Thriving Without a 5-Year Plan: Short-Term Wins, Long-Term Awesome
There are two types of people in the world: the ones with colour-coded five-year plans, laminated vision boards, and a spreadsheet that could probably file their taxes — and then there’s me. And if you’re reading this, there’s a decent chance you’re also in the “I’m just trying to get through the next five minutes without accidentally starting a new career as a candle-maker” camp.
The five-year plan is one of those culturally approved things we’re all supposed to have, like a skincare routine, a pension, or a consistent personality. And sure — for some brains, a five-year plan is motivating and grounding, a helpful lighthouse guiding you through the fog. For other brains (hi), it’s a pressure cooker. A shame-generator. A glittery trap disguised as “success”.
So let’s talk about what happens when you don’t have a five-year plan — and how you can still thrive, grow, and build long-term awesomeness without setting fire to your nervous system.
The problem with the five-year plan (for those with brains like mine)
A five-year plan assumes you can reliably do two things: predict the future, and be the same version of yourself every day for five years. If companies packed full of mega brain analysts can’t predict this stuff accurately, then what sort of hope (none… the answer’s none) does a small business owner with a spoon deficit and a squirrel chasing brain have of being able to map out the rest of the month, let alone 5 long years.
If a five-year plan genuinely works for you, I mean this sincerely: I love that for you. But if it fills you with fear, and makes you feel like you’re failing before you’ve even started, you’re not broken. It’s just not a tool that’s built for your brain.
Direction beats detail: you don’t need a plan, you need a hill
I’d be lying if I said I had ever truly understood the concept of a five-year plan in life or business. I understand direction. I understand having something vaguely on a hill that you’re aiming for — a general “over there”. What I don’t understand is the rigid, milestone-heavy version where by Year Two you’re meant to have achieved X, become Y, and be emotionally stable by Year Four (I’m not emotionally stable by year 51!). That’s not planning. That’s inviting your inner perfectionist to move in permanently and redecorate using paint shade ‘shame’.
What actually helps is a looser kind of vision that gives you direction without demanding you predict every step. For me, my goals tend to sound less like “I will triple my revenue and expand into three new markets” and more like wanting to work less, enjoy my client base, feel calmer about my work, and earn enough that I’m not living ten days from payday in a constant state of dread. That’s not a five-year plan. That’s an anti-meltdown, sustainable lifestyle..
Short-term wins: building the future without suffocating yourself
If you want long-term awesome without the five-year straight jacket, the trick is to stop trying to build the whole staircase and just focus on the next step. Short-term goals work well for neurodivergent brains because they’re visible, achievable, motivating, and adjustable. They give you something solid to aim for without locking you into a version of the future you might outgrow
This is why I love working in short sprints. Well, I have since Stu introduced me to the concept. Before that I was just bumbling along with no plans on adulting when it came to business at all. I miss those days! No, focus Hannah, focus!
Ninety days, thirty days, a season, whatever chunk doesn’t make you want to crawl under a table. You pick something specific, give it a defined window of time, and treat it like an experiment. Does it work? Does it pay? Does it drain you? Do you enjoy it? Is it sustainable? Is it moving you vaguely toward the hill? At the end of the sprint, you reassess. No drama, no shame, no “I’ve ruined my entire future”. Just interesting data and a chance to pivot.
Pivoting isn’t failure. It’s business. (And also survival.)
One of the biggest lies hustle culture tells us is that success means sticking with one idea forever, even when it’s clearly not working. But self-employment is messy and stop-start. Some months are great; other months you’re wondering if you should become a barista purely for the predictable schedule and the free pastries.
If something isn’t working — financially, emotionally, practically — pivoting isn’t weak. It’s smart. And honestly, who are these imaginary people we’re trying to impress? What committee is meeting weekly to review your career choices and announce that you’ve pivoted again and they disapprove? There isn’t one. And even if there was: fuck em.
Your energy budget is the real business plan
This might be the most important part, so I’ll say it slowly: if you don’t plan around your energy, your business will plan your burnout for you. Neurodivergent energy isn’t linear. It doesn’t show up like a tidy nine-to-five battery bar. Some days you’re focused and flying; other days you’re technically present but running on fumes and a slightly haunted vibe.
So instead of demanding consistency from yourself, you build systems that support variability. That might mean time-blocking, protecting recovery time, pushing “urgent” work to next week, or recognising that doing more now usually means borrowing from future-you. As we’ve said repeatedly in past blogs and episodes, rest isn’t a reward for getting everything done — it’s preparation for the work ahead.
Consistency is overrated (at least the way people think about it)
I don’t think consistency itself is the enemy. What is unhelpful is the idea that consistency means showing up as the same version of yourself every single day. When we have already established that that is not going to happen for a lot of us! What actually matters, especially in business, is consistency of outcome rather than consistency of energy.
My clients don’t need me to be the same Hannah every day. They need good work, delivered when it’s promised — reliability in results, not access to my internal battery levels. So I do focus-heavy work on days when focus exists, I protect recovery so future-me doesn’t suffer, and I design systems that absorb variability instead of pretending it isn’t happening. From the outside, it looks consistent; from the inside, it’s flexible, responsive, and intentional. That distinction matters, because forcing “perfect consistency” is often what breaks people, whereas systems that expect variability are what keep things moving.
And yes, the squirrels still exist
The ideas. The sudden obsessions. The “maybe I should retrain as something wildly unrelated” moments. Curiosity isn’t the enemy, and learning things isn’t wasted. Sometimes finishing isn’t even the point — the learning is. But not every idea needs to hijack the entire business.
Having an idea bank helps. Write it down, capture the dopamine, park it. If it keeps coming back and aligns with the hill, you can revisit it later. Not everything needs to become a full identity.
Your to-do list might actually be a shame list
If you’ve got tasks that have been sitting on your list for months, chatting shit about you, it’s probably time to be honest. Delete them, outsource them, or accept they’re not realistic right now. A to-do list that makes you feel permanently behind isn’t a productivity tool — it’s a stress list.
So what does “long-term awesome” actually look like?
It might look like earning enough to cover your bills without panic, doing work that doesn’t destroy your nervous system, and setting goals that flex as your life changes. It might look like a business that evolves with you instead of demanding you stay the same.
And maybe — just maybe — thriving without a five-year plan isn’t chaotic. Maybe it’s wise. Maybe it’s the most neurodivergent thing in the world to say: “I don’t know exactly where I’ll be in five years, but I know what matters to me. I know what drains me. I know what brings me joy. And I’m going to build from there.”
Short-term wins. Long-term awesome. No pretending to be someone you’re not.
Surviving Celebrations: Holidays, Birthdays and Social Pressure
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.
When your birthday feels like a “do you like It?” nightmare
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.
Gift-giving, or as I call It: “Stop staring at my face”
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.
Surprise parties: Why, just why?
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: Expensive sparkly chaos
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?
Holidays: Same shit, different country
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.
Boundaries: The real celebration
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.
Sustainable Productivity Hacks for Neurodivergent Entrepreneurs
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.
1. Build systems, not routines
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.
Quick side-rant about consistency (Someone had to say it!)
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.
2. Leverage your hyperfocus (without exploding)
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.
3. Redefine time management as energy management
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.
4. Design your environment to work with you
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.
5. Use tech as your cognitive sidekick
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.
6. Normalise rest, downtime & self-compassion
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.
7. Build support systems
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.
8. Give yourself permission to evolve
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.
The big reframe
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!
Rejection Sensitivity: Why a “No” Feels Like a Punch in the Soul
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.
The science bit
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!’.
The “why aren’t you texting me back” stage
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 perceived “No”
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.
The business impact
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.
Coping mechanisms
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.
The reframe (I love a good reframe!)
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.
How others can help
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.)
To Unveil or Not to Unveil: That Is the Question
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.
The armour we build
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.
The Fear of Being Seen
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.
The Toll of Staying Hidden
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.
Imagining a Neurodiverse Economy
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.
The Choice to Unveil
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.
The Final Question
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.
High-Functioning, Superpowers, and Other Painfully Annoying Phrases
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.
The ‘Superpower’ myth
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.
Contradiction time
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?
The impact
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.