Giving the Name to Silent Struggles

 

For most of my life, I quietly carried struggles I didn’t know had names. I assumed everyone else faced the same things, but they just handled them better. They weren’t overwhelmed. They didn’t collapse in exhaustion after socializing. They didn’t panic over changes in plans. They didn’t fall behind on “simple” tasks. 

Not like I did. 

Or worse, I believed these struggles were personal failings. Things I was supposed to fix. If I just tried harder. Focused more. Grew up. Got over it. Wasn’t so sensitive. Pulled it together. 

It was a quiet, constant background hum: what is wrong with me? 

When I was diagnosed with AuDHD—a combination of Autism and ADHD—it was like someone handed me a translation guide to my own brain. For the first time, I had a reason. A real one. Not an excuse. Not a flaw. But an explanation. And now I’m learning what it means to stop masking. To stop bending myself into someone else’s shape. To start working with my brain instead of constantly fighting it. 

Here are just some of the things I’ve carried that I thought were shameful, weird, or personal defects until I realized they were simply part of how my neurodivergent brain works: 

🧩 Sensory landmines. Crushing headaches, nausea, itchiness, or total sensory overload triggered by smells, sounds, lights, clothes, foods, or temperatures that often seemingly came out of nowhere. 

🧩 Hyperfocus vs. derailment. I can get so deeply focused I forget to eat, drink, or pee. Or I can be completely thrown off by a flickering light, a shift in tone, or an offhand comment, and end up staring at a screen, paralyzed for an hour. 

🧩 Instructions aren’t linear. “Simple” step-by-step directions often felt like lily pads scattered across a windy pond that were hard to see, easy to miss, and nearly impossible to follow in order. 

🧩 The Blue Screen crash. I’d ride a wave of momentum and finally feel like I was succeeding… until my brain would crash like a sudden system error. Everything would freeze. 

🧩 Overthinking interactions. A glance, a tone, an offhand remark that my brain would put on loop and analyze for days, even when I knew it probably meant nothing. 

🧩 Vanishing information. I could be listening carefully, aware it was important, but five seconds later, my brain would chuck it in the mental recycling bin. 

🧩 Emotional burnout mid-jump. I’d leap between school, work, parties, theatre, social events—like everyone else seemed to do—but I’d crash somewhere in the middle and not know why. 

🧩 Rehearsed reality. I found joy in mentally rehearsing conversations or playing out stories. Then felt weird and ashamed for doing something that gave me comfort. 

🧩 The dopamine tug-of-war. I constantly craved something new and exciting to wake up my brain, while simultaneously begging for predictable structure so I didn’t drown in chaos. 

🧩 The myth of habit-building. Forming habits felt like chasing a magical unicorn—mysterious, mythical, and always one step out of reach. 

🧩 Meltdowns and recovery. A sudden change of plans or the unexpected could set off an emotional volcano. Sometimes I’d need to yell or rock in private just to regulate again. 

🧩 Social anxiety on delay. I’d enthusiastically say “yes!” to an invite… then minutes later, spiral into panic trying to figure out how to be socially acceptable in the moment. 

🧩 Slow-download processing. I’d eventually receive a question or instruction… but it sometimes felt like it was being delivered by a drunk carrier pigeon circling my house. 

🧩 Mental movie marathons. I’d beg myself to focus in class or meetings, but my brain would start playing entire movies or dialogues in the background, and sometimes they were more vivid than reality. 

For years, I thought these things were proof that I was broken. Now I know they’re part of being neurodivergent. 

I haven’t mastered it. Not even close. But I’m done treating these traits as shameful secrets. I’m done pretending. I’m not broken. I’m just wired differently. And for the first time, I’m learning to honour that wiring.

Do you ever experience some of these challenges? If you do, let go of the shame.