Over the years, I’ve worked with a lot of neurodivergent people carrying the same fear: that their struggles meant something was fundamentally wrong with them.
They spent years being treated like their differences were problems to fix, hide, overcome, or apologize for.
People pushing themselves to exhaustion trying to seem “normal.”
People becoming experts at looking “fine.”
People hiding overwhelm, confusion, sensory pain, emotional intensity, or support needs because they were afraid of how others would react.
After enough conversations like these, I started writing something that eventually became The Neurodivergent Manifesto.
Part of it reads:
“We are not failed neurotypical people.”
“A person can struggle and still deserve dignity.”
“We deserve lives that do not require self-erasure.”
A lot of neurodivergent people learn early that authenticity comes with consequences.
As a result, they adapt.
They monitor themselves constantly. Rehearse conversations. Hide stress. Push through overload. Suppress needs. Become whoever other people seem most comfortable with.
And after doing that long enough, many end up carrying a deep sense of shame without fully realizing where it came from.
The problem was never simply being different, but rather existing in environments where difference was treated like failure.
Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.
A lot of relationships slowly break down because crucial conversations never happen.
Needs go unspoken. Expectations remain unclear. Hurt feelings are sensed but never addressed, while frustration and emotional distance build beneath the surface.
This can be especially true in neurodivergent relationships, where communication styles may differ significantly. One person may communicate directly and literally, while the other relies more on tone, implication, or indirect emotional cues.
As a result, both people may believe they’re being clear while still misunderstanding each other completely.
This dynamic is often linked to what’s known as the double empathy problem: the idea that communication breakdowns happen both ways between neurodivergent and neurotypical people, rather than one person simply “failing” socially.
For many neurodivergent people, conflict itself can feel overwhelming. Fear of rejection, criticism, or emotional invalidation may lead us to avoid difficult conversations altogether. We might people-please, withdraw, or hope the tension simply disappears on its own.
But unspoken problems rarely stay small.
This is where explicit communication becomes so important. Saying things clearly and openly can reduce confusion and prevent resentment from growing in the background.
Sometimes that means saying:
“When you went quiet earlier, I started worrying you were upset with me. Was that the case?”
“I’m sensing tension between us, and I’d rather talk about it than make assumptions.”
“I need clearer communication right now because I’m struggling to read between the lines.”
“When plans change suddenly, I feel anxious and disconnected. Can you give me more warning next time?”
“I know you may not have intended it this way, but I felt hurt by what happened.”
“I’m feeling emotionally overwhelmed and need reassurance that we’re okay.”
“Can we talk about what each of us expects here instead of assuming we’re on the same page?”
“I’m avoiding this conversation because I’m scared of conflict, but I still think it’s important we have it.”
These conversations may feel vulnerable, especially if past experiences taught us that honesty leads to conflict or shame. That said, vulnerability also creates the possibility for understanding and repair.
Through explicit communication, we can create enough clarity and safety that both people feel seen, heard, and emotionally understood.
Healthy relationships likewise often depend less on mind-reading and more on the willingness to communicate openly and compassionately. The conversations we avoid are sometimes the very ones that could bring us closer together.
Have you experienced communication mismatches in relationships?
Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.
For many neurodivergent people, relationships can feel confusing, intense, or emotionally exhausting. We may crave closeness while also fearing rejection, criticism, abandonment, or emotional overwhelm.
Often, this begins early in life.
Growing up autistic or ADHD in a world that doesn’t always understand neurodivergence can leave lasting emotional impacts. Repeated experiences of invalidation, exclusion, bullying, or inconsistency can shape the way we connect with other people. Over time, this may contribute to insecure attachment patterns.
Some people become anxiously attached, constantly seeking reassurance and closeness. Others become avoidant, learning to rely only on themselves because connection no longer feels emotionally safe. Some experience a mixture of both.
This can create painful relationship dynamics. For example, an anxiously attached person may repeatedly pursue emotionally unavailable partners, mistaking the emotional highs and lows for genuine love or connection.
But emotional intensity is not the same thing as emotional safety.
The encouraging reality is that attachment can change. Healing is possible through what psychologists sometimes call “earned secure attachment,” developing a stronger sense of trust and safety through positive, consistent relationships over time.
And those relationships don’t always have to be romantic.
For many neurodivergent people, healing starts with a therapist, a close friend, a family member, or even a pet. Animals especially can offer a form of connection that feels steady, accepting, and emotionally grounding.
Consistent care matters. Safe relationships slowly teach the nervous system that connection does not always lead to shame, abandonment, or rejection.
Those experiences cumulatively can reshape how we relate to ourselves and to others.
Healing neurodivergent attachment wounds doesn’t happen overnight. But with enough safe, supportive experiences, it is possible to feel more secure, connected, and emotionally grounded in relationships.
Have you had a person—or even a pet—who helped you feel safer and more secure over time?
Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.
One of the lesser-discussed challenges of ADHD and autism is dopamine dysregulation.
Many neurodivergent people live with brains that struggle to maintain consistent dopamine levels, which can create an ongoing need for stimulation, novelty, or emotional engagement.
This often happens after work, during weekends, or anytime structure suddenly disappears. Once the external demands stop, neurodivergent individuals can be left feeeling flat, understimulated, emotionally depleted, or even mildly depressed.
To cope with dopamine dysregulation, many people instinctively seek fast sources of stimulation. This might look like binge eating sugar or carbs, marathon gaming sessions, doom-scrolling social media, impulse shopping, or endlessly consuming content online.
These behaviors are often attempts to regulate a nervous system struggling with dopamine dysregulation.
One healthier approach comes from cognitive behavioral therapy, specifically a strategy called behavioral activation. The idea is that engaging in activities that create a sense of mastery and pleasure can improve mood and reduce depressive symptoms.
For neurodivergent folks, this can be especially powerful when the activity directly addresses dopamine dysregulation by providing meaningful stimulation.
This is where special interests and passions become important. Writing, art, music, coding, puzzles, Lego builds, crafting, researching niche topics, or creating content online can all help regulate dopamine levels in a sustainable way.
These activities work because they provide both pleasure through stimulation and enjoyment, and mastery through progress, accomplishment, and skill-building.
That combination can help counter the emotional crashes associated with dopamine dysregulation.
Importantly, these activities do not need to be massive or energy-intensive. In fact, the best tools for managing dopamine dysregulation are often small, repeatable, and easy to engage with consistently.
A 20-minute creative session, practicing a song, organizing a collection, or working on a passion project may provide enough stimulation to shift the nervous system out of a slump.
Many autistic and ADHD individuals are taught to feel ashamed of their intense interests. But in reality, these passions may serve an important self-regulation function. Special interests can help stabilize mood and soothe the effects of dopamine dysregulation in ways neurotypical people may not fully understand.
While dopamine dysregulation can make everyday life feel emotionally exhausting for autistic and ADHD individuals, understanding what your brain is actually seeking can help you respond with compassion rather than shame.
What activities help you manage dopamine dysregulation? Are there special interests or hobbies that reliably pull you out of a slump? I’d love to hear your experiences in the comments.
Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.
When people hear the word accessibility, they often think of ramps, elevators, wheelchair access, and accessible parking spaces. These accommodations are essential—but they’re also only part of the picture.
What often gets overlooked are the needs of people with invisible disabilities, including autistic and ADHD individuals.
You can walk into a space that appears inclusive on paper and still find yourself completely shut out of the experience.
Maybe the room acoustics are terrible, making it impossible to hear someone speaking. Maybe multiple conversations happening at once create sensory overload. Maybe fluorescent lighting feels physically painful. Maybe there’s no quiet space to decompress when things become overwhelming.
For someone with auditory processing challenges, ADHD, autism, sensory sensitivities—or a combination of these—these barriers can make participation exhausting.
I recently found myself in a community setting that was technically accessible. It had clear accommodations for physical disabilities, which was genuinely great to see.
But every time someone spoke into a microphone, they stood too far away for their voice to be heard clearly. Instead of hearing words, I heard muffled echoes and background noise.
Then came the social portion of the event, which was crowded, loud, and acoustically chaotic.
I wanted connection. I wanted community.
Pexels/Ekaterina Belinskaya
Instead, I found myself overwhelmed and frustrated.
And this is where many institutions miss the mark: accessibility often focuses on what can be easily seen while ignoring what can’t.
Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.
One of the more confusing realities of being neurodivergent is realizing you can genuinely enjoy people while also feeling completely depleted by them.
For years, I interpreted this contradiction as a personality flaw.
I’d spend large chunks of my week surrounded by people—clients, classmates, colleagues, friends, family members—and often enjoy those interactions. I like meaningful conversations. I value community. I want connection.
And yet there would inevitably come a point where even the smallest social interaction would begin to feel unbearable.
A text message would come through and I’d feel irritated.
Someone would try making small talk and I’d immediately want to escape.
I’d attend a social event with every intention of staying, only to find myself mentally planning my exit within the first hour.
At my worst, even making eye contact can feel like too much effort.
This used to leave me feeling ashamed.
How could I claim to care about people while simultaneously feeling so overwhelmed by them?
Was I antisocial? Selfish? Secretly a misanthrope?
The answer, I eventually realized, was much simpler: my neurodivergent social battery was depleted.
For many autistics and ADHDers, social interaction involves far more effort than others realize.
We may be masking our natural communication style. We may be monitoring our facial expressions to appear engaged. We may be suppressing stims, navigating sensory overwhelm, interpreting vague social cues, and carefully filtering our words to avoid being misunderstood.
And when life already demands constant interaction—whether through work, school, caregiving responsibilities, friendships, or community obligations—our social battery can burn out quickly.
This is where things can feel especially frustrating.
Many neurodivergent people genuinely want connection. We may want close friendships, romantic relationships, community spaces, and meaningful conversations.
But wanting connection doesn’t mean we always have the capacity for it. That distinction matters.
Unfortunately, many of us compare ourselves to neurotypical people who seem able to maintain packed social calendars with little visible effort. They work full-time, attend gatherings, reply to messages instantly, maintain friendships, and somehow still seem energized.
Meanwhile, we may need an entire weekend alone just to feel remotely functional again. That comparison can trigger intense shame.
We tell ourselves we should push harder. Stay longer. Be more available. Try harder to seem engaged.
But shaming yourself into social performance rarely works. It usually just accelerates burnout.
Learning to respect your social limits can feel deeply uncomfortable, especially if you’ve spent years measuring your worth through productivity or availability.
Sometimes respecting your needs looks like leaving an event early. Sometimes it means declining invitations.
Sometimes it means spending your weekend gaming, reading, lying in bed, or sitting in complete silence while your nervous system recalibrates.
That isn’t laziness or avoidance, but self-awareness. And the more you honor your limits, the more sustainable connection becomes.
Have you ever found yourself craving connection while also feeling completely overwhelmed by people?
What helps you recharge when your neurodivergent social battery runs low?
Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.
You’re sitting at your desk, flicking between tabs like they owe you something. Your phone is in your hand, but you can’t remember why.
The day feels slippery; nothing’s sticking. You’re restless, underwhelmed, and oddly tired for someone who hasn’t really done anything yet.
This is how it starts.
Before the obsession. Before the deep dive. Before the notebooks and the color-coded spreadsheets and the midnight Amazon orders, there is the ache. The stillness.
The weird, itchy emptiness that signals you’ve entered the first phase of what I call the neurodivergent passion cycle.
I’ve seen it in my clients, my community, and in myself again and again: this pattern of losing momentum, finding a spark, diving deep, and eventually drifting away.
And while it can feel confusing or even shameful, it’s not a personal failing, but a cycle that many autistic and ADHD folks move through naturally.
Phase 1: The Void
The first phase is The Void.
This is the emotional version of static. You might feel disconnected from your interests, your goals, even your identity. Tasks that once felt doable now feel slippery or irrelevant. Routines feel empty.
You scroll, you pause, you open tabs and close them again. You wonder: Is something wrong with me?
The Void is the reset before the re-ignition. The lull before the spark. A low-tide moment in the neurodivergent passion cycle, when your brain is scanning for something meaningful enough to matter again.
Phase 2: The Spark
Sometimes it’s a 2am rabbit hole on YouTube. Sometimes it’s a random conversation, a podcast episode, or a stray sentence in a book. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a vague flicker of interest that slowly intensifies.
But in a moment—however subtle—it clicks.
This is The Spark, the second phase of the neurodivergent passion cycle. And when it hits, it feels like oxygen after too long underwater.
Suddenly, something cuts through the fog. A topic, idea, or project presents itself and your brain lights up.
For many neurodivergent folks—especially those with ADHD or autistic wiring—the energy returns. The boredom lifts. You feel like you’ve re-entered your own life.
You might feel giddy, focused, even relieved. You might also feel a little frantic. The desire to act right now is real, because if you don’t, the spark might vanish. And you know what it’s like to lose a spark before it fully catches.
So you chase it.
You start a new note on your phone. You bookmark ten tabs. You scribble ideas in a notebook or voice-memo your thoughts while brushing your teeth. And maybe for the first time in days, weeks, or months, you feel genuinely alive again.
This phase of the neurodivergent passion cycle often gets mistaken for impulsivity. While others might see it as “just a passing interest,” for you, it feels like a possible identity. A calling. A new chapter. Even if it lasts only a little while, it matters.
But here’s the thing no one tells you: The Spark isn’t supposed to last forever.
Its job is to pull you out of The Void. To give you something to follow. Something to care about again. It’s the beginning of a story, and whether it becomes a long-term love or a short burst of joy, it deserves your attention.
So chase it. Let it burn bright. And know that it’s okay if you’re already dreaming big.
Because for neurodivergent brains, this is what it means to be in motion again.
Phase 3: The Deep Dive
You’ve followed the spark, and now you’re all in.
You’re devouring everything you can find. Articles. Podcasts. Reddit threads. Tutorials. Books. Product reviews. Academic journals you swore you’d never read again. Your browser history has a theme now. Your search bar knows your new obsession by name.
Welcome to The Deep Dive, the third phase of the neurodivergent passion cycle. This is where the energy shifts from curiosity to immersion.
And if you’re autistic or ADHD (or both), you might know this feeling intimately. It’s the sense of being lit up from the inside, of your thoughts aligning into something clear, vibrant, and hyper-focused.
All friction disappears. Executive functioning improves. You feel more capable, more organized, more you.
For autistics, this often resembles the early stages of a new passion. There’s structure here, logic, clarity. It brings peace. For ADHDers, this is hyperfocus at its most exhilarating.
This part of the neurodivergent passion cycle can be incredibly productive. You might be creating, building, learning, even teaching. The outside world starts to fade into the background. Your routines reorganize themselves around the interest. Time becomes slippery.
Sometimes you skip meals without noticing. Sometimes you stay up all night and wake up energized. Sometimes you get labeled “obsessive” or “intense.” But to you? It just feels necessary.
But there’s a caveat: in this phase, you can also start to disappear.
You might start canceling plans. Ignoring texts. Ghosting group chats. You do this because the outside world suddenly feels like an interruption. You’re busy building something. You’re becoming someone.
You may even begin to reshape your identity around this thing. “I’m a writer now.” “This is my path.” “This is who I’m supposed to be.” And in that moment, you mean it.
So let yourself go deep. Build, explore, create, become.
Phase 4: The Commitment
You’ve done the research. You’ve gathered the tools. You’ve built routines, created systems, maybe even reshaped your schedule to make space for this thing.
This is The Commitment phase—the fourth stage of the neurodivergent passion cycle. And it feels big.
You’ve moved from idea to identity. From hobby to habit.
You buy the higher-end version of the gear. You sign up for the class, the webinar, the certification.
You start telling people: “This is really important to me.” “This is who I am now.” “I think I’ve found it.” And maybe… you have.
For many neurodivergent people, we’re imagining a future where this interest becomes a path, a purpose, a way forward.
But here’s where things start to shift.
Because the moment you declare something—whether out loud, online, or even just to yourself—it becomes more than joy. It becomes responsibility.
You’ve claimed it. Now you have to keep it.
And for autistic and ADHD folks who’ve often struggled with consistency (or been shamed for perceived inconsistency), this can bring up anxiety.
The internal monologue starts whispering: “Don’t ruin this.” “Don’t drop it like the last one.” “You said this mattered. Now prove it.”
Even if no one else is pressuring you, you might start pressuring yourself. The initial spark of joy begins to carry weight.
Because the moment something becomes a “thing,” it feels like there’s something to lose. And with that comes rigidity. Perfectionism. Fear of messing it up.
For autistic folks, especially, there may be a deep desire to maintain structure and protect the routine that’s now built around this interest. For ADHDers, there may be a sudden urgency to “make it work” before motivation fades.
It’s still exciting, yes. Still meaningful. But a subtle tension is building.
Phase 5: The Plateau
At first, you don’t even notice it.
You sit down to work on your project, revisit your interest, or re-enter that creative flow… and something feels just a little off.
This is The Plateau, the fifth phase of the neurodivergent passion cycle.
From the outside, everything still looks the same. You’re still “doing the thing,” at least occasionally. You still talk about it. You still want to feel excited. But the effortless momentum you once had has starts to become more effortful.
For ADHDers, this might feel like the dopamine supply has been cut off. The novelty is gone. You’ve absorbed the basics. Mastered the structure. The learning curve has flattened, and with it, your motivation.
For autistics, it might feel more like sensory fatigue or cognitive saturation. The thing you loved may have required more emotional or mental energy than you realized. Now, that cost is catching up. And the scaffolding that held up your routines starts to wobble.
This phase can be incredibly disorienting. You may feel stuck between two realities: the excitement that was, and the numbness that is. And in this in-between space, shame loves to sneak in.
“Why can’t I get back into it?” “What happened to all that motivation?” “This always happens to me.”
The neurodivergent passion cycle often brings us to this juncture, where the joy fades, but the pressure remains. And because this phase rarely gets talked about, many of us misinterpret it as personal failure.
But let’s be clear: The Plateau is not failure. It’s the natural downshift after a surge of focus and engagement. It’s a signal that your brain is transitioning. Rebalancing. Resting. Searching.
What makes this phase harder is our instinct to force our way through it.
We make rigid plans. We double down on structure. We try to reignite the old fire with sheer willpower. And sometimes it works…for a while. But often, we’re just postponing the inevitable.
Phase 6: The Drop
You stop.
Not necessarily all at once. At first, it might look like a few skipped days. A tab you stop reopening. A tool you leave untouched on your desk. A message you meant to reply to—and didn’t.
Then suddenly, it’s been a week. Two weeks. A month. And you realize: you haven’t gone back.
This is The Drop, the sixth and most emotionally fraught stage of the neurodivergent passion cycle. Something that once made you feel alive has collapsed, leaving you with a sense of loss that can be sharper than most people realize.
You might look at the supplies you bought, the plans you made, the hours you invested, and feel a pang in your chest.
You start thinking things like: “Why do I always do this?” “Was it ever even real?” “What is wrong with me?”
The Drop often hijacks your self-worth.
For ADHDers, the crash can feel like emotional whiplash. You were finally focused, finally functioning, and now that clarity is gone. And with it, the version of yourself you liked.
For autistics, especially if the interest was deeply tied to routine or identity, the drop can leave you feeling unmoored. The structure collapses. The interest fades. The days lose shape. You might even start to question who you are without it.
And perhaps worst of all: the inner critic arrives. Loud. Familiar.
It reminds you of every unfinished project, every abandoned plan, every time someone called you “flaky” or “all over the place.”
You hear the echoes of teachers, parents, coworkers, partners: people who didn’t understand how your brain works.
Now their voices live in your own head. This is where internalized ableism shows up at full volume.
Shane tells you that your inconsistency makes you untrustworthy. That your shifts in energy make you immature. That your passions don’t count unless they last forever.
But none of that is true.
If you’re here, in The Drop, I want you to hear this clearly: Your spark was real. Your joy was real. Your momentum mattered. And the fact that it faded doesn’t erase any of that.
This is not the end of the story. It’s the space before the shift.
Phase 7: The Shift
There’s no grand reawakening. No big announcement. No Instagram-worthy comeback.
Just… a thought. A video that holds your attention a little longer than it should. A topic that makes your chest feel warm. A casual mention that leaves a trail of tabs open.
If you don’t find yourself returning to the Void, you may instead enter the Shift, the final (and first) phase of the neurodivergent passion cycle. The moment the wheel begins to turn again.
It’s subtle. Easy to miss if you’re still stuck in the shame spiral of The Drop. Your conscious mind might still be licking its wounds, replaying stories of failure or inconsistency. But your is already scanning. Already searching for what’s next.
This is the part of the cycle most often buried under self-doubt.
We tell ourselves: “I’m not allowed to start something new until I finish what I already failed.” “I always do this. What’s the point?” “Why bother if I’m just going to lose interest again?”
What’s important to recognize is that you are wired to seek. To scan. To latch onto what’s meaningful, rich, and alive. It’s how your brain reengages with the world on your terms.
For autistic and ADHD folks, The Shift is where hope returns. It represents a return to motion. To possibility. To curiosity.
That’s the gift of the neurodivergent passion cycle. It loops. It pulses. It resets.
And each time you come around again, you don’t start from zero. You start with the knowledge, growth, and insight that every past passion gave you; even the ones that felt unfinished.
What you built still mattered. What you felt was real. What you created exists. You are not flaky. You are a seasonal creature living in a linear world.
And The Shift is your invitation to begin again, perhaps with less pressure, and more self-trust.
You don’t need to justify it. You don’t need to explain it. You just need to notice it—and allow it.
Final Thoughts
If you’ve ever lit up with a new passion, poured yourself into it, and then felt the quiet grief of watching it fade… this post was for you.
The neurodivergent passion cycle is not a glitch. It’s not evidence of failure, immaturity, or inconsistency. It’s a rhythm. A process. A deep internal pattern that so many autistic and ADHD people experience, but few are ever taught to recognize, let alone honor.
You don’t move through life in straight lines. You move in pulses. Like tides. Like seasons. Like breath.
And when you understand your cycles—when you learn to name them, trust them, work with them instead of against them—you begin to find something deeper than discipline or “follow-through.”
You find self-respect.
You begin to say: “I’m in The Void. I’m resetting.” “This is The Spark! Let’s follow it.” “Ah, the Plateau. No need to panic. Just time to pause.”
“The Drop hurts, but it’s not the end.” “The Shift is here. I’m ready to begin again.”
This is not about “fixing” the cycle. It’s about recognizing that there was never anything broken to begin with.
You don’t owe anyone permanence. You don’t owe consistency that comes at the cost of your joy.
You owe yourself grace. Curiosity. Permission to follow what lights you up, even if it’s only for a season.
Because that’s where your magic lives.
Have you experienced this cycle? What phase are you in right now?
Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.
Ever had a day where your brain simply refuses to cooperate?
You’re sitting in front of your to-do list, willing yourself to get started, but instead, you’re doomscrolling, staring at the wall, or bouncing between five half-finished tasks.
Then, the next day? You’re a whirlwind of productivity. Laundry’s done, inbox zeroed, meals prepped, water consumed. You feel clear, capable, maybe even unstoppable.
Same brain. Completely different state.
If you’re autistic, ADHD, or both, you likely know this cycle all too well. And you’ve probably internalized some painful messages about it: “Why can’t I just do the thing?” “Why am I like this?” “Everyone else seems to function just fine.”
While typically it’s described as a problem related to lack of motivation, discipline, willpower, or time management, it’s about dopamine regulation, executive functioning, and the way your neurodivergent brain shifts gears. Enter: the neurodivergent gear system.
This is a framework I use to explain the different mental states we cycle through. Each “gear” represents a unique mix of energy, focus, mood, and executive function. Learning to recognize what gear you’re in is the first step toward moving through your day with more self-compassion and less shame.
Because when you understand how your brain operates, you stop asking, “What’s wrong with me?” And start asking, “What kind of support do I need right now?”
Gear 0: Stalled
Imagine trying to start a car with no fuel. You turn the key, press the gas, but nothing happens. That’s Gear 0: the Stalled state.
The lights are on, but nobody’s home. The idea of doing even one small task—brushing your teeth, replying to a text, making food—feels completely out of reach.
And worst of all? You don’t know how to get unstuck.
What Gear 0 Feels Like
Emotional numbness or shutdown
Anxious paralysis or depressive fog
Overwhelm at even the smallest responsibilities
Shame, guilt, or a loop of negative self-talk
A sense that time is passing, but you can’t start
From the outside, Gear 0 might look like procrastination. But inside, it’s more like internal collapse. For many neurodivergent folks, this state is chronic.
And in a society that values constant output, stalled can feel unforgivable.
Why This Happens
In Gear 0, dopamine is low, executive functioning is offline, and your nervous system may be in freeze mode. You may want to act, but your brain and body are in full shutdown.
You might hear yourself saying: “What is wrong with me?” “Why can’t I just get up?” “Everyone else manages. Why can’t I?”
But those questions are grounded in neuronormative expectations. The neurodivergent gear system reframes this experience not as failure, but as a biological state that requires care, not punishment.
How to Support Yourself in Gear 0
Gear 0 doesn’t respond to logic, pep talks, or productivity hacks. It responds to compassion and tiny sparks of activation.
Wiggle your fingers. Stretch one arm. Open a window. The smallest action is still movement. Try weighted blanket, soft textures, calming sounds, safe smells—anything that brings comfort to your nervous system. Or ask yourself: “What would help a little right now?” instead of “What should I be doing?”
And if nothing helps? That’s okay too. You’re not lazy. You’re not broken. You’re stalled. And stalled engines need time, fuel, and kindness to restart.
Gear 1: Idling
You’re not frozen anymore, but you’re definitely not going anywhere. Welcome to Gear 1: the Idling state.
The engine is technically running, but you’re stuck in neutral, buzzing with restless energy, yet unable to translate that into motion. You want to do something, anything, but your brain won’t cooperate. So you bounce from tab to tab, room to room, task to task… accomplishing exactly nothing.
This is the torture chamber of executive dysfunction. And it’s exhausting.
What Gear 1 Feels Like
Restless, jittery, uncomfortable in your own skin
Too anxious to relax, too foggy to focus
Aware of your responsibilities, but unable to begin
Constantly distracted, abandoning one task for another
You might start to pay a bill, then remember an email, then open your calendar, then look up new planners… and boom, 45 minutes have vanished and nothing’s actually done.
What’s Actually Happening
In Gear 1, your brain is seeking dopamine but not finding enough of it to initiate or sustain meaningful action. So it chases micro-hits: scrolling, snacking, fidgeting, YouTube rabbit holes.
This is your brain trying to self-regulate with whatever stimulation it can find.
It’s frustrating. It’s confusing. And it’s where shame likes to sneak in the side door: “You had time. Why didn’t you use it?” “You’re so disorganized.” “You’re doing this to yourself.”
That shame? It keeps the cycle going.
The neurodivergent gear system teaches us to recognize this state not as a moral failure, but as a mismatch: you have the intention to act, but not the neurochemical bridge to get there.
How to Support Yourself in Gear 1
The key is gentle activation, not forcing productivity.
Try:
Body doubling: Work alongside a friend (in person or virtually)
Timers: Try “just five minutes”—even one minute counts
Permission to start messy: Skip perfection. Begin in scraps.
External structure: Lists, sticky notes, or soft deadlines can anchor your drifting mind
And remember: the goal isn’t to leap to Gear 3. It’s to inch from 1 to 2. From scattered to slightly engaged. Even a tiny shift matters.
Gear 2: Cruising
Something clicks. You’ve taken that first step. Maybe you’ve brushed your teeth. Opened the document. Replied to that one email. And suddenly, you’re in it.
Welcome to Gear 2: the Cruising state. This is where things feel… okay. Not amazing. Not terrible. But doable. There’s just enough dopamine to get through tasks, and just enough focus to keep the momentum going.
It’s functional focus. And for many neurodivergent folks, this gear is the sweet spot.
What Gear 2 Feels Like
You’re moving steadily through tasks, maybe even enjoying them
You still get distracted, but not derailed
You’re managing your energy (barely), but you’re in motion
Your mood might be flat, neutral, or cautiously optimistic
You feel “like yourself” again. Just… more fragile
It’s the gear where you realize: “Oh. I’m not broken. I’m just a person who needs different conditions to function.”
The Delicate Balance of Gear 2
The neurodivergent gear system identifies Gear 2 as a transitional state. You’re no longer stuck, but you’re not fully locked in. It’s like cruising at a safe speed down an empty road, but knowing one red light, one interruption, one loud noise… could send you back to Gear 1 or even stall you out.
That makes this the perfect moment to support your state, so you can keep going without tipping into burnout or distraction.
How to Support Yourself in Gear 2
This is not the time to load your plate with high-stakes tasks. Instead, sustain the rhythm with just enough structure and support.
Try:
Loose plans: A simple “next few steps” list, instead of a rigid schedule
Soft accountability: Check-ins with a friend, or co-working platforms like Focusmate
Lean into flow: If you’re vibing with a task, ride the wave, even if it’s not the “most important” thing on your list
Hold space for breaks: Don’t wait for burnout. Rest before you need it
Also, be mindful of the inner critic that loves to whisper: “This isn’t real productivity.” “You’re not doing enough.” “You’re barely keeping up.”
Don’t let that voice steal your progress. Gear 2 is where sustainable momentum lives.
Gear 3: Overdrive
You’re in the zone. Ideas are flowing, tasks are flying off your list, time is melting away, and everything just clicks. You feel competent, confident… even euphoric.
This is Gear 3: Overdrive.
It’s the state that every productivity guru seems to worship, and the one many neurodivergent folks wish they could live in forever. Because here? You finally feel like you’re functioning the way everyone expects you to function all the time.
But here’s the thing: Gear 3 isn’t sustainable.
What Gear 3 Feels Like
Laser-focused attention, possibly to the point of forgetting to eat, drink, or rest
High energy, fast thinking, and a sense of “flow”
Creative breakthroughs, fast problem-solving, intense clarity
A strong urge to finish everything while the momentum lasts
A total disregard for time, physical needs, or future burnout
Overdrive can feel amazing. That’s why it’s so seductive. Especially for ADHDers, this is the gear of hyperfocus, and it often comes with a rush of relief.
You’re finally “doing the thing.” You feel powerful. Capable. Normal.
Why Overdrive Isn’t the Goal
Let’s be clear: there is nothing wrong with experiencing Overdrive. But problems show up when we try to live here.
This gear is often triggered by:
Urgency (deadlines, last-minute pressure)
Novelty (new ideas, exciting projects)
Passion (deep interest or personal relevance)
Panic (avoidance catch-up, “everything’s on fire” mode)
The neurodivergent gear system reminds us that these bursts of energy are signs that your brain is flooded with just enough dopamine to lock on… for now.
But what comes up must come down. And if we don’t pace ourselves, Gear 3 will eject us hard into a crash.
The Risks of Staying Too Long in Overdrive
We skip meals. Ignore fatigue. Cancel breaks. Delay rest. Push through red flags. Why?
Because we’ve been taught that this version of ourselves—the one that performs—is the real us. Everything else feels like failure.
So we tell ourselves: “I’ll rest later.” “I just need to get this one last thing done…” “This is the only time I’ve had this kind of focus. I have to take advantage of it.”
But this mentality leads directly to burnout. Overdrive without boundaries can thus become self-abandonment.
How to Support Yourself in Gear 3
The goal here is to honor it without losing yourself in it.
Try:
Set limits before you begin (e.g., “I’ll work for 90 minutes, then take a real break”)
Leave notes for Future You (sticky notes that say “Please rest. You deserve it.”)
Schedule body needs (hydration, food, movement) as non-negotiables
Watch for signs of mental fatigue: confusion, irritability, forgetfulness. Stop there, not two hours later
You’re not sabotaging yourself by slowing down. You’re protecting your ability to keep showing up tomorrow.
Because Gear 3 is a gift, but it’s not a place to live.
Downshifting: The Crash After the Clarity
One minute, you’re flying: locked in, productive, present. The next? You’re staring at the screen, blinking slowly, completely disconnected.
What just happened? Welcome to Downshifting: the often-sudden, deeply disorienting transition out of one gear into a lower state.
For many neurodivergent people, this is one of the hardest parts of the cycle.
What Downshifting Feels Like
Brain fog settling in like a heavy mist
Emotional flatness, irritability, or inexplicable sadness
Losing your train of thought mid-task
Feeling mentally blank but physically wired, or vice versa
A sudden inability to care about the thing that had you so focused minutes ago
Downshifting can hit like emotional whiplash. You were fine—even thriving—and now you’re dazed, frustrated, or spiraling.
What’s Really Going On
When you’ve been in Overdrive, you’ve likely burned through a ton of dopamine, emotional energy, and executive function. Your brain reaches a tipping point and pulls the brakes for you.
You didn’t “ruin it.” You didn’t “lose momentum.” You didn’t “self-sabotage.” You simply ran out of fuel.
In the neurodivergent gear system, Downshifting isn’t a backslide. It’s a necessary transition: your brain trying to recover from a high-output state.
But because we often don’t get any warning signs, it can feel like a betrayal: “Why can’t I just keep going?” “I was doing so well. What changed?” “I must have done something wrong.”
And that’s where shame tries to take over, unless we name what’s really happening.
How to Support Yourself While Downshifting
The most important thing? Resist the urge to push through. Instead, focus on soothing your nervous system and resetting gently.
Try:
Name it: “I’m downshifting right now. I didn’t fail. I’m transitioning.”
Offer comfort, not correction: Cozy clothes, warm drinks, movement, silence. Whatever helps you reset
Embrace soft stops: Give yourself permission to stop without finishing. Not everything has to be done to be valuable.
Compassionate self-talk: “I worked hard. I need care now, not criticism.”
The neurodivergent gear system reminds us that even rest states are part of the cycle. The crash is a signal that your brain needs something different now.
Final Thoughts: Learning Your Rhythm
So… what gear are you in right now?
Are you stalled in Gear 0, unable to get moving and feeling swallowed by shame?
Idling in Gear 1, buzzing with restless energy but unable to act?
Cruising in Gear 2, functioning steadily and managing your pace?
Flying in Gear 3, riding the high of hyperfocus and finally feeling “on”?
Or maybe you’re downshifting, wondering where the focus went and why you suddenly feel so flat?
Wherever you are, it’s okay. You’re cycling through a neurodivergent gear system that reflects how your brain naturally shifts through different states of attention, energy, and regulation.
And when you learn to name those states, you also learn how to support them: Instead of “I’m lazy,” you say, “I think I’m in Gear 1. I need some soft structure.”
Instead of “I ruined my flow,” you say, “I’m downshifting. What would comfort look like right now?” Instead of “Why can’t I be like this all the time?” you say, “Gear 3 was a gift, but I don’t have to live there.”
This isn’t about becoming more productive or fixing yourself. It’s about honoring the rhythm of your neurodivergent brain, with curiosity instead of shame.
Because once you stop fighting your gears, you can start driving your own way.
What gear are you in today? Share in the comments. And if you have your own personal strategies for shifting gears (or staying gentle while stalled), I’d love to hear them.
Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.
Have you ever looked around your home and marveled at your museum of half-finished dreams?
Maybe there’s a guitar propped in the corner you haven’t strummed since that one YouTube tutorial. A forgotten sketchbook under your bed. That sourdough starter that lived and died in your fridge. Or an entire shelf of knitting supplies, untouched since last winter.
For autistics and ADHDers, this is a deeply familiar experience, so common that some of us have named it: the neurodivergent “hobby graveyard.”
But despite the cheeky name, this graveyard doesn’t symbolize failure. It’s often a representation of how your brain seeks out what it needs to feel engaged, alive, and emotionally regulated.
In a world built on productivity and permanence, we’re taught to see these abandoned hobbies as mess, waste, or shame. But what if they’re actually signs of resilience? What if each one was a temporary lifeline: something that kept you grounded, curious, or hopeful during a time when you needed it most?
Why We Chase Hobbies Like Mountains
For many neurodivergent folks, a new hobby often arrives like a lightning strike.
One moment you’re scrolling or watching something, and the next? You’re hooked. Suddenly, you’re deep in research mode. You’ve opened 37 tabs. You’ve joined a subreddit, a Discord server, maybe even ordered a book or two. Your brain, which often feels foggy or unfocused, is finally lit up.
Many autistic and ADHD brains struggle with dopamine regulation. That means we don’t always feel naturally motivated by the slow, steady rewards of daily life. We may feel flat or distracted when things aren’t novel, urgent, or emotionally meaningful. So when we stumble on something that does light us up—something new, challenging, or rich with possibility—it can feel like finding oxygen after holding our breath.
It feels like discovering a mountain and deciding: “I’m going to climb that.”
And climb we do. With intensity. With focus. With joy. Every step along the way—whether it’s learning a new skill, building a project, or immersing ourselves in a world—gives us the dopamine hits weneed to stay motivated, grounded, and connected to ourselves.
But here’s where the neurodivergent hobby graveyard starts to form. We reach the summit, and we realize the spark is gone.
And just like that, it becomes harder and harder to return. Not because we don’t care, but because our brain no longer gets the reward signal it needs to stay engaged.
The Crash: When the Spark Disappears
And when that reward is gone, energy dips. Our drive stalls. We stop feeling that magnetic pull to open the app, pick up the tools, or continue the course you were once so excited about.
At first, we might try to push through, telling ourselves you just need to try harder. But the truth is, it doesn’t feel the same anymore. The novelty is gone. The dopamine has dried up.
Welcome to the plateau: the beginning of what many of us experience as a crash.
From the outside, this sudden disinterest can look like flakiness or inconsistency. To neurotypical people, it may seem baffling: “But you were so into it!” And maybe we were. Passionately so. But what they don’t see is that the slope of the mountain has flattened, and with it, our brain’s motivation systems.
Here’s what’s really happening: when a hobby no longer gives our brain the same rewarding feedback—when there’s less challenge, less discovery, less novelty—our internal reward system disengages. The activity that once gave us life now requires maintenance mode, and for many neurodivergent folks, maintenance mode can feel like emotional quicksand.
And so, another cherished interest slips quietly into the neurodivergent hobby graveyard. This is often when the shame creeps in.
We look at the gear we bought. The half-finished sketch. The unread textbook. We might think: “I wasted all that money.” “Why can’t I ever finish anything?” “I get obsessed and then drop everything. What’s wrong with me?”
But it’s important to stress: this isn’t a flaw in our character. It’s a shift in our brain chemistry. What we’re experiencing is reward deficiency. We lost interest because our neurodivergent brain is no longer being fed in the way it needs.
And rather than sit in that empty space of disengagement, our minds—clever and resilient—starts scanning the horizon for the next mountain. The next spark. The next chance to feel alive.
Welcome to the Neurodivergent Hobby Graveyard
So here you are. Standing in a room that looks, in some ways, like a timeline of your past selves.
A watercolor kit in the closet. A ukulele in the corner. A pile of half-read books on obscure historical events. A closet full of fitness gear. A forgotten podcast idea. A domain name you bought in a fit of inspiration.
This, my friend, is the neurodivergent hobby graveyard.
But let’s get one thing straight: this is nota junkyard of failure. It’s a record of your curiosity. Your effort. Your desire to engage with the world in a way that made sense to your brain at the time.
Every item in your hobby graveyard had a purpose, maybe even a mission. It was your way of saying: “This could be something. This might help me feel more like myself.” And maybe it did—for a while.
Maybe that fermentation kit got you through a dark winter. Maybe that YouTube channel helped you connect with someone across the globe. Maybe that embroidery phase gave your hands something to do when your anxiety was peaking.
Each hobby—no matter how long it lasted—served a role.
Each one was a lighthouse in a moment when your brain needed direction, grounding, or escape.
But eventually, the light faded. The path shifted. The mountain flattened. And you, brilliantly adaptive as ever, moved on. And that’s okay.
What isn’t okay is the shame we carry when we look at the debris. Shame that says: “You’re wasteful. You’re inconsistent. You’re broken.”
None of those things are true. The neurodivergent hobby graveyard is proof of only one thing: that you try again and again to meet your brain’s needs with the tools available to you.
Our graveyards are really a monument to persistence.
What If It Wasn’t a Failure, But a Strategy?
Let’s pause for a moment and ask a radically different question: What if abandoning hobbies wasn’t a sign of failure, but a strategy?
What if your brain, in all its complexity, knows it needs constant engagement, challenge, and stimulation to feel alive, and what if it’s doing its absolute best to find that? Again and again?
The truth is, the cycle of intense passion followed by abrupt disengagement is often a direct result of how ADHD and autistic brains are wired.
We’re not meant to “pick one thing and stick with it forever.” That idea—of linear growth, lifelong interests, and consistent progress—was built for neurotypical reward systems. The kind that thrive on delayed gratification, predictability, and sameness.
But if you’re autistic or ADHD, your motivation is probably driven by very different fuel sources, such as novelty, creative challenge, emotional resonance, and a sense of discovery.
So of course your interests shift. So of course the dopamine dries up when things feel repetitive. So of course you move on when the spark disappears.
And here’s the beautiful part: you keep moving. Even after burnout. Even after guilt. Even after people around you suggest you’re “too much” or “never follow through.”
You keep seeking out the things that make your brain feel right. That keep you connected to yourself.
The neurodivergent hobby graveyard might look like scattered remains of abandoned pursuits, but if you look closer, you’ll see it’s also filled with survival strategies. Adaptations. Moments where you tried, again and again, to create meaning, focus, and joy.
How to Work With the Cycle (Instead of Against It)
You don’t have to “fix” this pattern. Your brain doesn’t need to be reprogrammed.
But you can learn to move through the hobby cycle with more intention, more support, and a whole lot less guilt.
Here are a few strategies that can help you honor your wiring, while protecting your energy, your time, and your wallet.
1. Introduce a Waiting Period
When a new hobby strikes, it’s easy to get swept up in the dopamine flood and go all in. Before you know it, you’ve spent $200 on gear and you’re researching Etsy store names.
Consider creating a small buffer between discovery and investment. Try saying, “I’ll wait two weeks before I buy anything over $30.” Or: “If I’m still excited about this next month, I’ll go deeper.”
This helps prevent future-you from feeling overwhelmed by clutter or financial regret. It also creates space for your interest to evolve naturally, without the pressure of needing to turn it into a long-term commitment.
2. Name the Phase You’re In
There’s something powerful about calling out where you are in the cycle.
Instead of hoping this will be the one that sticks, try saying: “I’m in the honeymoon phase right now.” “This might be a short-term spark, and that’s okay.” “I’m gathering info, not making a life decision.”
Naming the phase gives you perspective. It turns what might feel like a chaotic rush into something you can witness and understand. It helps you befriend the cycle instead of battling it.
And when you do eventually move on? There’s less shame, because you saw it coming. You accepted it from the start.
Another benefit? It keeps your neurodivergent hobby graveyard from becoming a place of surprise guilt. It turns it into a record of cycles you consciously chose to move through.
3. Start with Low-Stakes Entry Points
Instead of jumping in with both feet and a credit card, try dipping a toe.
Use free or trial versions of apps before subscribing. Watch YouTube tutorials before enrolling in a full course. See if your library has the book before buying it. Borrow gear from a friend or local lending group.
That way, if the interest fades, you haven’t lost much. And if it sticks? You’ve built the foundation without overcommitting.
4. Curate, Don’t Cling
Sometimes we hang onto old hobby supplies out of guilt. I spent money on that. I should try again. I need to finish what I started.
But holding onto things that no longer spark joy can actually drain your energy, and create visual clutter that keeps you stuck in shame.
Here’s a gentle reframe: Letting go doesn’t mean you failed. It means you’re making space for your next mountain, for clarity, for rest.
If it feels too hard to release completely, try making a “maybe box.” Put supplies in it and revisit it in three months. If you still feel neutral or avoidant? That’s your answer.
The neurodivergent hobby graveyard doesn’t need to become a cluttered storage room. It can become a curated museum of past lives, filled only with things you want to remember.
5. Celebrate What the Hobby Gave You
Even if you only stuck with something for a month, it still meant something.
Take time to name what each hobby gave you. Did it teach you something new? Help you through a hard time? Introduce you to a new friend or community? Offer a sense of identity, even temporarily?
Try journaling it out, or creating a visual timeline of your past interests. When you shift the narrative from “I gave up” to “Look what I gained”, the shame starts to loosen its grip.
Your neurodivergent hobby graveyard becomes a garden, full of growth, even if things didn’t bloom forever.
6. Anchor Your Identity Outside Your Interests
One of the hardest parts of this cycle is the identity whiplash. When you’re immersed in something, it can feel like you are that thing.
So when it fades, you might feel like you’ve lost part of yourself.
But your worth isn’t tied to your output, your hobbies, or your productivity.
You are still you when you’re bored. When you’re in-between passions. When you’re resting.
You are worthy of love and belonging, exactly as you are.
Final Thoughts
If you’ve ever looked around at your shelves, hard drives, or mental tabs and felt the weight of all the things you didn’t “finish,” please hear this: Your neurodivergent hobby graveyard is a map of who you’ve been, what you’ve needed, and how your brain has tried to care for you.
Each hobby was a moment of curiosity. A rebellion against monotony. A lifeline during stress or burnout. A way to regulate, reconnect, or remember who you are.
And yes, while it might sometimes be expensive, cluttered, or emotionally messy, it’s also a sign of something beautiful: your persistent, creative, ever-adaptive mind.
So the next time you find yourself mid-hyperfocus with a cart full of supplies or teetering on the edge of burnout, take a deep breath and remember: this cycle is a natural neurodivergent rhythm. And you can move through it with more grace and self-compassion each time.
What’s in your neurodivergent hobby graveyard? What did those past passions teach you about yourself, your needs, or your creativity? Have you found any gentle strategies that help you enjoy the spark without burning out?
Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.
Have you spent most of your life carrying experiences that few people ever see? If you’re autistic, ADHD, chronically ill, or some combination of all three, there’s a good chance you already know what that feels like.
You live with a dozen intersecting realities—sensory sensitivities, executive dysfunction, fatigue, chronic pain, mental health conditions—and yet you’re constantly asked to condense all of that into one simple explanation. A label. A sentence. Something that fits the narrative people already expect to hear.
That’s why I use the term “alphabet souper.”
It’s my shorthand for a life shaped by diagnosis codes, misunderstood symptoms, and invisible struggles. It refers to the long string of acronyms many of us carry: ADHD, ASD, HSD, POTS, MCAS, IBS, C-PTSD, etc.—and more. Each one might explain a single piece of our reality, but none tell the full story. And most of the time, no one even asks.
Being an alphabet souper means living with neurodivergence and co-occurring challenges, while constantly being expected to explain it all in a way that’s easy for others to understand.
We become experts at this. Not because we want to. Because we’ve had to.
The Pressure to Be Legible
When you’re an alphabet souper, you quickly learn that complexity makes people uncomfortable. Most of the world is calibrated for simplicity. Single diagnoses. Clear causes. Easy fixes. But alphabet soupers don’t fit that mold.
Instead, we live at the intersection of multiple systems that don’t work the way they’re “supposed to.” Our experiences don’t follow a single diagnostic narrative. We might be managing sensory overwhelm, executive dysfunction, chronic illness flare-ups, social anxiety, and trauma, all in a single afternoon.
And yet, when we speak about our reality, we often feel pressure to streamline it. To reduce it to something legible. Something people will recognize. Something that sounds familiar enough not to raise eyebrows or questions we’re too tired to answer.
So we adapt. We learn to talk about our conditions in bite-sized chunks. We avoid going into detail. We measure our words against other people’s attention spans and comfort levels. We edit our stories because we know what happens when we don’t.
The more challenges you carry as an alphabet souper, the more invisible labor goes into appearing “manageable.” This is about more than masking. It’s about shaping your whole presence around what others can emotionally or intellectually tolerate.
Masking Runs Deeper Than People Think
When people talk about masking, they often imagine it as something surface-level: suppressing stims, mimicking facial expressions, mirroring tone. But for many of us living as an alphabet souper, masking runs far deeper.
We mask pain. We mask confusion. We mask the crashing of multiple internal systems while calmly nodding through a conversation. We become fluent in scripting—even basic interactions—because improvising takes energy we often don’t have.
And the longer we mask, the harder it becomes to remember what’s underneath.
Being an alphabet souper means juggling neurodivergence and co-occurring conditions that interact in unpredictable ways. Maybe it’s brain fog from POTS, overlaid with executive dysfunction from ADHD, while also managing the social load of masking autistic traits. On paper, we might look “functional.” But the cost of looking that way is rarely visible to others, and often invisible even to ourselves.
Masking becomes muscle memory. We’ve done it for so long, it can feel automatic. Expected. Sometimes even praised.
But here’s the truth: that praise is hollow. Because it usually comes from people who don’t see the after-effects. They don’t see the crash after we’ve held it together for too long. They don’t see the shutdowns, the flares, the hours lost trying to regulate. They see us as “resilient”, but they never asked what it cost.
For an alphabet souper, masking isn’t just about fitting in. It’s about managing other people’s reactions so we don’t lose support, credibility, or connection. And that’s a heavy ask, especially when you’re already carrying so much.
Complexity Isn’t a Defect
In a world that rewards neat categories and predictable narratives, being an alphabet souper often feels like you’re doing life wrong. You’re neurodivergent and you’re also navigating chronic illness, trauma, sensory processing differences, mental health struggles, and no one seems to know what to do with all that at once.
You get responses like, “That’s a lot,” or “Have you tried yoga?” You see the subtle wince when you bring up yet another acronym. You notice how people start to disengage when your story doesn’t have a simple ending or a tidy explanation.
There’s a widespread belief—sometimes unspoken, sometimes very loud—that if you have too many issues, you must be exaggerating. Or dramatic. Or maybe even difficult. But complexity isn’t a personal failing. It’s just reality for many of us.
Being an alphabet souper means that no single diagnosis explains everything, but each one adds to the picture. It’s layered. And those layers influence how we experience the world, how we communicate, how we move through each day.
But complexity makes systems freeze up. Medical professionals don’t know which part to treat first. Friends don’t know how to respond. Coworkers stop inviting you to things.
And so, out of self-protection, we start to censor. We pick the “most relatable” diagnosis to talk about and leave the others off the list. We say we’re “just tired” when we’re in full autonomic dysregulation. We avoid bringing up that a food sensitivity triggered a three-day spiral because it sounds too strange, too much.
We internalize the idea that to be supported, we must be simple.
But being an alphabet souper means embracing complexity, because denying it costs us more than anyone else. Denying it keeps us alone.
A Thousand Small Losses
Grief isn’t always loud. For an alphabet souper, it’s often subtle, cumulative: an echo that builds over time.
It starts with the doctor who dismisses your symptoms because your tests came back “normal.” The therapist who focuses on one diagnosis but ignores the others. The friend who changes the subject when you try to explain what a flare day really feels like.
None of these are big moments on their own. But together, they form a pattern. A long trail of interactions where your reality was too complex, too inconvenient, or simply too misunderstood.
When you’re an alphabet souper, the losses add up: the connection that fizzled out after you were “too honest”; the job interview that went silent after you disclosed; the look someone gave you when you tried to explain how everything overlaps—how your sensory overload makes your GI symptoms worse, which then spikes your anxiety, which makes your executive dysfunction spiral.
You learn not to go there, because you’ve learned most people don’t want to know.
You start skipping details. Leaving things out. Not mentioning the acronym you just got added to your file. That information, after all, could cost you in social currency.
Every time you withhold a part of your story, there’s a loss. A missed opportunity for understanding. A part of yourself that stays hidden.
And the hardest part? Even when you’re surrounded by people, you can feel deeply alone. Because no one sees the full version of you. Few people have stayed long enough—or listened closely enough—to hold your whole story.
That’s the ache many alphabet soupers carry: the longing to be known and believed, without having to shrink their truth to fit someone else’s comfort zone.
Final Thoughts
If you’ve ever felt like your story had too many moving parts to explain—if you’ve ever watched someone’s eyes glaze over as you tried to name what you’re carrying—you’re not alone. You’re likely an alphabet souper, navigating a world that doesn’t know how to hold the weight of complexity without trying to simplify, fix, or ignore it.
Being an alphabet souper means you’ve had to become your own translator, advocate, and interpreter, often in spaces that demand silence or performance over truth. That’s exhausting. And you deserve better.
You deserve to take up space with your full story, and not just the parts that are easy for others to digest. You deserve support that doesn’t disappear when the list of challenges gets longer. You deserve to say, “I’m struggling,” without having to earn that struggle’s legitimacy.
And above all, you deserve to be known without having to be explained.
Are you an alphabet souper too? Have you ever had to simplify your truth just to stay connected or believed?
Essy Knopf is a therapist who likes to explore what it means to be neurodivergent and queer. Subscribe to get all new posts sent directly to your inbox.
