The Daily Disruption That Brings Light to My Day

For the last two years, Everett and Danika were walking to school without me. Up until then, I had walked them both to and from school almost every day. My reason for stepping back was simple: those two walks ate up close to 80 minutes of my day, which was time I felt I needed for work. By the time the kids got home, it was about cello practice, singing, refereeing squabbles, and then rushing into dinner and whatever evening activity was on the schedule. Once they were finally in bed, I was drained.

That meant my actual working hours were 9:20 a.m. to 3 p.m., and even then, that time was cut into by letting the dog out, eating lunch, going to appointments, or answering the door for the repairman. Letting the kids walk themselves gave me more space to focus.

The problem, of course, is that I didn’t have much actual paid work during those years. It was a cycle of pitching ideas or melting down over how I was failing as a husband, dad, writer, and human being. I chalked it all up to depression and anxiety.

And they were there. But after many appointments with my doctor and sessions with a cognitive behavioral therapist, I learned that much of my depression, anxiety, and burnout actually came from undiagnosed autism and ADHD.

I’m still in the “mourning” stage of a late diagnosis, where I'm figuring out the best tools for my brain, naming my challenges, and trying to stop carrying around the sacks of shame and self-hatred I lugged for decades. My career isn’t soaring, and Beyond the Balcony and The Movie Breakdown podcast aren’t yet where I’ve promised. But now I at least understand why some of those struggles exist.

Which brings me back to the school walks.

Everett is now in high school and rides with Emily, since she teaches at the same school. That leaves Danika heading to elementary school on her own. She asked me to walk her to the lights outside our subdivision in the morning (our very busy road crossing) and to meet her there in the afternoon. Emily and my parents felt strongly that I should go too.

At first, I pushed back. Not at Danika, but inside. It frustrated me. I couldn’t figure out why, especially when I adore my daughter and had the time to do it.

Then it clicked.

My autistic side resisted because it disrupted the routine I’d built: saying goodbye, grabbing coffee, playing a quick brain game, then diving into pitching and writing. That predictability was comforting. My ADHD shame resisted because walking her during “workday time” felt like proof I wasn’t successful. In my head, successful people stayed chained to their desks from 9 to 5. Taking time to walk with my daughter highlighted that I wasn’t ‘normal.’ It echoed all the ways I’d been judged as lazy and accused of not reaching my potential my whole life.

And of course, ADHD never stops reminding me of the hundreds of tasks I haven’t finished. With appointments to make, projects to land, and dishes still in the sink, even forty minutes for a walk felt like another weight pulling me down. And once any routine is disrupted, the executive dysfunction often thrives by derailing my productivity further.

But I do walk her. Every morning to the lights, and now every afternoon I meet her there, too. (We had to work out a system after she kept playing with friends and leaving me waiting.) I bring Frio along, and he’s thrilled with the extra outings. I get those quiet minutes to talk with Danika about her plans for the day or hear how it went. Those small walks have become a grounding ritual—for her, for me, and even for the dog.

A routine can’t last forever. My ADHD knows this; my autism would prefer otherwise. But I’m realizing something important: disruptions aren’t always the enemy. Sometimes they become the very thing that steadies you, the gift you didn’t know you needed. These walks don’t prove I’m not working hard enough. They prove I’m showing up, in my own way, on my own terms, and that’s success worth keeping.