Wired for Wonder: A Neurodivergent Mental Health Manifesto

Content Note: This piece discusses mental health, depression, and neurodivergent struggles in a personal context. It is not a clinical overview, but a lived experience.

For most of my life, I believed I was broken. 

Therapy opened my eyes: I’m not broken. I’m neurodivergent. 

The Questions That Haunted Me 

When I began Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) in January, I was desperate. Years of battling depression, shame, and crumbling self-esteem had left me stuck on the Cursed Ferris Wheel of Perpetual Despair and Failure—spinning endlessly with no way off. 

I wanted answers to lifelong mysteries: 

• Why do simple tasks feel like climbing Everest in flip-flops? 

• Why do I oscillate between being the life of the party and needing a nap from talking? 

• Why can a casual comment—like how I chopped lettuce—ruin my whole day? 

• Why do I recall obscure WWF or movie trivia but blank on entire conversations? 

• Why do I sabotage myself, especially when things are going well? 

These questions followed me like Slimer from Ghostbusters racing after a snack cart. I was sure something was deeply, inherently wrong with me. Early therapy sessions revealed the weight of childhood baggage I'd been lugging around for decades. Teachers called me distractible and careless. I was punished for being "lazy" when I struggled to focus. I remember staring longingly out the window during recess, wishing I were "normal" enough to finish my work and join the fun. Report cards spoke in a code I now understand: "immature," "easily distracted," "underachieving." And bullying from peers confirmed the rest—clearly, I was odd and unworthy. 

A Diagnosis That Changed Everything 

Those messages stuck. I internalized them and spent decades chasing approval and performing tricks for compliments. I was always trying to fit but perpetually getting stuck. Then came the truth bomb: I wasn’t broken. I was neurodivergent. 

In November, I was officially diagnosed with AuDHD—autism and ADHD. Suddenly, my lifelong internal tug-of-war made sense. My autistic craving for structure clashed with ADHD-fueled impulsivity. I wasn’t lazy or weird. I was navigating life with a brain wired for wonder in a world built for assembly-line thinkers. 

I masked for 47 years to survive. But masking drains your battery—it sucks your soul dry. There were times I'd come home in a haze barely remembering my name and feeling like just walking into the kitchen was more challenging than winning a Super Bowl.

I am unique, not lesser. 

That phrase—gifted to me by my therapist—became a lifeline. 

What AuDHD Looks Like for Me 

Understanding my neurodivergence brought everything into focus: 

• Executive Dysfunction: Starting or switching tasks feels like arm wrestling a grizzly. 

• Working Memory Woes: Mid-task, I forget what I’m doing. Mid-conversation, I forget what you just said. 

• Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria: A tiny critique, and it feels like my emotional village was scorched by a rejection dragon.

• Emotional Dysregulation: My moods don’t walk—they rollercoaster with a few loop-de-loop.

• Pathological Demand Avoidance: If I have to do it, I suddenly can’t do it. 

• All-or-Nothing Thinking: It’s either perfect or a dumpster fire.

• Processing Variability: I either respond like a lightning bolt or a streaming video in 1999.

• Impulsivity: Sometimes I speak or act before my brain has clocked in for the day. 

• Attention Dysregulation: Mundane task? My brain just left for unauthorized vacation. 

• Stress Over Change: Surprise disruptions feel like I've been cursed with eternal head spinning.

• Cognitive Burnout: Socializing is fun—until I'm feeling like life under a steamroller.

• Masking: Hiding my authentic self to meet society’s unwritten rules. 

• Narrow Focus: Laser-beamed into one interest while the rest of life becomes vapor. 

• Double Empathy Problem: Misunderstandings between neurodivergents and neurotypicals go both ways, but it is the neurodivergents who are expected to change.

• Stimming: Fidgeting, pacing, talking to myself, or play-acting helps me self-soothe or untangle my thoughts. 

This wasn’t about excuses. It was a curtain finally being ripped open. It was clarity. True explanations. Now, I knew why I thrive leading a chaotic camp-wide event but panic at an Excel spreadsheet. Why I love people yet often feel like I’m a performing monkey yearning for some banana-based validation.  Why can I write stories until 2 a.m. but crash after a 30-minute business Zoom call? 

From Survival to Strength 

I used to feel ashamed for talking to myself or acting out imagined scenes. Now, I see it for what it is: regulation. Joy. Processing. Play. The brain I spent years trying to "fix" is beautiful. And frankly? Kinda fun. 

So much of the world sees ADHD as fidgety kids, and autism as seen in Rain Man. But the truth is far more nuanced—and often invisible unless you’re living it. I was embarrassed when I got my diagnosis. I feared the stigma.  Now, I want to live it loudly. 

My neurodivergence brings gifts: 

• Creativity: I designed elaborate treasure hunts for my Grade 2 classmates that felt like Spielberg adventures. 

• Empathy and Passion: I bond deeply with my kids through imaginative play. 

• Performance Skills: The stage feels like home—finally, a script for my forever-improvised life. 

• Pattern Recognition: I spot connections in stories and people others might miss, making me a strong writer, critic, and commentator.

Achievements Despite the Struggle 

For years, I felt like I was failing at life. 

But I have:

• A loving marriage with Emily, my fierce and funny co-adventurer. 

• Two incredible kids, Everett and Danika, who inspire me daily. 

• Earned a scholarship while at university, despite my brain treating every assignment like I was juggling chainsaws.

• A camp leader and program director who created a life-changing experience that I still hear about from campers.  

• Articles that have reached and resonated with large audiences. 

• A podcast recognized by Spreaker Prime. 

• Deep friendships and chosen family. 

I did all this while unknowingly wrestling a brain wired differently. That’s not failure. That's resiliency. That’s proof I can slay life's gargoyles and dance past the fireballs.  

What I'm Learning to Do Now 

I know now that many of my struggles weren’t character flaws. They were symptoms—of undiagnosed neurodivergence, of burnout, of living in a world not built for me. I’m committed to unmasking and living as my full self. It’s hard. But it’s worth it. 

Here’s what I’m working on: 

• Finding a CBT therapist who understands neurodivergence. 

• Keeping a compliment and thought journal to quiet the inner critic. 

• Embracing “done is better than perfect.” 

• Breaking overwhelming tasks into small, doable steps. 

• Surrounding myself with people who see and appreciate me. 

• Noticing and naming all wins—especially the small ones. 

I’m also letting go of blame. Some educators lacked the tools to support me. Some peers misunderstood me. That’s not on me. And I forgive them. More importantly, I forgive myself. 

The People Who Helped Me See Myself 

I didn't get here alone. So many people helped me feel seen before I knew my true self: 

• My parents, who encouraged my wild imagination. 

• Teachers and mentors who helped me fall in love with learning again. 

• Friends like David Wierzbicki, who built imaginary worlds with me that felt fully alive.

• Creative homes like Playful Fox Productions and Community on Stage, where I’m free to shine.

• Advocates like Steve Archibald, Tim Teakle, John Blackman, and Scott Martin, who championed me when I didn’t yet champion myself. 

• New friends like Brandon Oliver, Carolyn Ho, and Avery Neff-Kingsley, who’ve supported me post-diagnosis. 

And Emily. My wife—loving, insightful, patient beyond measure. I’m learning to let her into my internal world, so she can navigate with me through meltdowns, overstimulation, and the hard days. I love her more deeply than words can hold.

If you love someone who is neurodivergent, know that your patience, curiosity, and belief in them make a world of difference. We know we can be challenging. Our brain is a constant challenge. But feeling your understanding, compassion, and acknowledgment is a game changer.

 A Final Word to Anyone Who Feels This Too 

I want to tell stories that make people feel seen. I want to be a better dad, a truer artist, a louder advocate. But first, I have to offer myself the same compassion I so freely give to others. 

I once believed I was defective. 

But I’m not. 

I’m wired for wonder. 

I’m worthy of love. 

I'm here to stay.

And by loving myself first, I can finally love others fully.

If any part of this feels familiar, know this: You are not alone. I see you.