47 Years of Beating Myself Up (and What I Learned Instead)

For 47 years, I carried guilt and shame like a trusty backpack. I thought I was broken. I thought if I just tried harder, pushed more, or forced myself to be “normal,” I’d finally manage to do the things that seemed so effortless for everyone else.

Of course, I didn’t have the language then. I didn’t know about AuDHD—my unique wiring of autism and ADHD. All I knew was that daily life often felt like trying to sprint through a swamp in a bear costume while everyone else casually strolled across a paved sidewalk.

Now I can see that what I once thought of as personal failures were actually my brain asking for understanding. Here are ten things I beat myself up over for decades. The things that now make a lot more sense through the lens of AuDHD.

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1. The verbal-instruction black hole.
If directions lasted longer than a single sentence, they evaporated. Someone might as well have been teaching me by farting into a tuba—it would’ve been equally effective.

2. The parasite memory.
One awkward interaction or tiny mistake would latch onto my brain like a parasite, making it impossible to focus on anything else for hours… sometimes even days.

3. Creativity vs. execution.
I’d be electrified by massive, world-shaking creative ideas—only to get paralyzed the second it came time to organize and implement them.

4. The social roulette wheel.
Before any social event, I’d lose sleep wondering which version of me would show up: the energetic, joyful one or the burnt-out, cranky, withdrawn one.

5. Hide-and-seek with my own belongings.
Forty-five minutes tearing the house apart for keys… only to discover them clipped to my belt loop. Or I’d make a special “must always put it here” spot—then promptly forget to use it.

6. My brain vs. my mouth.
Thoughts ricocheted so fast that words came out jumbled, misused, or jammed together in a pile-up. Sometimes I’d freeze completely as 53 ideas collided in my head. (My wife particularly loves when I mix up “rehearsal” and “audition.”)

7. The social checklist.
Smile. Say hi. Make eye contact. Don’t forget to… oh no, someone just spoke to me and I wasn’t ready.

8. Loving and hating sensory overload.
Part of me absolutely loved the lights, smells, and energy of exciting places—while another part of me fought nausea and dagger-like stabbing pain through my body.

9. The doomed routines.
Every so often, I’d stumble upon the perfect routine and feel like I’d finally mastered life. Then, a few weeks later, my brain would gleefully set it on fire.

10. The instinct to hide.
I spent decades hiding my passions, quirks, and interests because they seemed immature, odd, or alienating. I thought I was protecting myself. Really, I was just shrinking.

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It took me nearly half a century to realize none of these things made me a failure. They weren’t signs that I was lazy, flaky, or “not trying hard enough.” They were signs that my brain worked differently—that it needed grace and understanding, not shame.

Imagine how much gentler life could be if we gave ourselves that grace sooner. Imagine if we taught our kids, our peers, and ourselves that different isn’t broken—that it’s just different.

I’m still learning to live that way. But for the first time in my life, I’m no longer carrying the weight of believing I’m defective. I’m carrying the knowledge that I’m wired differently—and that’s more than okay.