Is it me, or is This Room Just Awful?
Have you ever had one of those mornings where you sit down to work, read the same sentence on repeat, and somehow still have absolutely no idea what it says?
So, you make a cup of coffee, come back, read it again and discover that the words have not become any more meaningful since your attempt a few minutes ago. Annoying. At this point, you’re starting to think it’s a ‘you’ problem. Perhaps you’re tired or distracted. Or maybe it’s just another example of your brain refusing to cooperate on demand. You’ve decided to be productive, and it’s decided it’s not getting onboard with that idea. Thanks brain!
After about half an hour, you notice that the neighbour has been pressure washing their patio since they got up, the label in your jumper is sanding off a layer of skin from the back of your neck, and every device you own has apparently formed a small committee dedicated to sending you notifications. Suddenly, the problem looks slightly different. Perhaps you’re not struggling to concentrate.
Perhaps this room is just awful?
For years, this question never would have occurred to me. Like a lot of people, I assumed productivity was mostly about discipline. If I couldn’t focus, I just wasn’t trying hard enough. I needed a better system. A better routine. Maybe buy a nicer notebook. Because obviously this notebook was the issue. (Let’s be honest though… I was probably going to buy the notebook anyway. I do love a nice notebook.)
It never really crossed my mind that my environment might have used up half my brain before I’d even thought about turning on my laptop.
We don’t just work in our environment. We process it.
One of the strange things about productivity advice is that it tends to treat the environment like some sort of irrelevant wallpaper. It’s simply there while you sit at your desk, get your head down and crack on with your day. If you’re distracted, the assumption is usually that your mindset needs adjusting rather than your surroundings.
That has never really been my experience.
For many neurodivergent people, the environment isn’t something that quietly hangs out in the background, minding its own business. It’s often the very first thing our brain notices. Before we’ve even ventured into our inbox, our attention has already wandered around the room taking inventory. The lighting feels a bit harsh. Someone’s having a conversation in another room that we absolutely don’t want to listen to, but our ears have other ideas. There’s a smell we can’t quite identify but now can’t stop noticing. The heating has somehow managed to recreate both summer and winter within the space of ten minutes. The sleeve of our jumper keeps catching on our watch in a way that suddenly feels deeply unreasonable.
None of these are particularly dramatic on their own. They’re just little pieces of information. Tiny details. Background noise. Except they aren’t really background at all. They’re all asking our brain to process something before we’ve even started the job we came here to do. I wonder whether this is one of the biggest differences between how neurodivergent and neurotypical people experience exactly the same workspace. We can both walk into the same room, sit at the same desk and technically be doing the same job, yet our brains are processing completely different amounts of information before we’ve even opened the first email.
When you look at it like that, it’s perhaps not all that surprising that one person reaches elevenses feeling ready for another coffee, whilst the other feels like they’ve already done a full day’s work.
The sensory tax
I’ve started thinking about this as a kind of sensory tax. We all understand spending time, and we’re painfully aware of spending money because they’re things we consciously budget for. But I don’t think we spend nearly enough time talking about spending sensory energy.
Every little irritation feels too small to matter. It’s a bit like having a toddler follow you around all morning asking, “Can I just ask you one quick question?” Individually they’re perfectly manageable. By question number forty-three you’re considering moving to a cave.
A flickering light isn’t exactly a crisis. Neither is an uncomfortable chair, a humming projector, someone chewing loudly (actually… that is a crisis), or the air conditioning making that strange rattling noise that apparently nobody else can hear. On their own they’re just mildly annoying. The sort of stuff most of us shrug off.
Collectively though, they feel like a personal attack on our nervous system. Each one withdraws a little more from the same energy account you’re trying to use for concentrating, making decisions, solving problems and remembering why you walked into the kitchen. By lunchtime you’ve spent half your cognitive budget without ever agreeing to it.
It’s a bit like discovering your bank account has been steadily charging you £1.50 every few minutes all morning. You probably wouldn’t notice the first few payments. Or even the tenth. But by lunchtime you’d definitely be wondering where all your money had gone. Our brains can function in much the same way.
The frustrating part is that none of these little things are usually enough to stop us working altogether. They simply make everything trickier. Thinking takes longer. Making decisions become almost impossible. Don’t even get me started on trying to hold a conversation whilst simultaneously pretending the humming light above your head isn’t slowly consuming your last remaining ounce of patience.
By mid-afternoon we’re exhausted, pondering why we’ve achieved so little, when our brain feels like it’s completed an ultra-marathon. It’s just that most of the miles were spent processing everything except the work we sat down to do.
For ages I didn’t see any of this. I simply assumed I needed to become more disciplined. More organised. More resilient. Looking back now, I realise my brain wasn’t refusing to cooperate at all. It had simply been working incredibly hard on things I’d never even counted as work.
It’s not just physical spaces
Of course, it isn’t just physical spaces that do this. When most people think about sensory overload, they picture noisy offices, bright lights or packed trains. And yes, those absolutely can be brutally exhausting. But some of the noisiest environments I spend time in don’t make any noise at all.
They’re on my laptop.
I’ll open it on a mission to do one specific thing, and before I know it my desktop is itching my brain with all the bizarre screenshots I’ll never use, whilst the little red circle of doom on Outlook reminds me I have emails I haven’t opened.
WhatsApp is flashing away in the corner, and there are too many browser tabs open to reasonably justify. I can only assume a younger version of me thought they were all absolutely essential because I certainly can’t explain them now. I’m also fairly sure there are at least three open because I didn’t want to lose something interesting, despite not looking at them since approximately February. Somewhere underneath all of that is the piece of work I intended to do, still waving at me from behind everything else that’s competing for my attention.
Nothing feels particularly urgent on its own, but together it’s like a smoke alarm in my brain. We tend to think of interruptions as big, obvious events. A phone call. Someone walking into the room. A colleague asking a question. In reality, some of the biggest interruptions are tiny. A notification you don’t even open. A quick glance at your inbox. Deciding whether you should just check your calendar before you forget.
Each one only steals a few seconds, but before you know it you’ve spent the entire morning switching between those few seconds. By lunchtime it feels like you’ve been busy all morning yet somehow haven’t actually done anything.
Becoming a detective instead of a critic
One of the biggest changes I’ve made over the last couple of years has been changing the question I ask myself. Not because I’ve finally become brilliantly self-aware. I haven’t. My default setting is still to assume I’m the problem, and I suspect that’s true for quite a few neurodivergent people. We’ve had lots of practice.
But every now and then I catch myself halfway through telling myself I’m distracted, lazy or not concentrating properly and I stop. Instead of asking, “Why can’t I focus today?” I’ve started asking, “What’s competing for my attention?”
the answer genuinely is me. I’ve slept badly or my head is full of other things. But surprisingly often, the answer is sitting all around me. The room’s too hot. My phone won’t stop lighting up. Somebody’s mowing their lawn with the sort of enthusiasm normally reserved for international sporting events. You almost have to admire the commitment. I just wish it wasn’t always at precisely the moment my brain had finally decided to play ball. I’ve been interrupted so many times that my brain has given up trying to remember what it was doing in the first place.
I’m certainly not suggesting the environment is always to blame. Sometimes my brain has simply decided today isn’t going to be its finest performance. But I’d spent years assuming I was always the problem, and that’s a very different thing. Realising there might be other things competing for my attention turned out to be a surprisingly big shift.
I also find it fascinating how guilty we can feel about making tiny adjustments that help us. I’ll happily sit in a chair that’s making my back ache, in a room that’s too warm, whilst trying to ignore a conversation happening three metres away and pretending the constant stream of notifications isn’t bothering me. Suggest I put on some noise-cancelling headphones, though, and it feels like I’m somehow cheating.
It’s such an odd thing when you think about it. As though productivity only counts if it’s achieved under unnecessarily difficult conditions. As though struggling is somehow proof that we’re working hard enough. I have absolutely no idea where we learnt that.
These days I’m much more interested in reducing unnecessary friction than proving I can tolerate it. If moving to another room helps, I move. If softer lighting helps, I change it. If switching notifications off means I can finish what I started, that’s exactly what I do.
My husband can usually tell when I’ve reached my sensory limit because I start wandering around the house looking for somewhere my brain is prepared to cooperate. I’ll work in the office for a bit, then the kitchen, then the dining room, before eventually returning to the office like I’m presenting a particularly underwhelming episode of Location, Location, Location. Sometimes the room really was the problem. Sometimes I just needed a change of scenery. Either way, I’ve learnt to stop feeling guilty about going looking for somewhere my brain feels a little more at home.
None of those things miraculously make me brilliant at concentrating. They don’t magically transform me into one of those people who answers every email before breakfast and has a colour-coded to-do list. What they do is stop my brain wasting energy on battles it never needed to be fighting in the first place. And that’s a very different thing.
Maybe it isn’t you
If you’d asked me a few years ago why I was struggling to concentrate, I’d almost certainly have come up with a list of things I needed to fix about myself. I needed to be more disciplined. More organised. Better at managing distractions. More resilient. There was always another way I thought I ought to improve.
What never crossed my mind was that my brain might already be doing an extraordinary amount of work before I’d even started.
One of the biggest gifts of understanding my neurodivergence hasn’t been discovering some magical productivity system or becoming one of those effortlessly organised people whose desk always looks immaculate and whose inbox contains fewer than ten emails. (I’m fairly convinced those people only exist in stationery catalogues.)
Instead, it’s changed the relationship I have with my own brain.
I still have days where I can’t concentrate. I still get overwhelmed. I still read the same sentence six times and somehow retain absolutely none of it. None of that has changed. What has changed is that I don’t immediately assume it’s because I’m failing.
These days I pause for a moment and look around instead.
Have I accidentally recreated Piccadilly Circus on my laptop? Has the pressure washer returned? Is my jumper slowly trying to remove the skin from the back of my neck? Has my brain simply been filtering and adapting for so long that it’s run out of steam?
Sometimes the answer really is that I’m tired. That I just need a break. But surprisingly often, the answer is wonderfully ordinary. Turn off the notifications. Close a few tabs. Move to another room. Put the headphones on. Take the jumper off.
They’re hardly revolutionary. They don’t magically transform me into someone who colour-codes everything and always knows where they’ve left their phone. What they do is leave my brain with a little more breathing space for the things that truly matter.
It isn’t about creating the perfect environment. I don’t think such a thing exists. Life will always be noisy, unpredictable and occasionally accompanied by somebody pressure washing a patio with Olympic-level commitment. But I’ve stopped believing there’s some sort of prize for making life harder than it needs to be.
These days, whenever I find myself reading the same sentence for the sixth time, I still ask myself the question that never used to occur to me. Is it me… or is this room just awful?
More often than not, the answer is a little bit of both. The difference is that I don’t automatically assume I’m the problem anymore. Instead of trying to become tougher, I’ve become kinder. And if understanding my neurodivergence has taught me one thing, it’s this:
making life easier for yourself isn’t giving in. Sometimes it’s simply understanding yourself well enough to stop making life harder than it needs to be.
The 12 Neurodivergent Traits of Christmas (A festive guide for the spicy-brained among us)
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?
1. New year, same you!
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”.
2. Small talk
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.
3. Sensory overload season
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.
4. The Xmas spreadsheet
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.
5. Christmas work parties…
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.
6. Unwrapping presents
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.
7. ‘Must see everyone’ pressure
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.
8. Be a Christmas turtle
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…
9. Routine shuffler
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.
10. Food droughts
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!
11. Buying pressure
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!
12. Gormless guests
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!
And there we have it — the 12 Neurodiverse Traits of Christmas
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…
Reunions – Life’s Unwanted Performance Review
Let’s just start with the dictionary definition of a “Reunion.”
Reunion; noun — a social event for a group of people who have not seen each other for a long time, or a situation when people meet again after they have not seen each other for a long time.
You lost me at “social event.” Now, I am not the Grinch, and I certainly have been known to part-tay with the best of them; those youngsters got nothing on me. Well, except non-arthritic knees, a later bedtime and a better tolerance for bad music. Fuck me, stop being a cliché and get on with the blog post Morrison. Sorry, I digress.
Social gatherings present many challenges for the Neurodivergent. Reunions are top tier, premier-league when it comes to a social gathering. The timeline of pressure goes something like this:
Somewhere around your thirties you hit a little patch of melancholia. Ageing is life’s “black ice”, you come a-cropper when you least expect it, but the arc of age has waypoints and this is one. As your youth recedes common thoughts pervade and you ruminate on your mortality, achievements, success (whatever the fuck that is!). All the things we were overtly or benignly pointed at and corralled towards are suddenly up for grabs.
There’s a wistful nostalgia, pining for a simpler time, a heady scent from your youth wafts on the cognitive breeze; it’s full of heightened colours, distorted perceptions, grander adventures and energetic, forbidden discoveries. To badly paraphrase the mighty Stephen King, it’s comfortable down there, they all float down there… Nostalgia is a powerful drug. Kids, just say no!
But in a weak moment, Friday, after two glasses of vino-de-plonko, you get tagged in a post on social media. A few names get mentioned, a nickname or two, stories about escapades that you had not thought about in a long, long time. One more glass of wine and bingo, bango, FFW 3 weeks and you’re sharing messages with Carol, the bratty class tattle-tale, arguing about the venue for the “RIDE OR DIE BITCHES REUNION TOUR” (partners, significant others and life mates also welcome).
FFW 3 weeks and you’re sharing messages with Carol, the bratty class tattle-tale, arguing about the venue for the “RIDE OR DIE BITCHES REUNION TOUR” (partners, significant others and life mates also welcome).
You wake in the night screaming, “This is not my beautiful life,” and you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?” And I can answer that.
The reason for your involvement in the construction of a gateway to hell is one of social obligation, a pull towards familiar bonds, even if those are built on the mask you once had or maybe still do. Old mental subroutines, canyons of the mind, suddenly flooded with the mental backwash of years gone by.
But as you age, the energy to shore up the façade requires more and more effort. However, we tend to default to our old roles, and of course as the lowest in the school, work or other social org. the default pecking order returns and you not only get the stuff to do that no one else wants to do, you’re kind of happy that you have some sort of involvement, the other kids do want you around. Although being the “doer”, that does mean that when you’re on a committee you’re never the Chair, but are the one whose name is always against an “action item,” giving you all of the stress and none of the glory.
Even if none of this nightmare is your particular experience, just the word “reunion” is going to make your neck hairs stand up and the predator alert go off in your brain. The emotional river runs deep, the water is always freezing, and the current is fast flowing and tempestuous.
My own emotional landscape is littered with burnt-out hulks of past social gatherings positioned as “Reunions,” when they were more re-enactments of former social ostracism and, frankly, I would need a lifetime of spoons to enter into that level of combat ever again.
Obv. school reunions will feature at some point in your life. Whether invited or even if you go doesn’t matter; you’ll still experience the heart-dropping, knotted, gnawing feelings that were your daily internal struggle in class, returning all at once, with considerable compound interest.
I haven’t met everyone on the planet yet, but I have yet to meet someone who is clearly ND that had a happy time at school. I’ve met a lot of damaged people though, who have first-hand horror stories of bullying, abuse and systemic failings, all for being a “bit different.” I’ll save my own for your personal delight and edification another time, but believe me it takes a LOT of time, and considerable growth and clarity, to drop the sack of rocks weighing you down every day and no longer live under the dragweight of those specific incidents.
Here’s another point I wish to cover: Neurodivergent friendship. If you are not in my life, then that is for a reason; mostly because other people cease contact, and at some point you realise that you are the one making all the overtures, or that there are no more DMs being DMed. You get used to the “let’s meet for coffee, soon” moments and start to hear them as “I feel awkward about not being in touch, so I will suggest a vague future meet up and hope we’ll never meet again.”, it’s the “soon“, the indefinite article, making it so very real.
Friendship for a lot of NDs, esp. Autists, is all or nothing, that “Caesar or Death” mindset. I’ve got friends in my life that I have known for 40+ years, and we may not speak for weeks, maybe months. When we do it’s like no time has passed. If you are neurotypical and you have a friend like that, one of you at least is probably ND. Can’t be 100%, but of the few good friends in my life who remain, they’re the ones who will be in touch, out of the blue, and we pick up right where we left off. Right off the high board into the deep end.
But here’s the thing, that’s a one-on-one experience, a very manageable slice of people, in a dose that one can tolerate. A reuni-one, a reunion of one?! Or maybe a re-two-nion, as there are only two people present? Whatever, intermittent peopling in small bursts is doable, with enough notification and crucially, the right.fucking.venue. CAROL!
…intermittent peopling in small bursts is doable, with enough notification and crucially, the right.fucking.venue. CAROL!
As they say, you meet one ND you’ve met one ND. None of us are the same. My sensory hell may well be tolerable for others, and you may have had much gentler and kinder people around you than I did at times, when growing up, so I absolutely assume that all the above is going to be different for you. However, whenever I speak to other NDs who are aware of their own energy and peopling ability, they rarely relish a reunion.
Why rehash the past? Most of the time my earliest memories revolve around trying to fit in, not be seen, avoid the emotional turmoil and mental gymnastics of trying to figure out if it was sarcasm, idiom, analogy or direct instruction. Laid on top of auditory and visual overwhelm, plus hormones, and fluctuating energy due to being hungry or dysregulated because my uniform was hell, the classroom was too hot or cold, and a mind that would wander when bored, which was most of the time. Add all that up and then suggest I want to revisit it, and I am Nopey McNopeface.
The work reunion is no better. Let me preface this by saying: this is not a few drinks with old, familiar colleagues, that’s acceptable. As long as there’s no compulsory “fun,” and we all get to leave when we want without rancour or bantery “negging” next time we meet. That’s fine. Enjoyable even.
What I am talking about is when a company decides to have some kind of get-together of current and/or old workforce and throws a party. Usually around some foundational milestone or other “historic” moment in the company’s past. Maybe even a retirement for a long-standing member of the team.
These can be cringefests, and totally worth playing the “grandparent’s death” card to avoid. An event where there are some absolute guarantees:
A carpet of beige food lines the tables against one wall, none is marked for allergens, so that’s you not eating all night. A DJ plays a mix of Ibiza bangers and childcare nursery rhymes set to a disco beat, weirdly they sound essentially the same, all the while people whose limbs do not coordinate when walking try to recreate the coordinated dance troupe from the Thriller video. With about as much success as you would have with real-life corpses. Plus some kind of speech or announcement from someone who has zero oratory or microphone skills. Somehow they are both too loud and inaudible.
All the while Alan from “Technical Department” ignores the speechifying and rattles on about that time you did that thing and luckily (for you) he spotted that it was wrong, and you had to then get this signed off by this other department manager… all the while standing too close for the toxic level of deodorant deployed that’s still failing to overcome his noxious body odour and coffee-breath, a one-two knockout combo.
We’re now back to the “entertainment,” and everyone is whispering despite the full Glasto main-stage volume level of the DJ’s kit, and yet no one can make out what he says when he speaks into the mic, which is frequently, and seemingly at random. “Heeeess warn fur thaaa layydeees, gert ahn that darnssssssflawwww…” Ace of Spades by Motörhead blares out… WT actual effing effington. Fuck.
Now, I know I paint a rosy picture, but don’t be sucked in. You will hate yourself if you go and try to scratch a nostalgic itch. It won’t work. It’s like taking an industrial sander with 80-grit discs to soothe some mild sunburn, about as enjoyable as a cactus dildo, similar amount of pricks to deal with though. There will be screaming and running for the exits if/as/when it goes wrong.
Recently I was invited to an old friends’ reunion. This was organised pre-official diagnosis, but the event was scheduled just after. I was asked by the organiser to attend, and I agreed. But the closer we got, the more I felt internal resistance, and then after the diagnosis I was off-kilter. I knew what the result of the assessments would be, because when you know, you know, right? And yet some small part of you thinks, “No, not me, surely, I am just a bit odd.”
Anyway, to then have to go and navigate a social landscape that expects me to be “old” me when I am not even sure who that person was back then. Certainly a lot younger, but also very dysregulated at a very unhappy part of my life, combined with expectations, assumptions, and a genuine 24-carat arsehole I’ve no wish to spend any time with ever again, who offends my DNA with his presence and for whom I would happily undergo amnesia therapy to erase from my brain. Yeah. The resistance is strong…
So, although I said I would go, I didn’t. Spent the entire evening feeling guilt, shame, and avoiding social media. Then add a few days spiralling around the well of despair that I had let people down. And yet, no one got in touch after, apart from the host with a “where were you?” cue more shame and guilt, even though they graciously and fully understood.
Not that friendship is a test, but if anyone had truly missed my presence then a “missed you, hope you’re well” from others attending is the least you might expect? There may have been major relief at the weirdo not coming, or I may be reading waaaaaaaay too much into all of this and after all “it’s just a reunion Stuart.”
But here’s the thing for NDs: there’s no “just” about it. If the above jumble of metaphors, analogies and scenarios resonates then I am sure that no apology to you is required. You can feel the emotional vibration, the level of overthinking, and the ball of frayed knots in yer innards for days before and after.
And then there’s the “Family Reunion”, the smackdown, title fight of Reunions… let’s not go there… We’ll save that for another blog.
Here’s the thing: we’re all different. Don’t let my experience cloud your own enjoyment of anything which gives you a smile and a lift. Go do it and ignore this old curmudgeon with no new friends!
IMPORTANT MESSAGE
If you’re struggling there is help. If you need to speak to someone, bigmoosecharity.co — this is free, emergency mental health support. If you need them, click the link and send them a message. They reply within 24 hrs and you will be speaking to someone within 7 days.
Neurodivergent Holidays – Packing, Panic & Pretending to Relax
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.
The holiday anxiety starts the moment someone suggests it
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.
Airport security: my face says “drug mule”
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.’
The real problem: control, or lack thereof
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.
When everyone is spicy: family holidays and sensory chaos
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.
The “relaxation” myth
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.
The holiday hangover: three weeks for a one-week break
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 fantasy holiday (and why it involves nobody else)
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.
Redefining what a “good holiday” looks like
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.
Permission time!
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.”
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!