The Year of No Paycheques (Yet): Riding the Burnout Rollercoaster with My AuDHD Brain

 

As of writing this, it’s May 2025. I’ve made zero dollars this year. None. Not even a rogue five-dollar bill that fluttered into my pocket from the universe whispering, “You tried.” 

And no, this isn’t a clever metaphor. I haven’t landed a single paying gig since New Year’s fireworks fizzled out. The irony is that I’ve never worked harder, worried more, or fought so viciously with the empty Google Doc blinking at me like a judgmental robot. Burnout has been my unwanted houseguest—again. 

You know the type. Shows up unannounced, eats all your spoons, leaves dirty dishes in the emotional sink, and whispers cruel things about your self-worth while you’re brushing your teeth. Classic burnout. 

But this time, there’s a twist in the saga of my freelance spiral. Because now I have a flashlight to shine into the darker corners of this maze: my AuDHD diagnosis. For the first time in 47 years, I actually understand why I crash so hard, why my brain runs on equal parts ambition and panic, and why I have 37 tabs open—both in Chrome and in life. 

This past year has felt like trying to build IKEA furniture with half the instructions, while a squirrel throws emotional wrenches at my head. I’ve ping-ponged between hope and despair, productivity and paralysis. I’ve convinced myself I was both a misunderstood genius and a failed fraud—sometimes in the same hour. 

 And lately, the narrative that’s been gnawing at me the most: “Maybe I peaked. Maybe I don’t have it anymore.” Cue dramatic spotlight and orchestra of self-doubt. I’ve spent months pitching ad copy gigs, tweaking proposals, cold emailing into the void, all with the subtle desperation of a man holding out hope that this follow-up will be the one that finally leads to a decent contract and not just another polite “we went in another direction.” (I hope that direction involved at least reading my email.) 

But the truth is, trying to chase that type of work has only left me more drained. I kept pushing because it felt like the practical thing to do—stable, grown-up, bill-paying work. Except it’s not panning out. And worse: it’s not filling me up. It’s draining what’s left of my creative fuel. 

So, I’m shifting lanes. Or rather, I’m finally steering into the lane I’ve always wanted to be in—pop culture, parenting, mental health, and creative writing. This is the stuff that makes my weird, overly analytical, story-soaked brain light up like a stage on opening night. I’m pivoting (yes, the Friends kind) toward pitching articles that matter to me—to sites and magazines where I can bring the full messy truth of fatherhood, neurodivergence, and what it means to care too much about fictional characters. 

And alongside that, I’m rebuilding Beyond the Balcony. I want this space to reflect my full self again, not just the burnt-out guy trying to land a client, but the pop culture geek, the dad with too many thoughts, the overthinker, the dreamer, the storyteller. 

The Movie Breakdown is part of that too. We’ve been through ups and downs, but the mic is still on, and I’m eager to bring new energy to that show, to dig deeper, laugh louder, and share what movies and stories still teach me when the world feels like it’s shaking apart. 

 And yes. It’s finally time. Time to stop waiting for permission and start building the fiction career I’ve always circled like a cautious deer. I have stories—so many stories—and the only way they’re going to get told is if I start telling them. This isn’t a triumphant declaration. This is a toe-touching-the-water post. 

I’m still scared. Still overwhelmed. Still doing daily battle with the self-sabotaging gremlins in my head. But I’m also learning—slowly—that living with AuDHD means I need a different map. One where rest counts as progress, where joy is strategy, and where I stop treating my wiring like a bug instead of a feature. 

Thanks for sticking with me, even when the updates are more “nervous monologue” than “career highlight reel.” If you’re in a similar place—burned out, stuck, doubting your worth—I see you. You’re not alone. We’re still here, still writing the next act. And sometimes, that’s enough.