off their faces on Quality Street and the promise of Santa. Not forgetting the overcrowded spaces, scratchy jumpers, and Slade on the radio every other song screaming “It’s Christmas” in a bizarrely angry sounding voice that I have never quite understood. Wait a minute!…..maybe he was of the spicy variety!? Parties smell like overly processed beige food, and bad decisions. There is a constant soundtrack of someone munching their way through a giant tub of cheese balls. For the love of god, can everyone just put down the snacks for a second. My brain spends December sobbing in a corner with a pair of noise-cancelling headphones on.
I cook the roast, we have a big bird, and all the trimmings, inc. enough for the Vegans. I prep everything the night before where I can, plan my workspace meticulously. Ensuring we have enough utensils and pots, pans and kitchen ephemera to support the two cooking flows for the carnivores and the vegans. It’s like a concert, imagine a F1 Pit Stop, but turkey, trimmings and timers. A full and detailed breakdown of the timings, and main steps in a spreadsheet, with corresponding alarms on my phone is a must. If I am unable to complete my mission, it should be able to be completed by my Sous, luckily I have a daughter who is hospitality trained and she dances around my darting-bulk whisking away various discarded implements and averting danger. The collaborative Christmas Robin to my Batmange Tout. It starts with my waking alarm and the cooking time of the bird and adjust so lunch is ready at 12:00pm for 12:30 service. This ritual has ensured a 100% christmas meal success rate BOOM!. It does mean I miss a lot of the unwrapping of presents, and various social interactions but it does ensure I eat EXACTLY what I need to on Xmas day all done whilst listening to some top tunes! NOE! That’s What I Call ND Christmas.
Or as I like to call them The Hunger Games, but with tinsel. Everyone pretending they want to be there, downing the free booze like someone is going to take it off them. For me, it’s not just the people — it’s the combination of noise, unstructured mingling, and the terror of someone dragging me onto the dance floor to bust out some moves that should have stayed in the 90’s. The last office party I went to, which thankfully was in a previous employed life, I ended up slapping ‘Anne from accounts’ hand off my arm, during one of those enforced dancefloor moments. And growling “get off me” in a slightly psychotic voice. Not my finest moment. Anyway, I digress. It’s totally ok to stand by the exit like a Victorian ghost. In fact I actively encourage it. If you must attend, locate the quiet corner immediately. There is always one. Usually near the coats. Become the Coat Goblin. It’s peaceful there.
This is always a cause of frustration in our house. Whilst the various family members are scrabbling at their gifts like velociraptors clawing open a vehicle full of teens. My daughter and I are peeling the tape off, untying the knotted ribbons, and ensuring we take time to appreciate the wrapping, and unwrapping experience. We make a ball of the tape and flatten out the paper, my intention is to reuse it (and whilst some DOES get reused most gets recycled). It feels wasteful to use it and not reuse it, and always useful for a last minute regifting. All the while the assembled throng tut and huff, as we’re slowing the process down, but the greater the pressure to confirm, the less likely we are to speed up… Hi there PDA, we’ve been expecting you… But, you know, PDA turns up when IT wants to, not when it is told to… so, there’s suddenly an uninvited item in the baggage area and our brains are more stubborn than a definitely double dead donkey.
Christmas apparently turns us all into migratory birds — flying around visiting every relative, friend, colleague, neighbour, neighbour’s dog, and that person you haven’t seen since 2014 who pops up saying “we should do a festive drink!”. No. No, we should not. The social expectation that you must “catch up before Christmas” is wild. Why? I don’t want to ‘catch up’ the rest of the year. Adding turkey doesn’t change that! I’ve sent you a card, for goodness sake. Is that not enough of me? Top tip – Sending a ‘let’s catch up in January’ response usually allows said person the time for the December enthusiasm to dwindle and they return to realising they survived without seeing you the rest of the year. So all is good – Bullet dodged.
Just like we overfill our plates and spend the entire time regretting it, after all 6 mince pies is a LOT of mince pies between meals, we NDs overestimate just how much socialising we can do.
Sometimes you find yourself with the familial obligation and expectation of a party to attend and realise that you have 5% battery and are on reduced power, or “Turtle Mode” as our Nissan Leaf EV likes to call running on reduced battery. Decisions take longer, and thoughts ping around with no outlet for their outcomes.
TOP TIP. Take a Party Holiday. If I’m getting overwhelmed, I take myself off, usually to find a cat and have a cuddle and a cooldown. I’ve even been known to take a 30 minute nap, mid party… even if it is at someone else’s house. Sometimes, if we’re at home that nap can extend through to the morning and I find I have noped out the party. I’ve even escaped and had a doze in the car. I simply can’t enjoy myself if I have zero energy spoons, so this helps to sustain me, a sleep snack if you will.
TOP TIP TWO: We plan “zero days”, no expectations, no plans and no demands. Today the menu is “Feed yourself from the pile of offerings and left-overs in the fridge and cupboards”. You join in the games and TV you want to, with no guilt, shame or repeatedly begging people to do things because “We’re a family…”. It’s a chance to center and recharge, and they are 100% key to successful Christmas celebrations in our household. Sometimes you just need to pull in your arms, and legs and hide in your shell…
Ah, the magical Christmas limbo week — where time dissolves and we all slowly lose touch with reality. Staggering around our houses, faces covered in chocolate snaffling for snacks like a truffle pig. Because our new life has temporarily become one of eating, watching terrible TV, and finding our nearest and dearest more annoying than usual. Neurotypical people call this “relaxing”. I call it “being trapped in a snow globe someone won’t stop shaking”. No routine. No structure. Meals at random times. Days blending into each other like a hideous festive groundhog day. I am a much nicer person when I know what is happening, when it is happening, and who will be there. My unsolicited advice?: Give yourself three anchor points in the day — wake-ish, eat-ish, bed-ish — and everything else can float. This should stop you maiming your relatives.
We’re a few days into the Xmas season, you’re not sure what day of the week it is, but you know it’s somewhere between Christmas Day and New Year. Mid morning you get reminded that we’re off to some party or other that evening. You chug through your day, and find yourself at the party, and realise there’s no safe food, or actually the “food” choices are either cheese or onion or ready salted… WHO THE FU.. I Mean C’MON! Ready salted crisps? It’s the beige of the snack world…
Two drinks in you realise there’s not going to be much in the way of food and at best “nibbles” is gonna have to sustain you. OR, worse, they pull out all the pizzas, meaty, veggie, cheesy and BBQ-ee, it’s like Dominos are doing a taster menu. Except, of course, Stu cannot eat gluten, not in a “I prefer not to” way, more in a “bloated stomach and horrible pains for 24hrs until the poison exits the system, rapidly and in several violent and short bursts.” way. However, if I have had a couple of drinks… and it’s good pizza… But, I have learned that having a bag of nuts or a flapjack handy, can stop the two days of suffering the consequences of being glutened. Of course that is then 2 disregulated days, lost to regret shame, proximity to the bathroom and low mood and therefore poor energy. GLUTEN, just say NO!
The gift-buying spiral is real. Neurotypicals seem to breeze around shops humming along to “Last Christmas” and eating the free mince pies. Whilst I’m pacing the aisles ranting things like “I don’t even like this person. Why do I have to buy them a present” as I pick up a pair of overpriced socks. Nothing says “I just don’t care” more than a scented candle or socks. And yet they become the default present for most of the family. Occasionally I trick myself into wanting to make more effort and my brain goes full investigation mode: what do they use? What do they own? What colours do they wear? What did they post on Instagram 43 weeks ago? It’s a level of analysis MI5 should aspire to. Then there’s wrapping… but we’ve already covered wrapping trauma, so I’ll park that. All I know is: Christmas shopping turns my executive function into a pile of dropped baubles. If in doubt chocolate is a safe bet!
As one might expect, I am quite self-directed, with a lot of agency and ability. I expect the same from everyone else, which is a pain when dealing with guests. Obv. I wish them to be comfortable, but I am not running around like a butler ensuring they are waited on hand, foot and finger. Want a cuppa? There’s the cupboard. Need a spoon? Figure it out, start in the kitchen, find a drawer, go from there. You’re unlikely to find any surprises in the kitchen cupboards, we don’t keep the dildoes next to the jams. I do not mind showing you and helping and assisting, but don’t sit there gasping for a cuppa, go make one. I am unlikely to ask, I will forget my own needs, let alone those of others. Esp. when I am 2 hours into solving a particularly challenging Christmas gift.
At the same time, if I am a guest, don’t faff about asking me constant questions, “Everything OK?” , “Need anything?”, etc.. If my needs are not being met I shall mention them, unless of course the party is in full swing in which case I will solo-mission my way to finding what I need… So if you are sitting waiting to be asked, then that’s on you!
If you recognised yourself in even one of these, congratulations: you’ve unlocked the “Surviving the Festive Season” achievement badge. It comes with absolutely no prizes except the knowledge that you are not, in fact, the only person who wants to hide behind the coats at the work party.
Christmas is weird. Christmas when you’re neurodivergent is… extra weird. But it doesn’t mean you’re broken, or anti-social, or “not festive enough.” It just means your brain likes clarity, calm, predictability, and to not be ambushed by Marion’s colonoscopy chat while you’re trying to eat a mince pie.
So however you celebrate — loudly, quietly, begrudgingly, or by noping out halfway through and having a nap in your car — may your Christmas be as peaceful and manageable as possible.
And remember: survival is enough.
Anything beyond that? A Christmas miracle.
Happy Merrymas and a Sparkly New Year, see you on the other side…
I have a confession that I’ve learnt over the years is not the popular choice: I don’t like holidays. And because holidays feel like the societal currency of success, there’s quite a bit of shame wrapped up in admitting you don’t like them.
For a lot of people, holidays are the shiny prize at the end of months of grind. You work hard, you earn a “break”, you go somewhere sunny and allegedly “switch off”. But for me, I just don’t see it that way.
This is made all the more difficult given that about 80% of pre summer small talk circles around how you plan to spend your time off. It’s endless! “Going anywhere nice this year?”, “Got any holidays booked?”. Then there’s 3 months of social media being drenched in “don’t mind if I do, cocktails by the pool” photos, and notifications telling you that one of your friends has just uploaded 463 photos to their #soblessed Fakebook photo album. Sorry Carol, but there are only so many photos of your lobster-red family (none, if you are asking!) that one can feign interest in when it comes to someone else’s holiday. And if you’re thinking “what is the appropriate number of photos to share on social media, the answer is”none “,”no photos”, “nada, nope and nooooo” photos!.
When I nonchalantly announce that I plan to take some time off and hang around my house, maybe venturing out on the occasional day trip if I feel daring enough, the look I get can only be described as a mix of confusion and pity. Or they just do an awkward laugh that tells me they have no idea what to do with that information.
So if holidays don’t feel relaxing to you either, this blog’s for you. This isn’t a guide to having the “perfect” break. This is a shout out to everyone who finds holidays complicated, exhausting, or downright pointless… and the permission to do ‘rest’ your own way, even if that might look different to some.
For me, the anxiety takes up residence in my brain the second someone says, “We should go away.” I haven’t been on a ‘proper’ holiday abroad in about eight years. I see that as a massive win. My husband probably doesn’t share my enthusiasm, because he loves holidays and has inexplicably chosen to be married to me, but here we are.
The minute a holiday is mentioned, my brain starts running a full diagnostic on everything that would need to be in place before we leave. Is my work covered? Have I replied to everyone? Will the heating be okay? Who’s feeding the cats? What if something breaks while we’re gone? What if I’ve forgotten something crucial and can’t fix it because I’m in another country with the wrong plug sockets and no printer?
Packing is a whole separate hell. A neurotypical person might think: “We’re going somewhere warm. I’ll pack for warm.” My brain goes: “But what if it isn’t warm? What if it’s windy? What if it’s humid-but-chilly? What if the jumper I packed feels fine at home and suddenly turns into sandpaper while I’m away? What if I need options for all seven versions of my skin?”
It’s not just “have I packed enough clothes?” It’s “have I packed clothes that will feel okay on my body in a climate I can’t predict, in moods I haven’t had yet, in sensory states I don’t know about until I’m in them?” So I over-pack. Obviously.
Then comes the weight-limit panic. Once the giant suitcase is full, my brain immediately flips to, “The airline is going to charge me £5,000 because this weighs more than a small car.” Cue repacking. Sorting. Weighing. Taking things out. Putting them back in. Negotiating with myself about how many emergency jumpers one woman really needs. By the time we even lock the case, I already need a nap and possibly a small breakdown.
If there’s one place where my autistic anxiety and my ADHD mouth love to team up, it’s airport security. I once flew to the US in my early twenties and had to go through one of those extra-intense interviews at immigration. Under pressure, all useful information immediately vacates my brain. I stood there shaking, fumbling through papers, mumbling things like, “Sightseeing? I don’t know? Just… doing stuff?”
I completely forgot both the name and where I had put the address of the friends of my family that I was staying with. And then, because my internal monologue has no volume control, I blurted out: “I’m not a drug mule or anything.” Exactly what a drug mule would say.
I didn’t get arrested, obviously, but the look they gave me was… memorable. When I’m anxious, my face pulls “I’m hiding contraband” expressions for fun. I overcompensate, I ramble, I make terrible jokes and then wonder why everyone is staring at me like I’ve brought a kilo of cocaine in my carry-on.
So no, security doesn’t feel like “the exciting gateway to adventure.” It feels like a test I don’t understand, with questions I’m not prepared for, in a system that already thinks I’m suspicious because I can’t stand still and behave ‘normally.’
At home, I have escape routes. If everything gets too much, I can retreat to my bedroom, the garden, the sofa, my favourite chair. I know where to go to calm down. I know the rules, the layout, the lighting, the temperature, the sounds. On holiday, all of that disappears.
One year, we rented a villa in France. It should have been idyllic — little house, nice weather, all very Pinterest. I remember standing outside the villa feeling utterly overwhelmed, scanning my surroundings and thinking, “Where’s my safe place?” There wasn’t one. In the end I got in the hire car, drove to a random supermarket, and just wandered around the aisles like a ghost. Not because I needed groceries. Just because it was the closest thing to “normal” I could find — fluorescent lighting, familiar-shaped shelves, products in rows. It gave me a little anchor in a world that suddenly felt completely unmoored.
Leaving the UK makes that feeling even sharper. It’s not that France is far away; it’s that it feels inaccessible. If things get unbearable on a day trip, I can at least get in my car and come home. If I’m in another country, my brain registers it as: “you’re here forever. “
Holidays ask me to give up control of my environment, my routines, my foods, my exits… and then “relax.” It doesn’t work like that for me.
It’s not just my brain I’m managing on holiday either; I’m not the only neurodivergent one in the family. So when we’ve done the Family Holiday thing, it hasn’t been just one person struggling; it’s a big old mixed bag of meltdowns.
Picture it: one child is in bits because the Wi-Fi doesn’t work properly and their online world — their safe place — has vanished. Someone else is overwhelmed by new smells, noises, and textures. I’m freaking out about control and routine. My husband is quietly re-evaluating all his life choices. It’s not that we don’t love each other. It’s that you can’t take four nervous systems that rely on predictability, special interests, and carefully crafted habits… then dump them in a loud, unfamiliar environment full of strangers and expect it to go well.
We once did a UK holiday park — big entertainment complex, lots of screaming children, drum and bass through caravan walls at 5am. My husband basically faked a stomach bug by day three just so he could tap out. He used me as a human shield — “Don’t come near, I’m contagious” — and hid in the bedroom while I took the kids into the arcade chaos. Honestly? I respect the strategy.
Here’s the bit that really messes with my head: holidays are sold as relaxation. “You need a break.” “Get away from it all.” “Switch off.” Great in theory. In practice, when you’re neurodivergent, holidays can feel like an endurance test.
My daily life at home is built around routines that work for my energy, my brain and my nervous system. I know when I need quiet. I know when I can people and when I absolutely cannot. I structure my work around it as much as I can. Take all that away and plant me in another country and suddenly I’m around people all the time. I don’t control the noise. Meal times are different. Sleep is disrupted. Food is unfamiliar. I can’t get to my safe spots. My regular self-regulation routines are gone.
That’s not relaxing — that’s extra cognitive load. And then, on top of all that, there’s the emotional pressure to “make memories”, “enjoy every second”, “get your money’s worth” and be visibly grateful because “some people would kill for this.” No wonder I come back from holidays more exhausted than when I left.
One of the reasons I avoid holidays now is the sheer time and energy cost. For me, a one-week holiday looks like a week before of prep, admin, packing and anxiety; a week during of sensory overload and pretending I’m fine; and a week afterwards of decompression and trying to reintegrate back into real life.
That’s three weeks of disrupted functioning for a single week of “rest” that didn’t feel restful. At that point, staying home with my own kettle, my own bed, my own food, and my own sofa starts to look less “boring” and more “deeply wise.”
Despite everything, I don’t think all holidays are doomed forever. I just think the standard template — flights, sun, enforced fun, daily activities — doesn’t work brilliantly for a lot of neurodivergent brains.
The breaks that have worked better for me tend to be short, nearby, and familiar. A couple of nights in a UK city, a hotel chain where I know roughly what the room will be like, a place where I can get home if I need to. Everyone gets their own space. Our last family trip was a weekend to York. It worked pretty well as the kids had their own rooms. We had ours. We set the tone early: you don’t have to spend every second together. If you want to disappear into your room and read for two hours, that is more than fine. It’s survival.
My husband once asked me, “If we won the lottery, what would your perfect holiday be?” I described an island with hardly anyone else on it, where someone quietly ships in food and books, and I just potter around by myself in peace. He said, “That sounds amazing — I could do that.” I said, “No. Just me. Not even the kids. Literally just me.”
It sounds awful written down, but it’s not about not loving my family. I adore them. It’s about cognitive load. If I’m on holiday with them, my brain doesn’t stop tracking everyone’s needs. I don’t stop listening, scanning, checking: “Are they okay? Are they overwhelmed? Are they bored? Are they hungry?” I can’t switch that off. That’s the mum load, the ND load, all in one. To feel genuinely rested, I need that channel to be quiet too.
Society tends to treat holidays as a scoreboard. “Where did you go this year?” “How many countries have you visited?” As if the number of times you’ve sat in an airport somehow proves you’re “winning” at life.
I’ve started opting out of that game. I’m not interested in racking up “experiences” just because that’s what everyone else seems to be doing. I’m much more interested in crafting a life that doesn’t require me to escape it constantly.
For me, that looks like more rest in my everyday life, less pressure to prove I’m having fun, being honest that holidays don’t feel relaxing, and letting go of the idea that I’m “boring” or “failing” if I don’t go away. If your idea of a perfect break is a week at home with no plans, no alarms, and no small talk, that is just as valid as two weeks in Ibiza. You’re not doing life wrong. You’re just doing it in a way that works for your nervous system.
So, if you’re a neurodivergent human who dreads packing, panics at airport security, needs a full week to recover from a “relaxing” trip, or secretly prefers your own sofa to any beach on earth… this is your reminder that there is nothing wrong with you.
Holidays, as sold to us, are not designed with us in mind. They assume flexible routines, low sensory sensitivity, high tolerance for uncertainty, and a brain that finds novelty more exciting than terrifying. If that’s not you, you are allowed to opt out — or redesign the whole idea.
You are allowed to say no to the big trips. You are allowed to do short, gentle, nearby breaks. You are allowed to rest at home and call it a holiday. You are allowed to like your own bed more than a resort. You are allowed to want a life you don’t constantly need a break from.
And if anyone at the hairdresser asks, “Going anywhere nice this year?” You can smile and say, “Yes, actually. My living room. It’s perfect.”
I have a confession, and it might not be the popular choice. But I find celebrations exhausting. Particularly when I am directly involved in them. Not all of them, and not all of the time. But for something that meant to be fun, I seem to spend an awful lot of energy preparing for them, masking through them, and recovering from them. That doesn’t feel like fun to me.
Holidays, birthdays, Christmas… basically anything that involves social pressure. And if you’re neurodivergent — autistic, ADHD, AuDHD, anxious, or just on your knees from people-ing — I bet you’re reading this and nodding along. Because there’s so much more than ‘joy’ involved. There’s compulsory attention, sensory overload, social scripts, other people’s expectations, and tons of logistics and executive function. I’m just exhausted thinking about it!
So, this blog isn’t an anti-joy rant (promise). It’s a permission slip to everyone who finds celebrations complicated — and a little survival guide for making them more bearable, maybe even enjoyable… on your terms.
Let’s start with birthdays, because they seem to bring out the worst of me whichever way you look at it.
On paper, birthdays sound great: a day all about you. In reality? A day all about you. Good lord. I’m not good at things being about me any other time of the year… and my birthday is no different. There’s so much to consider. Like, what will I actually do on the day — and will it be what I want instead of what everyone else thinks I want? How am I supposed to act when everyone is looking at my face while I open things? Have I mastered the “oh wow, I love it” face when I open something particularly disappointing?
Spoiler: I absolutely have not. I have crushed a few souls over the years with my lacklustre “thanks” as another candle joins the dusty candle graveyard in my fireplace.
For my 50th (I know, right? Not a day over 30!) I felt this more than ever. People kept asking, “What are you doing for the big five-0? New decade! Big plans?” Like I was planning to rise from the ashes of my 40s in a sequinned jumpsuit declaring “I’ve arrived!” When in reality, I just started to creak a lot more and began worrying about hydration levels, comfy shoes, and whether I needed arch support.
Note: If younger-me has somehow travelled through time and is reading this — I’m sorry. Older you never got that call from Dave Grohl and now prioritises sleep and water.
Right — back to my 50s (which sounds like a disappointing 90s movie without Michael J. Fox). Confession time: I was due a major operation around my birthday, and I got a choice of dates. So I deliberately booked it so I’d be in hospital on my birthday. People were horrified…because they had no clue that it was deliberate! “Oh no, that’s awful, such bad timing!” No. It was perfect. I picked it. I wanted to be somewhere where nobody expected anything of me except lying still, drinking tea and eating biscuits. Bliss.
And yet (here comes the contradiction), I am fully capable of becoming a birthday princess monster if my “Oh, don’t worry about my birthday, it’s just another day” gets taken literally.
My husband and kids will never forget the year they leaned into my birthday ambivalence and made almost no effort. It was like someone injected my RSD with steroids and I felt every emotion in ten minutes flat. Tears, rage, disbelief, more tears. So yes, even when we know we don’t want the fuss, sometimes there’s a small feral part of us that still wants to feel special. The key, I’ve learned, is to stop pretending I don’t care and start being honest about what I can cope with.
Let’s talk about gift trauma. I cannot lie convincingly about presents. I just don’t have the face for it. If I get another generic middle-aged-lady hand cream gift set, my face will absolutely say “WTAF?” even if my mouth is attempting “Oh wow, I love it.”
I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I know the time, the cost, the last-minute panic shop (in the case of my husband). But my brain goes into meltdown — especially if the giver knows me well.
One year my husband got me a voucher for a very fancy shop for ladies who are significantly more chic and sensible than myself. In my head it became evidence that he didn’t know me at all. Cue days of overthinking and a small existential crisis, all because he panic-bought from the shop most likely closest to the carpark on Christmas eve. To avoid all the other panic buyers.
When I eventually worked up the courage to go spend this voucher, it was like the “Pretty Woman” scene but without Julia Roberts’ charm or the happy ending. One sales assistant looked baffled that someone in ripped jeans and a Pink Floyd T-shirt had wandered in. The other looked like she was about to call security.
I ended up buying an expensive belt I would never wear just so I could leave with some dignity. Now he is under strict instruction to buy vouchers from shops where I actually belong.
On paper, they sound delightful. In reality, they’re jump scares with canapés. The sudden noise, the wall of faces, the sensory chaos, the lack of warning — it feels like being ambushed by everyone you’ve ever met.
Those who know me understand that if they ever throw me a surprise party, I will walk in, turn around, and go home. Probably with some crying in amongst that. It’s not ingratitude. It’s about control and predictability. My brain wants to know where I’m going, who will be there, how long it’ll last, and (most importantly) where the exits are.
If you love a surprise party — fabulous, enjoy. No judgement (…ish). But some of us need a celebration with escape routes.
Christmas is marketed as cosy, twinkly, joyful magic. But for many of us it’s an expensive sensory hurricane. The routine disruption. The noise. The family stuff. The forced fun. The exhaustion.
Personally, one of the best survival tactics I’ve ever discovered is cooking. Everyone assumes I’m suffering in the kitchen — “Oh, I feel so bad you’re doing all the cooking!” Please don’t. I love it. It gives me the quiet and structure I need to not burn out before the King’s Speech. My kitchen is tiny, so nobody can “help” unless they want to be hit with a roasting tin. Perfect.
Surviving celebrations isn’t about avoiding them. It’s about finding your entry point — the version that doesn’t drain your soul. And sometimes that means disappearing to your bedroom with no explanation. (Other rooms are available.) The world won’t end if you lie down during Christmas. Who knew?
This is a whole episode on its own (coming in Episode 14), but they deserve a mention here. If not just for all the trauma they have caused me over the years. For many people, holidays are restorative. For me? When the kids were small, my husband stopped asking if I wanted to go on one after I described them as:
“The same shit in a different country, but without the kids’ favourite foods or safe spaces.”
The stress kicks in weeks before — planning, packing, taking time off work, managing all the unspoken emotional labour. If you love holidays — amazing. But if you don’t, it doesn’t make you broken. Rest looks different for some of us. Quiet days at home absolutely count.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: You’re allowed to design celebrations around YOU. For years I thought I had to perform enjoyment to keep everyone else comfortable. Now I’m more interested in getting through these things without throat-punching an elderly relative.
(Disclaimer: that has never actually happened.)
Honesty helps. Recovery time helps. Boundaries help. Permission helps. If celebrations feel complicated, you’re not weird or ungrateful or anti-social. You’re a human with a nervous system that notices everything — and that has limits. You’re allowed to build a version of “special” that doesn’t leave you wrecked. You’re allowed to want a quiet breakfast and a book instead of a balloon arch and a bouncy castle.
Because when you stop forcing yourself to enjoy things the “normal” way, you make space for something better — moments that actually feel good, not just socially acceptable.
So, whether you celebrate big, small, strangely, quietly, or not at all, do it in a way that lets you breathe. You deserve that.
If you’ve ever Googled “how to be more productive” and ended up rage-eating crisps because some bloke in a navy suit told you to just wake up at 5am and hustle, this one’s for you.
Most traditional productivity advice feels like it was written for robots with no sensory issues, no ADHD paralysis, and an unhealthy love for Excel. For the rest of us — the neurodivergent entrepreneurs with fluctuating focus, executive dysfunction, sensory sensitivities, and a sprinkle of perfectionism — that advice often backfires.
We don’t need more discipline. We need systems that support our brains instead of having a little scrap with them. So with that in mind, here are some sustainable, real-world hacks — designed to help you get things done without burning out, selling your soul, or needing to search on the black market for a new nervous system.
Here’s the thing about routines: they rely on willpower, and willpower is like the battery on an old iPhone — fine one minute, dead the next.
Systems, on the other hand, are flexible frameworks. They don’t care if you wake up at 6am or 10:37am; they meet you where your brain is that day.
Instead of “I must write my newsletter every Thursday at 9,” try “when I open my laptop, I’ll spend 15 minutes on content before emails.” Same goal, less guilt.
Imperfect consistency is still progress. In fact, it’s the only kind that lasts. “Good enough” beats “burnt out but technically on schedule” every time.
And if you miss a day? You haven’t failed — you’ve just gathered more data on how your brain actually works. That’s useful intel, not a character flaw.
People love to bang on about consistency like it’s the holy grail of productivity. “Just show up every day!” they say. Like it’s something that comes naturally to everyone.
But here’s the truth: consistency isn’t about frequency. It’s not about grinding out content or showing up every single day with nothing better than an enthusiastic smile.
Consistency is quality and reliability, not repetition. Turning up with weak, run-of-the-mill content just to tick a box hurts your business. Turning up unexpectedly with quality — something that surprises, delights, and actually offers value — builds trust and interest. It’s that old adage of not speaking unless you have something worth saying (I appreciate the irony of me typing this, given that speaking is my specialist subject!).
Reliably rewarding, high-quality content every two weeks will do more for your business than daily posts that are weaker than a US beer. Consistency isn’t doing more — it’s doing better, at a rhythm you can sustain.
Hyperfocus is the neurodivergent equivalent of a superpower — one that comes without an off switch. It can also have a mind of its own, but that’s a topic for another blog. You can build a website, design a course, and reorganise your sock drawer before lunch… but forget to eat, stretch, or blink.
The trick isn’t to stop hyperfocusing — it’s to use it strategically. Save it for deep creative or strategic work, not admin rabbit holes. If you know a task will grab your brain and not let go, plan for it.
Set external reminders: timers, alarms, accountability friends — people who can text “drink water!” without judgement.
Keep a soft landing list: low-effort tasks you can move to when your focus drops off. It helps you transition gently instead of crashing into the burnout wall.
Once a week, reflect. What brought you joy? What wrang you dry? Adjust your workload accordingly — that’s not flakiness, it’s self-preservation.
If you’ve ever looked at your calendar and thought “who the hell scheduled me for this?”, you’re not alone. Time isn’t the problem — energy is.
Neurodivergent productivity works best when you manage your mental fuel, not your minutes. Try energy-based time blocking instead of hour-by-hour scheduling.
Label your day in blocks like “high focus,” “medium focus,” and “low focus.” Do your hardest work during high focus, admin or email in low focus, and gentle planning during medium focus.
Build micro-recovery moments into your day — stretch, breathe, lie on the floor, eat something that isn’t beige. Create fire breaks between tasks; five-minute buffers to reset your brain before diving into the next thing.
And remember, asynchronous productivity is valid. You don’t have to work when everyone else does. If your best ideas show up at 11pm, so be it. Some of my finest work has been crafted when the rest of society are snoozing! Just make sure you rest when the world’s awake.
Environment design beats self-control every time. The less friction you have between “I should do this” and “I’m doing this,” the easier life gets.
Minimise distractions: use noise-cancelling headphones, reduce visual clutter, or change locations depending on the task. (Some of my best ideas have come whilst working in a cafe — part caffeine, part chaos.)
Create sensory-friendly spaces. Adjust lighting, add soft textures, or use ambient sound that soothes instead of overstimulates.
Body doubling, working alongside someone else, even virtually, can also work wonders. It tricks your brain into accountability without the performance anxiety.
Keep friction low: have shortcuts to your current projects on your desktop or in one easy-access folder. Nothing kills motivation faster than the digital equivalent of rummaging through your handbag for half an hour. Set the stage, and your brain will follow.
Tech isn’t cheating, it’s scaffolding. You’re not lazy for using tools that make life easier; you’re building a support team for your executive function.
Use AI tools (like ChatGPT ) for brainstorming, writing drafts, or summarising notes. Set up digital reminders, gentle nudges, and calendar alerts to keep track of what ‘future you’ might forget.
Task visualisation apps like Trello, Notion, or ClickUp let you see your workflow instead of holding it in your head. That’s not an aesthetic choice, it’s cognitive relief.
Keep it simple, though. The goal is to support your brain, not to spend three days colour-coding task boards you’ll never open again. I have whiled away many hours on a Miro board, knowing I will almost certainly never look at it again.
Repeat after me: rest is not a reward for hard work — it’s preparation for it.
Schedule rest on purpose. That might look like no-meeting days, naps, or sensory breaks. Track your early signs of overwhelm — irritability, procrastination, forgetfulness — and intervene early.
Rest doesn’t have to mean doing nothing; it can mean doing something that restores you. Gardening, gaming, stalking the aisles of TK Maxx without purpose. All valid.
Celebrate progress, not perfection. If you got through the day without crying into your to-do list, that’s a win.
Sustainable productivity doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in community.
Outsource tasks that drain your executive function; bookkeeping, inbox management, or even meal prep if you can. (Tesco delivery counts as self-care, I promise.)
Join neurodivergent entrepreneur networks, accountability groups, or yes — the OddSquad. Find your people. They’ll remind you that you’re not failing; you’re functioning differently.
And when possible, communicate your needs openly with clients or collaborators. “I work best with written instructions” or “I might need a bit of notice for meetings” are not admissions of weakness — they’re signs of self-awareness.
Your productivity will change — with seasons, stress, hormones, health, or just because it wants to. That’s not failure; that’s life.
What worked brilliantly in January might crash and burn by May, and that’s okay. Instead of seeing it as inconsistency, think of it as calibration. You’re learning your rhythms, not breaking them.
Check in with yourself regularly. Ask yourself “is this system still serving me, or am I serving it”? If it’s the latter, tweak, adapt, or ditch it entirely.
You’re not meant to be a static machine of efficiency. You’re a human — and humans change. The real productivity hack is accepting that evolution is part of the process.
Productivity isn’t about fitting into a neurotypical mould. It’s about designing a system that fits you. Treat productivity like a living organism; something that evolves as you do. What works this month might not next month, and that’s okay.
Your brain isn’t the barrier; it’s the blueprint. The right systems protect you, your business, and your energy. So next time someone tells you to “just be better organised”, feel free to smile, nod, and ignore them completely. You’re not disorganised — you’re custom-built!.
Now go design the kind of productivity that sustains you — leopard print optional. Unless you’re me, then leopard print is compulsory!
When someone doesn’t reply to a message, if I’m having a bad day my brain gallops straight past logic and into catastrophe. I wonder if I’ve done something to upset them. Maybe they’re ignoring me in the hope I’ll take the hint. My go-to isn’t the logical answer — that they’re just busy. Welcome to RSD, where there is no peace in the silence.
Rejection — whether perceived or otherwise — hurts everyone, of course. But when you’ve got a neurodivergent brain, it’s not just an ache, it’s a full-body blow. A single “no” can hang around for ages, quietly joining the ‘collection of rejection’ in your brain, ready to haunt you in the early hours when you can’t sleep.
And yet, many of us gravitate towards self-employment — because it’s often the safest place to build a life that fits. We get to choose our hours, our clients, our energy. But the irony? The same freedom that protects our energy also exposes our hearts — because showing up as your own boss often means facing rejection head-on, over and over again.
Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD for short) is the intense emotional pain triggered by real or perceived rejection. It’s not a character flaw, It’s a neurological difference. It often shows up in ADHD and AuDHD brains with dopamine systems that are already a bit unpredictable. Basically, our brains don’t process emotional feedback the same way. So, something small, like someone pausing before replying, can register as full-scale rejection.
Think of RSD as your brain’s smoke alarm, but instead of only going off when there’s a proper fire, it also gets triggered by overly toasty crumpets too. And no amount of flapping a t-towel in its general direction makes a difference! It’s not that we overreact — it’s that our nervous systems were built without a dimmer switch. So everything feels bright, loud, and ‘right now!’.
RSD isn’t about being overly sensitive — it’s about feeling everything without the built-in emotional buffer most people have. It can show up when you re-read an email ten times before sending it, or feel that pit in your stomach when “Can we talk?” pops up on your screen. It’s reading “Thanks, we’ll let you know” and hearing “Why on earth did you ever think you were any good?” It’s reliving an awkward moment from three years ago like it happened this morning — analysing every element for evidence that it was even worse than you remember.
And then there’s the bonus round: third-party RSD — when someone you care about gets knocked back and you feel it like it happened to you. Your chest tightens; you start imagining them being judged, excluded, or abandoned. “They’ve split up with her? That’s it — where’s the shovel?.”
The cruellest part of RSD is that half the rejections we feel never actually happened. It’s not
just the actual “no” — it’s the imagined ones. The pauses, the read receipts, the slightly neutral tone in a message. It’s all the invisible rejections that live in the gaps.
I’ve replayed conversations that never actually happened. Not because I’m bonkers (well, maybe a little), but because I’ve scripted, directed, and emotionally scored millions of them inside my head. Somehow, I almost always end up as both the villain and the victim. It’s exhausting — the kind of tired that lives in your bones. Because even when no one has rejected you, your body has lived through it a hundred times already.
And of course, RSD rarely travels alone. Emotional dysregulation is usually sitting in the passenger seat, ready to slam its foot on the accelerator. It’s that surge of emotion that feels impossible to contain — the crying you can’t stop, the anger that flares before you even understand why, the exhaustion that follows like a hangover. When the two combine, it’s like being caught in a storm inside your own body. You know it’s too much, you know it will pass, but in the moment it feels utterly consuming. That’s why recovering from even a tiny perceived rejection can take days — or send you into shutdown when you least expect it.
I’m much more aware now of how RSD shows up for me, and realise it gave me the label of “needy” for much of my life. That “Why don’t you love me?” mantra has followed me through friendships, relationships, and work — in the way I’ve questioned too much, asked for reassurance, or clung too tightly to people who weren’t ‘my’ people, simply because I was grateful someone wanted me around.
In business, it’s shown up as underselling myself, undercharging, or saying yes to projects I didn’t even want — because someone asking felt like proof that I was good enough. The difference now is self-awareness. I can spot the signs and talk myself off the ledge before it manifests. That self-awareness has become one of my biggest strengths, because it helps me work with clearer boundaries and a lot more compassion for myself and others.
Self-employment with RSD can feel like emotional skydiving without a parachute. We run businesses that depend on putting ourselves out there — marketing, networking, pitching, creating. Every one of those things carries the risk of a “no,” or worse, a nothing. Ghosting is the absolute worst, and sadly pretty common in business.
I’m currently going through this, actually. I sent over a proposal and never heard back. Come on, dude — just tell me if you’re not interested. The more self-aware would probably take the silence as a clear “nope,” but the more this guy ignores me, the more I want to talk to him. It’s like the cool kid at middle school all over again.
With this in mind, RSD in business can look like delaying proposals to avoid potential rejection, overthinking marketing posts, reading too much into short messages, or apologising unnecessarily — just in case. I reckon if I added up all the life hours I’ve wasted apologising for things that never actually happened, it would be months.
And don’t even get me started on social media silence. I’ve mostly grown beyond counting likes, but I haven’t quite evolved past checking who they were from — and overthinking why certain people weren’t on the list. “No one’s liked my post in an hour. That’s it, I’m shutting down the business and moving to a remote island to make jam.”
I’m still in emotional recovery from the time I offered free website audits on LinkedIn and sat back while the tumbleweeds rolled past. In hindsight, I can see that no one wants to invite someone in to tell them everything that’s wrong with their website. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take me far too long to work that out.
I’d love to tell you I’ve mastered RSD and am now completely rejection-proof. I haven’t. But I’ve definitely learned to manage it better. I haven’t had to be pulled off a potential client’s ankles in weeks, and that last injunction has finally been closed down… just kidding.
I’ve found that tiny steps help. I go for opportunities, even when the competition is fierce — not because I enjoy rejection (we’ve established I don’t), but because I’m teaching my brain that I’ll survive it. I write email templates for when I’m spiralling, because future-me deserves the support of slightly-more-rational me.
And I use humour. Always. It’s one of my favourite coping tools. When I can make something funny, I can hold it at arm’s length. It gives pain a shape — and when you can laugh at it, it shrinks a little. But the biggest thing I’ve learned is to rest after the crash. RSD wipes you out. Your body can feel like it’s been through an emotional car wash. Taking time to reset — even if that just means sitting in silence or crying into a cup of tea — is part of recovery, not weakness.
And honestly, the goal isn’t to stop feeling things so deeply. It’s to stop punishing yourself for it. Getting from “full-blown doom spiral” to “slightly miffed but functional” is still progress.
Here’s what I’ve come to realise: RSD only hurts this much because we care this much. That emotional intensity — the part that makes rejection feel like the end of the world — is also what makes us brilliant at connection, empathy, and creativity.
It’s not that we care too much; it’s that we feel deeply. And when that’s channelled into work, relationships, and purpose, it becomes one of our greatest strengths. Our sensitivity isn’t the problem. The problem is a world that keeps telling us to tone it down.
If you’ve got someone in your life with RSD — whether it’s a friend, partner, colleague, or client — please know we’re not expecting you to reply to messages in under 0.2 seconds or walk on emotional eggshells forever. What helps most isn’t speed; it’s clarity and kindness.
If you’re busy and can’t reply right away, a simple “Got your message, I’ll come back to it later” can work wonders. It stops our brains from writing a three-part tragedy about what we must have done wrong. Honesty helps too. If you need space, say so. If you’re giving feedback, pair it with reassurance that you still value the person. We don’t need constant approval — just the occasional reminder that a pause doesn’t mean rejection.
Mostly though, remember that people with RSD aren’t fragile; we’re just wired differently. A little patience and understanding can turn what might have been a spiral into a sigh of relief. It’s not about fixing us. It’s about helping us feel safe enough to stop fixing ourselves.
RSD is messy, unpredictable, and sometimes overwhelming — but it’s not weakness. It’s a nervous system that just hasn’t learned the difference between “rejection” and “discomfort.” So the next time you find yourself rewriting an email for the sixth time, convinced you’ve ruined everything, pause. Breathe. Chances are, they were just making a cup of tea.
And even if they weren’t — you’ll be fine. You’re learning to feel without falling apart. You’re learning to be brave without burning out. That’s what real progress looks like.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to check whether Richard’s finally unblocked me. (He hasn’t. It’s fine. I’m fine. Probably.)
Should I tell clients I’m neurodivergent — or keep it under wraps? What if they don’t get it? What if they think I’m difficult, unreliable, or… too much?
Note to self: that ship well and truly sailed when I started wearing my leopard print army necklace!
It’s a question that I imagine most neurodivergent business owners wrestle with at some point: Do I show up as the real me — or play it safe and hope no one notices the sparkle leaking out? The answer, of course, is messy. Because in a world that still misunderstands us, unveiling can feel like standing on stage without a script — hoping the audience claps instead of walks out.
For many of us, masking isn’t about deceit — it’s about survival. And often, it’s not even conscious for those of us who’ve been doing it for as long as we can remember. We learn early on that being “different” can attract attention that we don’t want, so we build armour. Polished responses. Measured emotions. Perfectly timed smiles.
In business, that armour can look like people-pleasing, over-preparing, or saying yes when every cell in your body is screaming nope. It’s professionalism, we’re told. It’s adaptability. But often, it’s fear. And the longer you wear it, the heavier it gets. Masking isn’t pretending to be someone else — it’s protecting yourself from a world that doesn’t always make space for who you are. But it comes at a cost.
Let’s be honest — unveiling feels risky. You start worrying: Will clients think I’m unreliable if I need a bit of wiggle room on deadlines? Will people assume I’m hard work because I process things differently? Will the ND label make them look for faults that aren’t there?
The fear isn’t irrational; it’s rooted in experience. Because we’ve all seen what happens when people throw stereotypes like darts: “Rain Man.” “High-functioning.” “Superpower.” Each one oversimplifies something beautifully complex.
It’s hard to “be yourself” when the world has already decided what it thinks that self means. And don’t even get me started on the word “admit.” I didn’t admit to being neurodivergent like I’d just confessed to putting kittens in the washing machine. I’m not revealing a dark secret or a moral failing — I’m just describing how my brain works. It’s not a crime; it’s just my wiring diagram — and frankly, it’s a pretty interesting one.
I spent years perfecting the art of “passing.” Holding it together in meetings. Smiling through the sensory chaos. Matching the tone of the room, even when I wanted to scream.
And then I’d come home and collapse — physically and emotionally drained — because the performance had munched up all my energy. That’s the real cost of veiling: not rejection, but depletion. You become so good at being fine that you forget what feeling good actually feels like.
As someone with AuDHD, I’ve always had that strange internal contradiction — loving the rules but hating the confinement. Wanting structure but resenting how rigid it feels. That’s the paradox of masking — it keeps you safe, but it quietly steals your authenticity while it’s at it.
Here’s a thought experiment: what if we stopped trying to make zebras look like horses? Imagine a business world designed with neurodiversity in mind — flexible, creative, inclusive by default. Deadlines adjusted for energy levels, communication built on clarity instead of assumptions, quiet workspaces normalised rather than negotiated. It’s not a fantasy. It’s an economy that values different ways of thinking — one that’s sustainable, innovative, and actually human.
For many of us, that’s exactly why self-employment feels like home. It gives us the freedom to structure work around our energy, not the clock; to build systems that actually fit the way our brains work. And one of the most beautiful things about being self-employed is the freedom to build your own ecosystem — and fill it with people who get it. The right clients won’t flinch when you drop the mask; they’ll exhale too. They’ll see your focus, creativity, and honesty not as quirks to manage, but as assets to celebrate. And the ones who don’t? They were never your people anyway. Because when you start showing up as your unmasked self, you stop attracting the wrong ones and start magnetising the right ones. That honesty becomes the filter that protects your energy and your peace.
But wouldn’t it be incredible if that same flexibility existed everywhere — if employed roles, big organisations, and traditional workplaces embraced difference in the same way? The good news is, things are shifting. Slowly but surely, more employers are starting to understand that inclusion isn’t just a buzzword — it’s good business. Simple accommodations can make a world of difference. And when neurodivergent people don’t have to waste their energy pretending to be “normal,” they can spend it doing what they do best: innovating, creating, and seeing what others miss.
Unveiling isn’t a one-size-fits-all act of bravery. It’s personal. Contextual. Sometimes it’s safe; sometimes it isn’t. And that’s okay. Some industries will naturally be more forgiving, understanding, or even welcoming of neurodivergence than others. In some spaces, unveiling might feel empowering and freeing. In others, it might not feel safe — or relevant — and that’s completely valid.
You might decide that your diagnosis is a key part of your story and how you work best. Or you might feel that it’s totally irrelevant to your day-to-day — that it doesn’t define you, and that it doesn’t need to be shared. Both are absolutely fine. There’s no moral hierarchy to how “out” you are. Only what feels right for you. Maybe you start with a trusted client, or a simple boundary like: “I work best with clear instructions and time to process feedback.” That’s unmasking too — in small, sustainable steps.
I picture “unveiling” like that scene in The Mask, when Jim Carrey peels off the cartoon-green grin and stands there blinking like, Oh… so that’s what my actual face feels like. That’s what dropping the ND mask can be like — equal parts terrifying and liberating. The world looks the same, but suddenly you can breathe. And once you’ve felt that? It’s really hard to go back to pretending you’re fine behind the rubber.
For me, though, there’s no going back. Since co-hosting The Business Oddcast, I’ve basically sprinted out of the ND closet wearing my best leopard-print dress — and honestly, it feels glorious. No hiding, no hedging, no tiptoeing. Just showing up fully, sparkly, unapologetically me. Because here’s the quiet truth: every time we choose to be a bit more open, we make it safer for the next person to do the same.
To unveil or not to unveil? Maybe it’s not a question of if — but when. Because unveiling isn’t about confession, it’s about alignment. It’s about building a life, a business, and a community where you don’t need to constantly edit yourself.
And when that happens — when you finally stop performing and start existing — that’s when real work, real creativity, and real connection begin. So, whether you whisper it or shout it from the rooftops: your neurodiversity isn’t something to hide. It’s the reason your work has colour, depth, and spark.
And the right people? They’ll love you all the more for unveiling it.
Apparently, I can be too much. Too emotional. Too open. Too talkative. Too honest. Too… everything. But maybe that’s not really the problem. Maybe I just feel things deeply in a world that prefers emotional beige.
We’ve all heard it, haven’t we? “You’re too sensitive.” “You take things to heart.” “You talk about stuff that makes people uncomfortable.” Translation: you’re being real, and I’m not sure what to do with that.
So, here’s my reframe: maybe I’m not too much. Maybe they’re just not enough!
If I had a fiver for every time I was asked “why are you getting so upset” or told to “stop overthinking it,” I could probably buy a small emotional-support island by now.
It’s not that I’m loud — it’s that my feelings tend to show up before my filter does. I’ll overshare in the queue at the supermarket, cry at adverts about rescue dogs, and then spend three hours replaying a conversation in my head because I’m convinced I made someone uncomfortable. People love authenticity — until it’s messy, vulnerable, or a bit too real. Then suddenly it’s “you’re too intense” or “you need to calm down.” But do I? Do any of us? The truth is, it’s exhausting to keep sanding down your edges just so other people don’t cut themselves on your honesty.
Here’s a thought: maybe it’s not that I feel too deeply, maybe others just… don’t feel enough. We live in a culture that worships logic and labels emotion as weakness. If you stay detached, you’re “professional.” If you care too much, you’re “unstable.”
But what if empathy, passion, and openness aren’t flaws? What if they’re the very things that make us better leaders, partners, creators — humans? People say they want “authenticity” in business and relationships — but what they usually mean is: “Be real, but not that real.”
Trying to bottle your emotions for the comfort of others is like shaking a can of Coke and pretending it’s not going to explode.
I’ve done it. I’ve gone into social situations thinking, “Right, just be chill. Don’t get too enthusiastic. Don’t overshare. Don’t cry at your own stories this time” (yeah, that’s been a thing!). And every single time, it feels like walking on emotional eggshells — and I still end up saying something like, “Does anyone else overthink their own emails?” (Spoiler: silence.)
The thing is, masking doesn’t make me less ‘much’ — it just makes me exhausted. And it disconnects me from the very part of myself that actually connects with people: my heart.
As a teenager, I went through a lot of “phases.” Hippy chick. Goth. Rocker. Confused. You name it — I probably had the wardrobe for it. And while it might have looked like I was exploring my identity, the truth is, it was less self-discovery and more self-defence. Each phase was an attempt to fit into whatever group I thought would make me less noticeable — a very confused chameleon trying to match my surroundings so perfectly that nobody would see how out of place I actually felt.
Fast forward a few decades, and that instinct to blend in hadn’t really gone away — it just got better dressed. I wore what everyone else was wearing, even if it didn’t make my heart sing. But somewhere deep down, the real me was dreaming of leopard print, bold colours, and earrings that could double as small wind chimes.
The day I finally started dressing for myself, and not for the comfort of others, something shifted. It wasn’t just about clothes; it was about permission. Permission to stop apologising for existing in full technicolour. Now, do I occasionally look like Pat Butcher on her way to brunch? Absolutely. (If you know, you know.) But I also feel authentic, comfortable, me.
And that doesn’t mean every day is a glitter explosion. Some days I camouflage in my jeans and sweatshirt because I need quiet. Or I have been known to shuffle around my house all day in my PJs — just because. But the difference now is that I’m choosing it. And every time I reach for something bold, I’m reminding myself that being “too much” isn’t the problem. It’s the pretending that hurts.
Here’s the thing: when you’re neurodivergent, feeling things deeply isn’t a character flaw — it’s literally how your brain is wired. For many of us — autistic, ADHD, PDA, AuDHD — our nervous systems are like Formula One engines running on supermarket fuel. We process emotions, sounds, sensations, and social cues all at once, often without any filter to soften the blow.
That means joy can feel euphoric, but embarrassment can feel like an actual physical injury. Rejection sensitivity (RSD) means even a neutral “we’ll circle back” in an email can feel like a breakup. Emotional dysregulation makes tiny frustrations hit like a tidal wave. And because our brains don’t have the same “autopilot” that neurotypical ones do for emotional regulation, we can swing from overthinking a comment to writing a business plan at 2am out of sheer adrenaline.
It’s not overreacting — it’s accurately reacting with a nervous system that forgot to install a dimmer switch.
For all its challenges, one of the most wonderful things about feeling so deeply is the connection it brings. Because I feel things fully, I notice when others are struggling — it’s like my emotional radar is permanently tuned to “who needs a bit of kindness?”
Over the years, that’s meant people tend to gravitate towards me when they need to talk.
Friends, colleagues, even near-strangers somehow know that I’m a safe place to land. They sense the lack of judgement — the “you can tell me anything” energy that comes from having lived on the sharp end of sensitivity myself. I’ve realised that this is one of the quiet superpowers (a rare occasion where I think that word fits!) of being “too much.” We make space for others to be real, messy, honest — because we know what it feels like to hide.
And if that means I’m the go-to person when someone needs advice, reassurance, or just a bit of compassion… I’ll take that any day.
But of course, there’s another side to all that openness. A while ago, I had a friend I’d only see occasionally — but when we did, our conversations went deep. Not small talk, not “how’s work,” but proper soul-level stuff. The kind of connection where you skip the surface entirely and head straight for the meaning of life. She knew me well, and I knew her. So, when she suddenly stopped replying — no message, no explanation — I was completely thrown. We weren’t in daily contact, but the silence still hit hard. For months, I tormented myself trying to work out what I’d done wrong. Each conversation replayed in my head on a loop, each one another stick to beat myself with. Regretted messages asking, almost begging, to know what I had done and how I could change. Still silence. The checking of messages became an obsession that was pulling me under.
And then, about six months later, I finally got the answer. She told me she’d been going through her own struggles — and that I was, in her words, “emotionally too much.” That hurt but hearing it and having an answer gave me a sense of peace. Because I realised that the ache wasn’t about losing her; it was about the not knowing. And suddenly, I knew. I stopped feeling ashamed for being “too much,” because I understood that it wasn’t about me being wrong — it was about her capacity. I’m exactly where I want and need to be on the muchness scale. It took a while, but I made peace with it. She’s not my person — and that’s okay.
Because when you live life in full emotional colour, not everyone can handle the brightness.
And that doesn’t mean you need to dim your light. It just means you need to shine where you’re appreciated.
Here’s the truth: the people who change things — in art, activism, business — are almost always the ones who got told they were “too much.”
Think about Greta Thunberg, who, for the record, is one of my absolute favourite humans! Documented as an awesome beacon of neurodiversity, she’s been criticised for caring too much — as though there’s an acceptable, socially approved amount of caring when trying to save the planet. Her emotions, her conviction, her intensity — they make people uncomfortable. And yet, they’ve moved mountains.
Or look at Lady Gaga — “too dramatic.” Richard Branson — “too impulsive.” Every one of them turned “too much” into just enough to make history — and a fair bit of money to boot. I’m not saying I’m a global changemaker (unless crying over my to-do list counts as activism). But it’s worth remembering that feeling deeply isn’t a flaw — it’s power. It’s empathy, creativity, connection, courage. The very things that build communities, fuel businesses, and start revolutions. So no, I’m not going to apologise for caring, crying, or sharing too much.
I’m retiring the superhero cape, but I’ll keep the intensity — it’s where all the good stuff lives.
When you catch yourself shrinking, ask: “who am I doing this for?” Notice the moments you call yourself “too emotional” — would you say the same thing to a friend? Find the people who don’t flinch when you’re honest — they’re your real audience.
Take this as your permission slip to feel deeply, speak honestly, and overshare with pride. The world doesn’t need you to shrink. It needs your whole, unfiltered, gloriously emotional self — tears, tangents, and all.
Episode 5 of the Business Oddcast is now live with more of these types of insights and some funny stories.
Let’s get one thing clear: ‘high-functioning autistic’ isn’t a thing. It just means that whoever is being described as that is just doing a really incredible job of making sure that they don’t get sniffed out as anything other than absolutely blooming ‘normal’. And that will be taking up a huge amount of mental and physical energy. Believe me, I should know — I spent most of my life doing exactly that, and it was exhausting.
I appreciate that when some people think of autism they are going to what they consider the extremes in their head. So, if someone doesn’t match the stereotype they’ve built in their mind — because we can speak, work, or make eye contact — it somehow feels ok to stick us with the label ‘high-functioning.’ When actually, what’s going on is usually a huge amount of masking.
And while we’re at it, can we talk about some of the other painfully annoying phrases that get chucked around in conversations about Neurodiversity? Usually by well-meaning but brutally misguided people.
Before I go further, a bit of context here to better explain why I am so ‘bitey’ on this subject. So, I am 50 years old and for about 48 of those years I was told on many occasions that I was ‘too much’. Too dramatic, too sensitive (hello emotional dysregulation), too needy, etc. And yet now I am to believe that I have a ‘superpower’ that makes me some sort of magical space unicorn. Because I can work through the night churning out blogs or write my degree dissertation in 3 weeks and get a first (yes, I will always dine out on that story!)
But that same ‘superpower’ has me haunting my house at 2am, when everyone else is asleep, looking for something that I absolutely don’t need, and yet my brain will sing the ‘where is it’ song in an annoying whiny brain worm until I find it. The last time it was a lip balm. I have about ten, as I forget I buy them and buy more (another gift of my spicy brain!)
Or what about my superpower that makes me fear public bathrooms in case someone sets off the unnecessarily loud hand drier and I feel like my ears are being screamed at by fire alarms. Lastly….and I’ve almost got closure I promise: Imagine ‘captain rejection sensitivity’ in her ill-fitting Lycra, and cape. A magnificent superhero who wanders around shouting “why don’t you love me” repeatedly to everyone from her long suffering husband to the poor woman in the supermarket who she swears looked at her funny.
Don’t get me wrong, I know I’ve got some incredible strengths that come straight from the way my brain is wired. And I wouldn’t swap them for anything. But calling them ‘superpowers’ skips over the messy reality that those strengths usually come bundled with so much physical and mental energy.
But here’s the thing. Whilst it might look, to a lesser being, like some sort of ‘other worldly’ gift. Worthy of celebration, and a special title. Actually, in reality, in the case of my dissertation, I think I slept for about 3 days during that time. Well….it felt like it. And the anxiety that accompanied not being able to start my work until that close to the deadline (hello task paralysis) was all consuming. The same goes with the other examples, which will be relatable to many of our listeners, I am sure of it.
Bear with me, because here comes the bit where I contradict myself! There’s no doubt that some of our abilities can be harnessed and turned into something brilliant. But the truth is, a lot of the time we’ve had to dig through the rocks just to find the diamond — the tiny shiny bit that allows us to work with our brains instead of battling against them.
And let’s be honest, society doesn’t make that easy. The world is designed for nine-to-fivers who can cheerfully wake up at 7am, eat a sensible breakfast, and plough through spreadsheets until lunch without crying. For me, inspiration usually turns up at ungodly-o’clock, just as everyone else is snoring. Unfortunately, most workplaces don’t see “I wrote an entire business plan at 3am” as a valid excuse for rocking up at 11 looking like you’ve been hit by a bus.
That’s the real sticking point for me: what gets called a “superpower” is often just us squeezing our square-peg brains into round holes until something vaguely shiny pops out. Yes, we can hyperfocus, yes, we can spot details others miss — but that doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It happens after years of masking, adjusting, and figuring out how to survive in a system that wasn’t built for us. So yes, sometimes our abilities shine — but let’s not dress it up in glittery Marvel costumes and call it a superpower. It’s not X-Men, it’s just us doing the best we can with the brains we’ve got, in a world that wasn’t exactly designed with us in mind.
And while we’re clearing things up, can we retire a couple of other classics too?
“We’re all a bit autistic.” Hard. NOPE. You’re not. Unless you also spend hours rehearsing conversations in your head before you actually have them or feel personally victimised by hand dryers in public toilets, then no, you’re not “a bit autistic.”
“You don’t look autistic.” Also NOPE. What does that even mean?
Here’s the thing: most of the time, NTs who trot out these phrases aren’t trying to be cruel. They think they’re being kind, supportive even. But what it actually feels like, when you’ve spent years masking and blending in, is that your whole lived experience is being brushed aside with a cheery little phrase that makes my eye twitch.
Because when people say “we’re all a bit autistic” or “it’s your superpower,” what they’re really doing is putting you back in a box you’ve spent a lifetime trying to climb out of. And honestly, I don’t need to be a superhero or a quirky little project. I just want to be me — tangents, 2am brainwaves, hand-dryer paranoia and all.
So, here’s where we land: embracing my ND-ness (yes, I just made that up) has been the most liberating shift of my life. Not because it made me a superhero, or “high-functioning,” or whatever other phrases gets thrown at it — but because it finally let me stop pretending to be something I’m not.
So next time a well-meaning soul feels tempted to say, “we’re all a bit autistic”? Don’t. Just… don’t. Say literally anything else. Compliment my shoes. Ask me about Wotsits. Tell me I don’t look like someone who once got banned from karaoke in Menorca (long story). But please, leave the phrases at the door.
We don’t need superpowers, thanks. We just need space to be ourselves — Lycra optional.
When Stu first approached me about co-hosting the Oddcast, I bit his hand off. Not literally — I’m not some sort of rabid, fame-hungry chihuahua. But I just had this deep-rooted sense that this was going to be something that fed my soul on so many levels. It felt like a kind, slightly self-indulgent gift to myself.
And who doesn’t love a gift?
The truth is, we were already having the sorts of conversations we have in the Oddcast all the time anyway. So why not record them, slap on a fancy logo, and share them with anyone who might need a laugh, a bit of solidarity, or a reminder they’re not the only one.
BUT it needed to be the right vibe, because a lot of the ND podcasts I’d experienced so far were more ‘support group’ energy. And I couldn’t see myself leaning forward in my chair, wearing steel-rimmed glasses, going “and how does that make you feel?” Don’t get me wrong, there is enormous value in that approach, but it’s all a bit clinical: not something you’d binge with a cup of tea and a packet of biscuits. We wanted it to be lighter, more relatable, and rooted in celebrating what we bring to the table — rather than mourning anything we don’t.
I’d been thinking about a podcast for some time but couldn’t picture what that would look like. So, like many of my ideas, I fixated on it for weeks, then put it in a box in my brain marked “lost dreams” to collect dust amongst all the magnificent wiring up there. Then along came Stu, in his incredible tailoring, with a clear vision that put into words what I couldn’t. So, I hitched my trailer to Sparkly Suit Man™ (I’m defo contacting Marvel with this one), and here we are.
Here’s what we’re doing here: finding comedy in the chaos of our day-to-day. Not to belittle difficult situations, but because when you laugh, things just feel smilier (is that a word? It is now!). We recognise the different ways things can work for us and celebrate the differences, rather than use them as a stick to hit each other with. Although that would make for a fun podcast, wouldn’t it? Note that down, Stu.
So welcome to the Business Oddcast. This is a space where we get to scream, loudly and unapologetically: “We’re fucking amazing.“
Other ND podcasts often lean into the “here’s what’s wrong with us” angle. Ours? Not so much. Yes, there are struggles — burnout, demand avoidance, ADHD loops to name but a few — but there’s also humour, creativity, and oodles of group empathy. With a dollop of no judgement to boot.
You might also find yourself dragged down a long and random rabbit-hole tangent that I’ve decided to go on. Because I’m the queen of all things tangent. So buckle up and be reassured that Stu will circle us back to the original topic at some stage.
There will also be soapbox moments, where one of us taps into some past rage and decides to vent it momentarily. So, you can either look away or cheer us from the sidelines. It’s just all part of the journey. We’re flipping the script: less doom and gloom, more “here’s the messy truth, and here’s how we get through it.“
Being ND in business can feel lonely. You’re juggling burnout, weird work rhythms, and a brain that sometimes flatly refuses to cooperate. It’s easy to think you’re the only one. God, we’ve all been there. In a room surrounded by people and feeling the loneliest you’ve ever felt.
That’s why this podcast exists: to hold up a neon sign that says “You’re not alone. You’re one of us.” Well, it’s certainly one of the reasons anyway!
But don’t fear, there is no pity in this party of spicy goodness. So if you’ve come for that, then you’ll need to take your Wotsits and your REM album, and jog on. Actually, leave the Wotsits… because who doesn’t love that bright orange cheesy goodness.
That takes me back to being very drunk, in the mid-90s (actually, I think I was drunk for the whole of the 90s), in a terrible karaoke bar in Menorca, singing a more depressing version, if that is possible, of *Losing My Religion* by REM. I’m using the term ‘singing’ very loosely here. After about an hour of flat-out refusing to join in the fun, I had gone full karaoke queen, and was limbering up for ‘Islands in the Stream’: yes, I was planning to be both Dolly and Kenny. The sambuca had made me invincible! Or maybe delusional. One of the two anyway. So, after a while of me not playing nicely, and refusing to leave the stage, a scuffle ensued as the guy running the event tried to wrestle the microphone off me. Not my finest moment!
I digress…
We’re not here to hand out shiny 10-step plans or productivity hacks you’ll forget about by Tuesday. What we are here to do is share the stuff that actually works for us — usually discovered the hard way — along with the fails, the facepalms, and the odd accidental win. Think of it less like a workshop, more like swapping survival notes with friends.
And we’re definitely not here to “fix” anyone, because none of you awesome humans are broken! Also, from an insurance point of view, I can’t make that promise — I’ve been trying it on myself for 50 years and it’s not going brilliantly. There is a long list of therapists in the south-east who could back me up on that.
What we are here to do is build a space where you might find your people, laugh at the chaos with us, and hear from brilliant guest speakers who share their own experiences of being ND in business. Between the laughs, the honest chats, and the guest insights, we want you to feel like you’ve found your tribe.
And if you don’t? Well, please leave us a nice review anyway, so we don’t have to start busking. It’s been a long while since I dusted off my recorder, and honestly — no one needs to see that.
Come in, the water’s lovely, and there are no strange-looking plaster thingys floating in it.
Click here to see us in glorious technicolor – or if you just want the podcast click here