Here We Go Again. . . Saddle Up!

 

I’ve been trying to figure out how to write this kind of update without it turning into a confessional booth mashup between a sad blog and a therapy session where the patient talks too much. But here it goes:

I’m still here. I’m still writing. I’m still not writing nearly enough.

And I think I’ve finally figured out why—at least, partly.

Turns out, I’ve been playing this whole writing game on expert mode without knowing it. I just thought everyone’s brain flooded them with 152 ideas a day, none of which could be ranked by priority, logic, or deadline. I assumed it was normal to start a review about a Pixar movie and then, halfway through, switch over to researching who invented toast. Not toast recipes. Just toast. I thought everyone panicked over “missing the moment,” even if the moment was something only a pop culture site run by caffeinated algorithm chasers cared about.

Spoiler: they don’t. And most of us aren’t even trying to be that site.

But here’s the thing I’ve finally accepted: my brain is neurodivergent. And instead of treating it like a broken vending machine that spits out ideas randomly and eats quarters (read: time and energy), I’m learning to see it more like an experimental jazz musician. Not everyone gets the tune—but when it lands, it really lands.

So, let’s rewind a bit.

This year has had a fresh piece of content every single day, but if you expect things that aren't repurposed social media posts?. I am…less consistent. But not for lack of trying or topics or intention. I just can’t make the ideas travel from brain to fingers fast enough before anxiety, overwhelm, or life throws in a plot twist.

And now, I know why.

I now have a word bank of things like “executive dysfunction” and “time blindness” and “emotional dysregulation,” and they don’t sound like excuses anymore—they sound like context. Which, frankly, is a relief. I always thought I just lacked discipline. I thought if I could just “get my act together” (whatever that means), I’d finally live up to my potential. Turns out, I wasn’t lazy or distracted or forgetful on purpose. I was neurodivergent. And masking like it was an Olympic event.

Here’s where things shift.

I used to see my neurodivergence as the villain in this story. The reason I couldn’t post five movie reviews in a week or write the brilliant think piece I drafted in my head during a walk with the dog. But now I’m starting to see it as the engine behind the ideas. The reason I can make unusual connections. The reason my writing can bounce from heartfelt to silly to deeply thoughtful in the span of three paragraphs (or, let’s be real, three sentences).

So what now?

Well, I’m going to stop trying to be timely in a world that moves faster than I’m built for. If I have something to say about a movie that came out three weeks ago—or three decades ago—I’m going to say it. If I want to write a tribute to an actor who passed away five years ago but their work still moves me today, I’m going to write it. If I want to write serialized fiction that only a handful of people read but makes me feel alive? Guess what? It’s happening.

I’m no longer going to toss an article just because the world moved on. The world always moves on. But I haven’t. And that has to matter.

I’ll keep practicing compassion. For the part of me that’s still learning how to start things. For the part that gets overwhelmed by too many tabs open—both in my browser and my brain. And for the part that still thinks a “real writer” wakes up at 6am, finishes 2,000 words before breakfast, and never cries over an unfinished review about a movie squirrel.

But I’m also going to lean into this weird, wondrous wiring of mine. I’m going to let my brain chase the tangents. I’m going to let the metaphors pile up like mismatched socks. I’m going to trust that my voice—this combination of nostalgia, pop culture, heart-on-my-sleeve honesty, and dad-joke-level humour—is worth sharing, even if it’s not “fresh.”

Because here’s what I’ve realized: my audience isn’t here for hot takes. They’re here for my takes. For the quirks and the heart and the messy passion behind the words.

So, expect more reviews. Some current, some classic. Expect reflections, confessions, and probably way too many analogies involving toys, movie trailers, or my kids wielding Tonka trucks like medieval weapons. Expect fiction. Expect surprises.

And above all else, expect me to keep showing up—not because I’ve finally “fixed” myself, but because I’ve started honouring who I’ve always been.

And who I’ve always been?

A writer.

Just maybe not the kind I thought I had to be.