“There’s more to you than the reactions to what life throws at you.”

What You’re About to Read

These aren’t finished thoughts. They’re field notes. Things I notice in real time—in conversations, in my own life, in the patterns people live inside without realizing it. I don’t rush to clean them up. Because the part we try to skip past is usually the part that matters most.

I’m writing from the middle of it. Not looking back with the luxury of perspective. Not projecting forward with certainty about outcomes. Just here, noticing what’s true right now.

Some of these pieces will speak to you immediately. Others might land in a few weeks, when you see yourself in them. Skip around. Read what resonates. You don’t have to take them in order.

Contents

How We Bridge Gaps — Communication & Connection

• Operation Hail Mary (~800 words)

• A Conversation About Warm Drinks (~400 words)

How Your Brain Actually Works — The Neurodivergent Brain On Its Own Terms

• Brain Like a Stuck Parking Brake (~1,200 words)

• Magnolia Blooms Don’t Rush (~400 words)

When You Can’t See Clearly — Perspective & Self-Understanding

• What I Miss When I’m Inside It (~1,400 words)

How We Bridge Gaps

Communication & Connection

These pieces explore what happens when two people can’t understand each other the same way. And how we don’t have to.

Operation Hail Mary (Semi-Spoiler)

How do you overcome communication gaps? This is a big issue for us AuDHD folks. In this sweet movie, Ryan Gosling’s character (Grace) needed to find a way for he and the alien (Rocky) to communicate so they could work together. He ultimately used his laptop and...I’ll let you see for yourself. The point is, he realized a communication gap existed and needed to be overcome, as opposed to thinking he was normal, the alien was weird and needed to do things the way he did. He also used technology, which has been a godsend for people with disabilities. Tech is a bridge builder.

My boys and I Ubered to the movie. Our Uber driver was a twenty-something young man from Ukraine and he was chatting over the phone with his sister who lives in Poland. My mind filled with guilt and compassion over what his country is going through. I wished him the best. I love how small the world is.

A Conversation About Warm Drinks

We got into the discussion of warm drinks in the morning and how much we both enjoy them. She asked me what I’d enjoy besides coffee.

A large peppermint tea with four packets of honey. This is Starbucks—I don’t know what the other chains offer. I discovered this in an act of desperation one winter. My voice was thwarted by laryngitis and I needed to give a presentation. So I picked up the tea and sipped as I drove. Long story short, that tea brought my voice back for about 90 minutes. It was amazing. After the 90 minutes my voice became hoarse again and when silent again. I’ve used this many times since then and the results have been pretty consistent.

How Your Brain Actually Works

The Neurodivergent Brain On Its Own Terms

Not lazy. Not broken. Not something to fix. Your brain runs on conditions, not willpower. These pieces are about what that actually means—and what becomes possible when you stop fighting it.

Brain Like a Stuck Parking Brake

I try so hard to stay on track… but even the smallest tasks feel impossible some days. Is it just me, or does anyone else feel like this too? How do you deal with it?

I have days when my brain feels like a stuck parking brake. And other days, I’m flying down the highway with wind in my hair (metaphorically), and getting things done. On the stuck days, it’s not just slow. It’s foggy. I’ll read the same sentence three times and still not get it. Someone asks me a simple question and my mind just… blanks. Conversations feel like drunk texting, so I avoid them. Seems like a typical day to me, you say? On off days, it’s worse. I know you get it. And underneath all of that is a mix of guilt and frustration. Some days I can be kind to myself about it. Other days it feels like I’m letting everyone down.

Thing is, this isn’t new. And I’ve learned the hard way that fighting it only makes it worse. When I can accept it, something shifts. There’s a little more grace in the day. I rest more. I stop trying to force my brain to be something it’s not. Maybe I watch videos that don’t require much thought. Maybe I put on music and let that calm and regulate me better.

Because this brain doesn’t run on willpower. It runs on conditions. On the good days, a lot has to line up. A good night’s sleep, a cup of coffee that understands the assignment. My meds are actually doing what they’re supposed to. Around me, it’s quieter. Fewer interruptions. No one rushing me. I’m not bouncing between five tabs and three conversations. Inside, I’m not piling on pressure. I’m not telling myself I “should be able to do this.” I’m not bracing for failure before I even start.

That’s when things start to click. Emails get answered. Tasks get completed. Words come easier.

Because we’re part of an ecosystem. And when the environment doesn’t line up with what our nervous system needs, things break down. Not because we’re lazy. Not because we don’t care. Because the system isn’t aligned.

Some days, it takes everything just to get the butterflies in my head flying in the same direction. And if today’s one of those days for you too… you’re not alone.

Magnolia Blooms Don’t Rush

When My World Shrinks

Magnolia blooms don’t rush, but they don’t wait either. One week they’re tight gray buds on bare branches. Then a few warm days hit and the tree opens, white and pink petals the size of your hand catching the morning light. For a short stretch, the whole yard smells soft and sweet. Then the wind picks up. A hard rain comes through. By the end of the week, petals are scattered across the grass and stuck to the sidewalk, already browning at the edges. That’s the deal. You don’t get to hold it. You get to notice it. Same with the moments we keep trying to rush past or circle back to later. Later isn’t where life happens. This is. Right here, while it’s still open.

When You Can’t See Clearly

Perspective & Self-Understanding

Sometimes your world shrinks so far that you can only see what’s in front of you. This piece is about what happens then—and how to borrow perspective from people standing outside the moment.

What I Miss When I’m Inside It

When My World Shrinks

This happens more than I’d like to admit. I’ll be in the middle of something. A conversation, a decision, even just a feeling. And my world shrinks. Not a little. Everything narrows to whatever I’m experiencing right now. Perspective? Gone. Future consequences? Not invited. Other people’s experiences? Not on the guest list. It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that I can’t see.

Borrowing Someone Else’s Eyes

So I’ve learned to borrow eyes. Most often, I’ll turn to my wife and ask some version of: “What else am I not seeing?” Not because she’s “better” than me. Because she’s not inside the same moment I am. She can zoom out when I can’t. And sometimes what she says is obvious. Obvious in the way things only are once someone says them.

Being Told Isn’t the Same as Understanding

Here’s the part people don’t talk about. Being told something doesn’t mean you understand it. I’ve had people explain things to me clearly, patiently, even kindly… and it still didn’t land. Not because I was resisting. Because my brain wasn’t in a position to receive it. Timing matters more than clarity.

Why Information Doesn’t Land

I see this with clients all the time. A parent says, “I’ve told them a hundred times.” And I believe them. But telling isn’t the same as landing. If the nervous system is overwhelmed, if the moment feels threatening, if there’s too much happening inside… information just bounces.

Frozen Ground

It’s like trying to plant seeds in frozen ground. You can throw the best seeds you’ve got. Nothing’s growing until the soil softens.

Performing Understanding

I think a lot of us grew up in environments where the focus was on saying the right thing. Less attention was given to whether it could actually be heard. So we learned to perform understanding. Nod. Say “okay.” Move on. Meanwhile, nothing changed underneath.

A Question I Keep Asking

A question I come back to a lot: Am I trying to be understood… or am I in a state where I can understand? Those are not the same thing.

When the Moment Becomes the Whole Story

There’s also this. When my thinking collapses into the moment, it’s easy to assume that moment is the whole story. “This is how it is.” “This is how it’s always going to be.” “This is what they meant.” It feels true. That doesn’t make it complete.

Workarounds That Actually Help

So I build in workarounds. I ask for perspective. I write things out so I can see them instead of just feel them. I give it time when I can. Not because I’m broken. Because this is how my brain works.

Zoom Lens vs Wide Angle

Some people have wide-angle lenses. Some of us have zoom lenses that get stuck. Both are useful. You just need to know which one you’re using.

A Quiet Check-In

Quick check, if you want one: Who do you borrow perspective from when yours disappears?

If You Don’t Have That Person Yet

And if you don’t have someone yet… That’s not a personal failure. It just means that part of your support system hasn’t been built yet.

The Line I Keep Coming Back To

There’s a line I keep coming back to in my writing lately. Not everything needs to be fixed. Some things just need the right conditions to grow.

If You Want to Go Deeper

If this kind of reflection speaks to you, I share more of it through Agatha’s Garden. It’s a story about what we inherit, what we carry, and what becomes possible when we finally start seeing clearly.

Visit: AgathasGarden.com

Thanks for being you,

Brian R. King, MSW, is a storyteller, coach, and communication expert who helps folks with AuDHD and families build stronger, more authentic relationships. He’s the author of 7 books and hosts the podcast Riffin’ About Life, where real talk meets real growth.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re speaking two different languages with the people you love, Brian’s here to help you translate.

BrianCanHelp.com

There are seasons of life where you get very good at looking fine.

You learn the lines. You study the timing. You say what keeps the room calm. You smile at the right moment. You nod like you agree. You make yourself easier to hold, easier to explain, easier to love.

And somewhere in the middle of all that effort, a quiet question starts following you around.

If I am this good at being who people need me to be, where did I go?

That question has lived with me for a long time.

It is part of why I wrote Agatha’s Garden.

Not because I had everything figured out.
Not because I came out the other side with a neat little lesson tied in ribbon.
I wrote it because some things do not loosen their grip when you ignore them. They just go underground.

And anything buried long enough starts speaking in other ways.

For some of us, it comes out as exhaustion that no amount of rest touches.
For some, it is irritability, shutdown, people-pleasing, brain fog, or the strange loneliness of being surrounded by people who think they know you.
For some, it is grief.

Not just grief over death, though that belongs here too.

I mean the grief of lost years.
The grief of having no language for your own experience.
The grief of realizing how much of your life was spent performing steadiness while something inside you was asking to be met, not managed.

I did not understand grief for a long time.

Read the first chapter of Agatha’s Garden now…

Read Chapter 1 Now

I thought grief was something you were supposed to outgrow. Something with a deadline. Something you were meant to carry with dignity until it became socially inconvenient, and then quietly put away.

But grief does not work like that.

It changes shape.

It gets quieter sometimes. Less dramatic. More woven in.
It moves from your chest to your throat. From your throat to your habits. From your habits into the way you brace before being honest.

Some days it is a flood.
Some days it is a damp heaviness in the walls.
Some days it is just the feeling that everyone else got a map for being human and you somehow missed distribution.

A lot of people know that feeling.

Especially people who are neurodivergent.
Especially people who grew up learning that acceptance was conditional.
Especially people who were told, in one way or another, to go to their room and come back only when their feelings were no longer visible.

That kind of lesson does not disappear because you become an adult.

It follows you.

It shows up when you apologize for having needs.
It shows up when you rehearse every text before sending it.
It shows up when someone asks how you are and you give them the polished version because the real answer feels too costly.

Too many of us were taught that belonging required self-erasure.

Stay calm.
Stay pleasant.
Stay quiet.
Get control of yourself.
Do not make this harder for other people.

Those messages settle deep. They become family rules, workplace rules, relationship rules. They get passed down like an inheritance nobody remembers agreeing to.

Silence can do that.

It can start to feel noble.
Mature, even.

But silence is not always peace.
Sometimes it is just fear in good manners.

I wrote Agatha’s Garden because I wanted to tell the truth about that.

I wanted to write a story for the people who have spent years carrying unnamed things.
Not brokenness.
Not failure.
Just experience without language.

There is a special kind of loneliness in living something you cannot describe.

You know it matters.
You know it is shaping you.
But without words, it stays foggy. And when something stays foggy for too long, a lot of people assume the problem is them.

I wanted to give some of that fog a voice.

The garden became the right place to do it.

Because nature does not panic about timing the way people do.

Nothing in a garden is shamed for going dormant.
Nothing is called lazy because growth is happening out of sight.
No one kneels beside a patch of winter soil and says, “Well, clearly this has no potential.”

A garden understands what people rush past.

It understands waiting.
It understands cycles.
It understands that what looks like stillness may actually be the most important work in the whole process.

That mattered to me because so many people, especially neurodivergent people, live with the feeling of being behind.

Behind socially.
Behind emotionally.
Behind professionally.
Behind on some invisible schedule everyone else seems to have memorized.

But a life is not late just because it is unfolding differently.

That is something I needed to remember too.

Because I did not write this story from some safe hilltop of completion.
I wrote it as someone still learning.
Still grieving.
Still noticing where I disappear.
Still trying to come back.

That may be the most honest reason of all.

I needed this story too.

Not as the author.
As a person.

As someone still figuring out what it means to stop performing wellness and start practicing truth.
As someone learning that healing is not becoming a different person. It is grieving what it cost to survive, while slowly making room for your actual self to return.

One piece at a time.
One honest moment at a time.
One less apology for existing at a time.

That is the journey inside Agatha’s Garden.

It is not a story that tries to fix grief.
It does not rush pain toward redemption so everybody can feel better by page three.
It sits down beside what hurts. It listens. It notices what has gone quiet for too long.

And in doing that, it offers something many people have been denied.

Not correction.
Recognition.

I believe people do not need to be fixed to belong.

They need to be understood.

Sometimes a story is the first place that happens.

Sometimes fiction is where a person finally hears the truth in a voice gentle enough to let it in.

If this story reaches anyone, I hope it reaches the person who has spent years feeling like a role in their own life.
The person carrying grief that never fully left, only changed rooms.
The person who learned to stay quiet when it mattered most.
The person who suspects they were never the problem, but has not quite known how to trust that yet.

I hope it meets them without demanding anything.

Just a pause.
Just a breath.
Just enough room to feel less alone.

If there is one small place to begin, maybe it is this.

Notice what you have been calling failure that might actually be protection.
Notice what you have been calling weakness that might actually be grief.
Notice what in you has not died, only gone underground.

You do not have to force a bloom before its season.

What in you is asking to be understood, not fixed?

If this piece met you somewhere real, I think Agatha’s Garden might too.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

Step Into the Garden

If this stirred something in you, there’s more waiting.

When you join the Agatha’s Garden email list, you won’t just get updates. You’ll get access.

Early chapters before they’re released publicly.
Behind-the-scenes reflections on how the story connects to real life.
Personal notes I don’t share anywhere else.

This isn’t just a book launch list.

It’s a space for people who are learning how to hear themselves again.

You can start here:
AgathasGarden.com

Come see what’s been waiting for you.

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t sound like anything at all.

No yelling. No slammed doors. No obvious chaos. From the outside, it looks like a “good home.” But inside, something essential never gets named. Feelings happen, but they don’t get language. They don’t get witnessed. They don’t get held.

So a kid learns to carry them alone.

In a home like that, emotions become private puzzles with no instructions. You feel something big… but you don’t know what it is, what to do with it, or whether it’s even allowed. You start watching other people for clues. You study tone. You rehearse responses. You become fluent in reading the room, but not yourself.

That skill will get you through childhood.

It will cost you later.

Because when feelings aren’t talked about, they don’t disappear. They go underground. They show up sideways. In tension you can’t explain. In reactions that feel too big for the moment. In relationships where you either say nothing or everything at once, with no middle ground.

You might become the easy one. The quiet one. The “low maintenance” one.

Or the opposite. The one who finally erupts after holding too much for too long.

Either way, the message underneath is the same:
My inner world isn’t something people meet me in.

That does something to a person.

It makes you doubt your own experience. It makes you hesitate before speaking. It makes connection feel like a risk instead of a place to land. And if you’re neurodivergent, where your inner world may already feel intense or hard to translate, that silence doesn’t just neglect you. It trains you to mistrust yourself.

Sam lives with that.

He doesn’t just struggle to express what he feels. He struggles to find it. His emotions are there, but they’re overgrown, like paths in a garden no one walked for years. And when he finally starts to notice them, it’s disorienting. Like finding rooms in your own house you didn’t know existed.

That’s the damage.

Not that he feels too much.
But that no one showed him how to be with what he feels.

Here’s the part that matters, though.

Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

That moment, when you realize, “Oh… this is the kind of home I grew up in,” can hit like grief. Because now you understand what you didn’t get. You see the conversations that never happened. The comfort that never came. The guidance that would’ve changed everything.

You don’t just feel sad.

You feel the weight of all the years you had to figure it out alone.

But that awareness also cracks something open.

Because what was invisible is now visible. And what’s visible can be worked with.

You can start small.

You can pause and ask, What am I feeling right now?
Not what should I feel. Not what makes sense. Just what’s there.

You can borrow language from others until your own voice comes back online. You can let someone safe sit with you while you fumble through it. You can write it down when speaking feels like too much. You can notice patterns. Name them. Get curious instead of critical.

You can learn, slowly, that your inner world isn’t a problem to fix.

It’s a place to get to know.

And here’s the quiet shift that changes everything:

You stop waiting for someone to give you permission to feel.

You start giving it to yourself.

That’s the opportunity.

Not to rewrite your childhood.
But to stop living by its rules.

To become the kind of person who can sit with what’s real, even when it’s messy.
To build relationships where feelings aren’t interruptions, but invitations.
To create, inside yourself and with others, the kind of space you needed all along.

Sam doesn’t become someone new.

He becomes someone who finally knows how to listen to himself.

And once that starts, the silence doesn’t disappear.

But it’s no longer empty.

It becomes something you can walk into… and not get lost.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

Step Into the Garden

If this hit close to home, you’ll recognize Sam.

Agatha’s Garden is a story about what happens when you finally slow down long enough to hear yourself… and what it takes to rebuild that relationship from the ground up.

You can read Chapter 1 here:

Get Chapter 1

I’ll send it straight to your inbox, along with reflections and behind-the-scenes notes from the world of the garden.

Because some stories don’t just entertain.

They help you find your way back to yourself.

You’re tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.

Not just body tired. Decision tired. Emotion tired. The kind of tired that comes from trying to be “on” all the time. Holding it together. Pushing through. Being the one who figures it out.

And somewhere in the middle of all that effort, a quiet rule formed:

If I’m not showing up strong, I’m failing.

Let’s talk about that.

The Lie Beneath the Effort

A lot of us grew up learning that our worth lives on the other side of performance.

Be helpful. Be impressive. Be resilient. Be the one people can count on.

Especially if you’re AuDHD, you’ve likely spent years trying to compensate for what feels unpredictable inside you. Energy that spikes and crashes. Focus that locks in or disappears. Emotions that don’t follow a schedule.

So you build a system.

You become the hero.

The one who pushes harder than everyone else just to stay afloat. The one who doesn’t ask for help because you’ve already needed too much. The one who thinks, “If I can just hold this together, I’ll finally feel okay.”

But here’s the problem.

That system runs on self-abandonment.

And it always collects its debt.

What Self-Compassion Actually Means

Self-compassion isn’t letting yourself off the hook.

It’s telling the truth about what’s happening without turning it into a character flaw.

It sounds like this:

“I’m overwhelmed right now” instead of “I’m so bad at this.”

“I need a break” instead of “I should be able to handle this.”

“I’m struggling” instead of “I’m failing.”

That shift looks small. It isn’t.

It changes the role you play in your own life.

You stop being the critic with a clipboard, grading every move.

You become the person sitting next to yourself saying, “Yeah, this is hard. Let’s figure it out together.”

Discovering self-compassion is a key theme in Agatha’s Garden: A neurodivergent story about finding yourself and breaking the family legacy of silence.

How This Shows Up in AuDHD Life

You don’t need a diagnosis to know this feeling.

You say yes when your body is already a no.

You push through burnout because stopping feels like losing.

You over-prepare to avoid mistakes, then collapse after.

You replay conversations like game film, looking for what you missed.

You treat every dropped ball like evidence that you’re unreliable.

So you double down.

More effort. More control. More pressure.

And when it works, you feel relief.

When it doesn’t, you feel shame.

That cycle is exhausting because it never ends.

Self-compassion interrupts the cycle.

Not by lowering your standards, but by changing how you respond when you’re human.

You Don’t Need to Earn Rest

Here’s the part that usually gets resistance.

You don’t need to finish everything before you take care of yourself.

You don’t need to prove you’re trying hard enough.

You don’t need to collapse before you’re allowed to stop.

That voice in your head saying, “Just push a little more”?

It’s not always wisdom.

Sometimes it’s fear dressed up as discipline.

And fear is terrible at pacing.

Subscribe now

Try This Right Now

Pause for a second.

Not a big, dramatic pause. Just enough to notice what’s happening in your body.

Then ask yourself one question:

“What would I say to someone I care about if they felt like this?”

Now say that to yourself.

Out loud if you can.

It might feel awkward. Forced. Like you’re reading lines from a script you don’t believe.

That’s okay.

You’re not trying to feel different right away.

You’re practicing speaking to yourself without making it worse.

Do that once a day.

Not perfectly. Just consistently.

If You Love Someone Who Experiences This

Don’t wait until they break to offer care.

They’re already working harder than you see.

Instead of saying:

“Just take a break”
“You’re overthinking it”
“You’ve got this”

Try:

“You don’t have to carry this alone.”
“I see how hard you’re trying.”
“It makes sense that you’re tired.”
“What would help right now?”

And if they can’t answer, offer something specific.

“Want me to sit with you while you figure this out?”
“Do you want a reminder to stop for a bit, or do you want me to just handle this part?”

Support isn’t fixing.

It’s joining.

A Different Kind of Strength

You don’t need to be the hero of every moment.

You don’t need to win your day to be worthy of it.

The strongest thing you can do sometimes is notice you’re struggling and not turn that into a reason to attack yourself.

That’s not weakness.

That’s restraint.

That’s awareness.

That’s the beginning of a different relationship with yourself.

The kind where you don’t have to earn your place in your own life.

The kind where you’re allowed to be a person, not a performance.

And if you’re reading this thinking, “I don’t know how to live like that yet,”

Good.

That means you’re paying attention.

And attention is where change starts.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

If this hit something real for you, you don’t have to figure it out alone.

Come join us in the Friends of Agatha’s Garden Facebook group. This group is an extension of my first novel, Agatha’s Garden: A neurodivergent story about finding yourself and breaking the family legacy of silence. Which will be released at the end of April 2026.

It’s a space for people who are tired of performing their way through life and ready to understand themselves instead. You’ll find conversations that make things clearer, not heavier. You’ll find language for what you’ve been feeling but couldn’t quite name. And you’ll find small, doable ways to move forward without burning yourself out in the process.

If you’ve been feeling seen but still stuck, this is a good next step.

Come as you are. That’s enough.

Join the Agatha’s Garden waitlist

There’s a quiet kind of shame that shows up for a lot of us in the AuDHD community.

It sounds like this:

“It’s not that complicated. Why can’t I just do it?”

If you’ve ever felt like you’re lazy, broken, or undisciplined because simple things feel hard—this is for you.

(Spoiler: you’re none of those things.)

On paper, the task looks simple.
Send the email. Do the dishes. Start the form.
Make the call.

None of it requires a PhD.
So why does it feel like trying to push a car uphill with the parking brake on?

Let’s clear something up that should’ve been taught a long time ago:

Simple and easy are not the same thing.

What “Simple” Actually Means

Simple refers to structure.

Few steps
Clear instructions
No hidden complexity

“Put the dishes in the dishwasher” is simple.
“Reply to this email” is simple.
“Start writing” is simple.

You can explain it in one sentence.
No confusion about what needs to happen.

What “Easy” Actually Means

Easy is about effort.

Low friction
Low emotional load
Low cognitive demand
Doable with the energy you have right now

Something is easy when your brain and body can actually do it without a fight.

Where It Breaks Down for AuDHD Brains

Here’s the gap most people miss:

A task can be simple in structure and brutal in execution.

That’s the daily reality for a lot of us.

Example 1: The Email

Simple:
Open laptop. Type words. Hit send.

Not easy:

Your brain scans for the “perfect” wording
You replay how it might be received
You stall trying to find the right tone
You get pulled into three other tabs
Now there’s pressure because it’s late

Same task. Two completely different experiences.

Example 2: The Dishes

Simple:
Wash dishes.

Not easy:

Sensory overload from water, sound, texture
No clear “done” feeling
Boredom hits fast
Brain looks for literally anything more stimulating

Example 3: Getting Started

Simple:
Start.

Not easy:

Task feels vague or too big
You don’t know where to begin
Your brain wants certainty before movement
You freeze instead of choosing

The Lie That Causes Damage

The Old Story: “It’s simple. I’m not doing it. Therefore, something’s wrong with me.”

The New Story: “It’s simple in structure. It’s hard in execution. My brain is accurately reading the invisible complexity.”

Not because the task is hard.
But because it shouldn’t be.

Except… it is.

And not because you’re lazy, broken, or undisciplined.

Because your brain is factoring in things the word “simple” completely ignores:

Executive function load
Emotional risk
Sensory input
Energy levels
Task switching cost
Perfection pressure
Past experiences tied to the task

That’s not overthinking.
That’s an accurate inventory.

This is the kind of quiet truth Agatha’s Garden is built on.
Learning how to read yourself. Coming April 2026

What Actually Helps (Without Pretending It’s Easy)

Instead of forcing yourself to treat simple tasks like they should be easy, try this shift:

1. Name It Honestly

INSTEAD OF: “Why can’t I just do this?”

TRY: “This is simple, but not easy for me right now.”

One sentence. Removes the shame.

2. Ask the Right Question

Don’t ask: “What’s wrong with me?”

Ask: “What’s in the way?”

Then get specific.

Too many steps → shrink the first step
Too vague → define the starting action
Too boring → add stimulation (music, timer, body doubling)
Too heavy → lower the standard

3. Make the First Step Smaller Than You Think

Not “do the dishes”
Just: put one plate in the sink

Not “write the email”
Just: open the draft

You’re not trying to finish.
You’re trying to enter the task without resistance winning.

4. Borrow Momentum

Your brain doesn’t always generate motivation on demand.

So borrow it.

Sit near someone else working
Use a timer sprint
Start in the middle instead of the beginning
Let “messy” count as movement

5. Stop Using Ease as the Benchmark

Ease is unreliable.

Capacity changes daily. Sometimes hourly.

A better question:

“What version of this can I do today without burning out?”

The Real Truth

You’re not failing at simple tasks.

You’re succeeding at something much harder: navigating invisible complexity while fighting the shame that you’re not supposed to have to.

That’s not a character flaw.

That’s the actual job your brain is doing every single day.

The Line Worth Keeping

Next time your brain says,
“This should be easy…”

Try this instead:

“It’s simple. And right now, it’s hard. So I’ll start smaller.”

That’s not lowering the bar.

That’s finally placing it where you can actually reach it.

And tomorrow, when your capacity is different, you might reach higher.

That’s not failure. That’s honesty.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

If this resonated, Agatha’s Garden might be the kind of story that stays with you.

It follows Sam, a neurodivergent young man who inherits a vast, untamed garden… and begins uncovering the stories his family buried, along with parts of himself he thought were gone.

You can join the early readers here:

Join the Agatha’s Garden waitlist

This book means a lot to me.
​
It’s a story for the people who learned to keep it together by keeping it inside.
The ones who got good at being fine.
The ones who feel deeply but don’t always have access to the words until days later.
​
Here’s the simple version:
​
A young neurodivergent guy inherits his great-aunt’s massive, wild garden.
He thinks it’s going to be an escape.
It turns into a slow return… to himself, to grief, to truth, to the stuff his family never knew how to say out loud.
​
If any of that hits you in the chest a little, I made a countdown list for the release.
​
If you hop on it, I’ll send you:

• The FIRST Chapter to read - FREE

• updates as we get closer

• sneak peeks and behind-the-scenes things I don’t post publicly

• a heads-up the moment it’s available

And I’m also planning a little “thank you” for the people on the list:
1–2 weeks after launch, I’m going to share some real behind-the-scenes “secret stuff” (what inspired certain scenes, what I cut, what certain moments mean, the stuff I normally keep tucked away).
​
If you want in, click the link below:

Join the Launch

No spam. No nonsense. No “buy my course while I fake-laugh in a blazer.”
Just me, bringing you along for the ride.
​
I’d love to have you.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

Talking to me can be like, “OMG, that reminds me of… no wait, gotta back up.”

Then I throw out thoughts about what I want to say, because this beautiful brain of mine thinks out of order.

I understand it’s frustrating for others. But if I try to organize my thoughts before putting them out there, it would be like asking me to organize kittens and expecting them to stay in line, not switch places, or wander off.

Once I’ve gotten it out, I do my best to connect the dots.

This is a main reason I record my sessions, so I can use AI to organize my observations, suggestions, and feedback in a way that doesn’t require a decoder ring.

Chunk First. Organize Later.

When I write articles or books, I’ve embraced the chunky writing my brain naturally produces.

I write a paragraph. An observation that rolled off my tongue perfectly. I don’t need a place for it. I need to write it down.

I use an organizational system for the chunks, like #quote, #dialogue, #scene, and so on.

Get it out first. Sort it later.

The Perfectionism Trap

Many people struggle with the belief that everything needs to be in order before you can speak your mind or write it down.

That’s perfectionism. And it keeps your thoughts locked inside.

I think this is one reason many of us have trouble getting started with tasks. We want the entire process laid out in our heads to guarantee safe passage from start to finish.

Not happenin’ in my head.

If it’s that important, I write the steps out.

At 56 years old, I still use lists for routines I’ve performed for decades, because my brain isn’t designed to hold it all at once. Let alone helping me find my place after the umpteenth distraction.

Speed Isn’t the Goal

It can take me longer to write things out.

So what?

Speed is a quality of productivity, not creativity.

Thanks for Being You,
Brian

Share

Leave a comment

Agatha’s Garden comes out in a few months.
A neurodivergent novel about finding yourself and breaking the family legacy of silence.

A young neurodivergent man inherits his great-aunt’s vast, untamed garden. But the deeper he learns its stories and hidden corners, the more it pulls him toward the wounds he’s avoided, and the truth his family buried. What begins as escape becomes a slow return to himself.

Join the waitlist today for early chapters, private author notes, and launch bonuses reserved for this list.

These bonuses disappear once the book is out.

Join Agatha's Waitlist

It hits at weird times.

You stand at the sink.

Or stare into the fridge like something delicious will suddenly appear.

Your chest tightens.
Like someone pulling a drawstring inside your ribs.

Not a thought.
A squeeze.

Your throat dries out.
Your shoulders climb toward your ears.
Your jaw locks.

You didn’t choose this.

Your nervous system flips the switch and blares the alarm.

“Warning. Warning. Danger, Will Robinson.”

If you’re like this, you move fast.

You bury it.
You swallow it.
You crack a joke.
You stay busy.
You go quiet.

Anything but the intensity and vulnerability of it.

Like standing there helpless while your feelings rip through the room like the Tasmanian Devil off leash.

If people called you too sensitive growing up.

Too reactive.
Too intense.
Too much.

For years, I treated my feelings like the problem.

I learned to believe it.

I tried to regulate harder.
Be calmer.
Stop overthinking.
Stop taking everything so personally.

I worked overtime trying to pull myself together.

But I didn’t have a feelings problem.

I misread my feelings and missed what they were saying.

Feelings are characters in the story, not the author of it.

A garden doesn’t fault a plant for drooping.

You study the droop.
You check the soil.
You adjust the light.
You add water.

Plant drooping is a fact, not a failure.

Now think about that tight chest at the sink.
You might carry grief looking for its moment in the sun.

That clenched jaw?
You learned to swallow anger because other people met it with their own.
Or with criticism.
Or with “calm down.”

That restlessness?
Part of you wants change while another part insists everything is fine.

When we silence pain, it spreads.
It seeps into identity.

I am anxious.
I am broken.
I am too much.
I am the problem.

But when you name what’s happening, you shrink it.

You turn a mountain into a stone.

Now you can pick it up.

Now you can move it.

Don’t miss this week’s episode…

Compost

Soil doesn’t deny death.

It breaks it down.

It turns something into something else.

This pain grew from something.
This sorrow feeds life.

Not because it’s pretty.

Because that’s how compost works.

Something to Try On

The next time your body tightens, don’t fight it.

Say:

“This is a surge.”

Then ask:

Is this about now, or is this about then?

One question.
One degree of clarity.

That’s how you shrink mountains into rocks.

Don’t fix it.
Don’t defend yourself.
Don’t perform insight.

Listen.

Your feelings aren’t the problem.

No one taught you how to read them.

The garden is still growing.

The Garden Is Still Growing

Reflections on the lived experience of AuDHD, belonging, relationships, and being yourself.

If this resonated, join the launch for Agatha’s Garden below.

I’ll share behind-the-scenes notes, early excerpts, the moment the doors open, and more.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

🌱 Visit the Garden

How Can Brian Help?

Share

Leave a comment

Author’s Note: Everything I write is free.

Subscriber resources (worksheets, scripts, downloads, companion tools) are also free.

You need to subscribe so I know where to send them.

Subscribe now

This story isn’t about one person. It’s about a pattern I see over and over in AuDHD lives - the gap between awareness and expression. Enjoy.

I knew the moment was coming.

I could feel it in my body before anyone said a word.

The room was too bright. It was warm and stuffy. Chairs scraped. Someone clicked a pen over and over like they were going for a record. People kept talking over each other, making it harder to follow.

I sat there with my notebook open, pen hovering like I was about to write something important.

I wasn’t.

The notebook was camouflage. It gave my hands something to do while my brain tried to keep up with the pace of everyone else’s understanding.

My manager finished walking through the slides and looked up.

“Any questions?”

There it was.

That sentence always sounds casual when people say it. Generous even. Like they’re offering space.

But for me, it lands more like a spotlight.

Because I usually do have a question.

I don’t have the words for it yet.

I could feel the confusion forming while I sat there. It started in my chest, then climbed into my shoulders. That tight, buzzing feeling that says something doesn’t make sense, but you can’t yet explain why.

My nervous system was already holding up a sign that read:

Warning. Clarify this, or you’ll regret it later.

But when I reached for language…

There was nothing clean enough to use.

Inside my head, it sounded less like words and more like:

A feeling of urgency.
Overlapping thoughts.
Half-formed insights.
Frustration without captions.

I knew there was a problem.

I couldn’t translate it fast enough to be useful.

So my brain did what it always does under pressure. It flipped through survival options like a deck of cards:

• Ask something simple.

• Ask nothing.

• Ask something that sounds like I’m paying attention, but doesn’t expose how confused I feel.

My mouth opened anyway.

“What’s… the timeline on that?”

Safe question. Harmless question. Completely wrong question.

My manager answered easily. Dates. Milestones. People nodded like it was settled. The conversation moved on.

I nodded too.

Like I understood.

Like I was keeping up.

Like I always try to look like I’m keeping up.

This Week’s Episode:

Hours later, I stood in the parking lot with my hand on my car door when the real question finally showed up.

Late. Uninvited. Crystal clear.

What does ‘done’ actually mean here?
What are you expecting from me that you think I already know?
Where do people usually get this wrong?

I closed my eyes and let out a slow breath that felt equal parts relief and frustration.

Self-advocacy often gets framed like it’s about courage.

• Speak up.

• Ask for what you need.

• Use your voice.

And I want to.

That’s the part people don’t see.

I’m not trying to stay silent.

I’m trying to find the words.

And that takes time, I don’t always get.

A few days later, I sat on the paper-covered exam table in my doctor’s office.

The lights buzzed. The clock ticked louder than it should have. My foot bounced like it was getting ready to bolt from the room.

The doctor walked in, friendly enough, and asked, “So what brings you in today?”

I felt it again.

The internal warning lights.

Something was happening in my body. Fatigue that sleep didn’t fix. Brain fog that made conversations feel like wading through water. A kind of overwhelm that didn’t feel emotional but wasn’t physical either.

Like my system was trying to run ten tabs at once, and every one of them had sound on.

I reached for language and found…

Fragments.

“I’m tired all the time,” I said. “My brain feels… loud. And I keep losing track of what I’m saying while I’m saying it.”

He nodded. Typed. Asked a follow-up that missed the center of what I was trying to say.

I nodded back.

Smiled.

Agreed.

The mask slid into place automatically.

Because somewhere along the way, I learned something:

If you ask too many questions, you’ll look incompetent.

So instead of asking for clarity, I stayed quiet and tried to figure it out, alone.

Again.

The thing people don’t always understand is that my thoughts aren’t just “busy.”

They’re busy in different formats at the same time.

Some are verbal.
Some are visual.
Some are emotional without names.
Some are pure sensation.

And they all move at different speeds.

By the time I understand what bothered me, the conversation has often moved on to lunch plans.

That lag isn’t laziness.

It’s timing.

Sometimes my feelings arrive like weather systems.

Big. Real. Undeniable.

But unlabeled.

Overwhelmed. Pressured. Dismissed. Confused.

Inside, it all registers like one giant internal forecast that reads:

Something feels bad. Please advise.

Not exactly question-ready.

And then there’s the working memory piece.

I’ll form a question and lose the wording mid-sentence. Like trying to carry water in my hands.

I start strong, then watch the sentence evaporate in real time.

Which makes me sound uncertain, even when I’m not.

And being put on the spot doesn’t help.

Pressure doesn’t sharpen me.

Pressure scrambles me.

My brain shifts from language mode to survival mode.

Great if I’m escaping a bear.

Less helpful when I’m trying to ask HR about accommodations without sounding like I’m asking permission to exist.

One night, after replaying too many conversations, I sat at my kitchen table with a notebook open.

Not because I felt productive.

Because I couldn’t turn my brain off.

The house was quiet in that late-night way that should feel peaceful but didn’t. The refrigerator hummed. The clock ticked. I turned off the overhead light and left the small table lamp on because the brightness felt like too much.

I held the pen without writing for a long time.

Then I wrote at the top of the page:

The question I couldn’t ask.

I stared at it.

Then, almost without thinking, I wrote underneath it:

What’s the question behind the question?

The final question that had been haunting me sounded like this:

Can we adjust my workload? I’m burning out.

But when I slowed down and let myself be messy, other questions surfaced underneath it.

More honest ones.

• Why am I exhausted when others aren’t?

• Which tasks drain me the most?

• Is this sensory fatigue… or cognitive fatigue… or social fatigue?

• Do I need less work… or different work?

• What support even exists here?

I leaned back in my chair.

For the first time that night, I didn’t feel broken.

I felt like I’d found the first stair.

I’d been trying to ask the final question before I’d identified the entry questions.

Trying to submit the last page of a test I hadn’t taken.

No wonder my mouth went blank when people said, “Just speak up.”

A week later, back in another meeting, the moment came again.

“Any questions?”

The pressure rose.

The urge to perform competence showed up right on cue.

But I tried something new.

“I want to make sure I’m clear,” I said. “Can I circle back after I think this through?”

My manager nodded. “Sure.”

No judgment. No impatience. Just space.

Later, at my desk, I wrote:

“Quick clarity check. What does success look like for this project? Is there a standard for ‘done’ you want me to use?”

When the reply came back, it was specific. Concrete. Grounded.

The fog lifted instantly.

My shoulders dropped.

And I felt something I hadn’t expected.

Relief, yes.

But also hope.

Because it wasn’t that I couldn’t ask questions.

It was that I needed conditions where questions could form.

That realization changed something in me.

Not asking the right question wasn’t a personal failure.

It was a sign I’d never been given the processing conditions required to form one.

When environments move too fast, clarity is the first casualty.

So self-advocacy for minds like mine isn’t just:

Use your voice.

It’s:

Create the conditions where your voice can form.

Sometimes that means asking for time.

Sometimes it means using writing instead of speech.

Sometimes it means starting with structure:

“What does success look like?”
“Which part is most time-sensitive?”
“Where do people usually get stuck?”

Sometimes it means naming needs without leading with diagnosis:

“I do best with written instructions.”
“I need more lead time for task switching.”
“Verbal directions are harder for me to retain.”

None of that is weakness.

That’s skill.

That’s me learning the language my brain actually speaks.

The world praises people who speak quickly.

But quick isn’t always accurate.

For minds like mine, the right question often arrives late.

But when it arrives, it usually cuts straight to the root.

And that’s the difference between sounding confident and actually getting your needs met.

One is performance.

The other is self-advocacy.

And the more I practice giving myself the conditions I need, the more I notice something quietly encouraging:

The questions come sooner.

Not because I finally tried harder.

Because I stopped demanding speed from a system built for depth.

And I gave myself permission to translate first.

Then speak.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

Learn More about how Brian can be of service to you and/or your family.

Subscribe now

Share

Leave a comment

7 Tips for Removing the Word “Should” from Your Vocabulary

If you have ever noticed how heavy the word “should” feels, you are not imagining it. As I explain in the introduction to this guide, “should” often carries obligation, pressure, guilt, and rigid thinking. It sounds harmless. It rarely is.

This workbook page helps you shift from pressure to personal agency. From “I should” to “I choose.”

What You’ll Get

• A clear, third-person guide that walks you through recognizing “should” statements, reframing them into empowering alternatives like “could,” “might,” or “I choose,” and practicing self-compassion along the way.

• A special lens for neurodivergent adults, especially those with AuDHD, who feel the extra weight of internal and external expectations, as highlighted in the “Practice, Practice, Practice” section .

• Guidance for creating your own replacement language using empowering alternatives listed in the “Instead of ‘should’” section, such as “It’s up to you,” “You have the opportunity to,” or “If you’d like” .

• A structured 31-day reflection path to help you identify, trace, and reframe your “shoulds,” beginning with awareness and building toward flexible, values-based thinking .

How to Use It

Start by noticing when you say or think the word “should.” Awareness is the first step.

Write down one “should” you used today. Trace where it came from. Family. Culture. Social media. Your inner critic.

Reframe it using choice-based language. Instead of “I should exercise,” try “I choose to move my body because I want more energy.”

Focus on your values, not invisible rule books. Ask yourself what actually matters to you.

Practice daily. Small shifts count. You are rewiring habit, not flipping a switch.

Bottom Line

“Should” is often a shortcut to shame. Replacing it with choice restores your agency.

This is not about policing your language. It is about building self-awareness and self-respect.

You will not eliminate every “should.” You will get better at catching it. That is progress.

Download

Download your copy below and keep it nearby - on your desk, in your journal, or saved on your phone - so you can return to it whenever “should” starts running the show.

Download

Everything I write is free.

Subscriber resources (worksheets, scripts, downloads, companion tools) are also free.

You need to subscribe so I know where to send them.

Subscribe now

The biggest myth about ADHD is this:

“People with ADHD could do better if they tried harder.”

It sounds small. Almost reasonable. Like a coffee mug emblazoned with, “Rise and Grind.”

It’s not.

This belief does more damage than the diagnosis ever will.

Not because people mean harm when they say it. Most don’t. They’re trying to motivate. Encourage. Light a fire.

But ADHD isn’t a fire problem.

It’s an ignition problem.

You can have a full tank, a good battery, and still sit, turning the key like,

“C’mon… we talked about this.”

Why this myth sticks

ADHD is invisible.

You can’t tell by looking at us. No casts. No wheelchair. No flashing dashboard light that says:

“Executive Function Offline. Please Restart Human.”

So when someone with ADHD focuses well sometimes, the outside world draws a quick conclusion:

Look? They can do it when they want to.

From the outside, it looks like inconsistency.

From the inside, it’s like trying to steer a Big Wheel downhill.

You’re moving.

But not where you meant to go.

ADHD isn’t a motivation deficit.

It’s a regulation disability.

It affects the brain systems responsible for:

• Attention direction

• Task initiation

• Working memory

• Emotional regulation

• Time perception

• Impulse control

These functions live in executive networks of the brain, influenced by neurotransmitters like dopamine and norepinephrine.

So when someone says, “Try harder,” they assume effort will fix a regulation bottleneck.

But for you, it’s not a motivation problem.

It’s a processing problem.

Your brain is buffering while everyone else is streaming.

And when you write the thought onto the page, it can be like writing on a whiteboard someone keeps erasing behind you, before you can finish the sentence.

You’re not wrong for trying.

You’re not fixing the right problem.

Click to listen to this week’s episode…

Why I call this the biggest myth

I call this the biggest myth because it sits upstream of almost every other misunderstanding about ADHD.

If you believe ADHD is an effort problem, everything gets interpreted through a moral lens.

Forgetfulness becomes careless.
Inconsistency becomes unreliable.
Emotional flooding becomes dramatic.
Procrastination becomes lazy.

The person stops being seen as someone struggling and starts being judged as someone choosing the struggle.

The person with ADHD is sitting there thinking:

“I promise you, if willpower fixed this, I’d be unstoppable by now.”

But ADHD isn’t defined by a lack of caring or a lack of willpower.

It’s defined by differences in regulation and executive functioning.

In other words, ADHD is less about not wanting to do the thing and more about the brain having trouble turning the key in the ignition at the right moment.

How this myth lands in childhood

Parent ↔ Child Dialogue

This myth often lands first at home.

“Why is your homework still not done?”
“I tried.”
“You’ve been sitting there for an hour.”
“I know.”
“Then why isn’t it finished?”
“I don’t know.”

Parent sighs.

“You need to focus.”
“I’m trying to focus.”
“Then try harder.”

Now the child isn’t learning math.

They’re learning shame.

They’re thinking:

What’s wrong with me?
Why can’t I do what everyone else can?

Why ADHD looks confusing from the outside

Someone might hyperfocus for hours on something interesting, and freeze when faced with a 10-minute admin task.

Same person.
Same values.
Same desire to do well.

Different level of nervous system activation.

Interest? Brain says, “Let’s build Rome in a day.”

Boring paperwork? Brain says, “Let’s lie down and question every life choice.”

How the myth strains relationships

Partner ↔ Partner Dialogue

Over time, misunderstanding gets personal.

“Did you call the insurance company?”
“I meant to.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I know.”
“So why didn’t you do it?”
“I got overwhelmed.”
“It’s a phone call.”

Silence.

“I’m not trying to make your life harder.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“It feels like you did.”

And now the issue isn’t executive function.

It’s hurt.

One person feels unsupported.

The other feels misunderstood.

Where the myth does its deepest damage

It delays support and teaches shame.

When ADHD gets framed as “try harder,” people often don’t seek evaluation or support until they’re already burned out, anxious, depressed, or convinced they’re broken.

They don’t learn skills.

They learn self-blame.

They start living under the pressure of:

“I should be able to do this.”

Which is exhausting, because they’ve been trying harder their whole life.

They’re not starting at zero effort.

They’re starting at effort plus shame.

The damage this myth causes

Over time, this myth reshapes identity.

Not behavior.

Identity.

It:

• Turns neurological limits into moral failure

• Teaches people to distrust their own effort

• Creates chronic shame instead of skill-building

• Replaces curiosity with self-surveillance

• Produces burnout, anxiety, and depression

It also creates the world’s worst productivity strategy:

“Panic now. Recover later.”

Which works… until later becomes permanent.

Worst of all, it installs this belief:

“If I’m struggling, it must mean I’m lazy, broken, or not enough.”

Because now the person isn’t just managing executive dysfunction.

They’re fighting themselves too.

Where the myth goes when no one else is in the room

Internal Critic ↔ Self Dialogue

Eventually, the conversation stops happening out loud.

No parent.
No teacher.
No partner.

Just you… and the voice that stayed behind.

You sit down to start something small.

An email.
A form.
A phone call.

Cursor blinking.

And before you move, the voice speaks.

Critic:
“You’re already behind.”

You:
“I know.”

Critic:
“So why are you sitting there?”

You’re not sitting there by choice.

You’re stuck between intention and ignition.

You open the document anyway.

Try to start.

Nothing.

Critic:
“This isn’t even hard.”
“Why do you make everything harder than it needs to be?”

You:
“I’m trying to get traction.”

Critic:
“Normal people don’t need traction to send an email.”

Minutes pass.

Critic:
“You’ve wasted half the morning.”
“At this rate you’ll never catch up.”

Urgency mixes with shame.

Regulation slows even more.

You try to push harder.

Critic:
“If you’d started earlier, you wouldn’t feel like this.”

You:
“I couldn’t start earlier.”

Critic:
“Excuses.”

Eventually urgency spikes high enough to override paralysis.

You start.

Finish.

And then…

Critic:
“There. That wasn’t so hard.”

Which erases the invisible cost it took to get there.

Where the dialogue begins to change

When ADHD is understood as regulation, not effort, the voice shifts.

Slowly.

But noticeably.

Critic:
“You’re behind.”

You:
“I lost traction, not commitment.”

Critic:
“This isn’t hard.”

You:
“Starting is the hard part for my brain.”

Critic:
“You always wait.”

You:
“Urgency jumpstarts my nervous system.”

Same situation.

Different interpretation.

Less shame.

More strategy.

Because the goal isn’t to silence the critic.

It’s to stop letting it narrate reality unchecked.

To replace:

“What’s wrong with me?”

with:

“What support would help me start?”

One question attacks identity.

The other builds competence.”

Thanks for being you,

Brian

Everything Brian offers, one click away—coaching, podcast, courses, and more:

Learn More

Free Workbook

There’s a workbook that goes with this article.

It’s almost done. I want it to be genuinely useful, not busywork, so I’m polishing it.

Subscribers will get it as soon as it’s live.

If you’re not subscribed yet, jump in, and I’ll send it your way when it’s ready.

Subscribe now

I started the day in yesterday’s clothes, hunting for my handicapped placard.

With my iPhone light blazing, I headed into the butt-cold garage. I wasn’t awake yet, but the Mission Impossible theme already thumped in my head. Feel free to join in for the remainder of this note.

I looked under our car’s passenger seat. Cath and I had done this multiple times over the past week and a half. This time, I spotted a small brown wallet wedged in a place you’d only notice if you were searching for it.

I figured it belonged to my wife. I reached in, eased it out, and found my missing wallet behind it. Peek-a-boo. Just like that.

No HOORAH. No jump for joy. I just stood there for a bit. My shoulders softened. I let out a slow breath. It was the kind of exhale that says, “Okay. I’m not carrying this anymore.”

I think the wallet slipped out of my left pants pocket when Cath and I went out a few weeks back. Since then, I cancelled and reordered cards, IDs, the whole deal… even though something in me kept whispering, “It’s here. Keep looking.”

Turns out, that quiet voice knew.

Yesterday I joked with my wife: “Guess what’s going to show up after everything has been replaced?”

She goes, “Your wallet.”

Close. I still had a few things left, but… uncanny.

Then it hit me. The wallet mattered, sure, but something else mattered more.

I didn’t catastrophize. That used to be Step One.

This time, when my mind wanted to sprint ahead into worst-case stories, I didn’t agree to follow. I came back to my body. To the concrete stuff. What can I control, where can I place my attention to create something other than anxiety?

This ability didn’t fall out of the sky. I’ve studied Zen Buddhism for decades, and bit by bit I’ve built the foundation. Maybe something finally clicked.

Frustration still showed up. My jaw tightened. My chest got that familiar squeeze. But I noticed it sooner, and I didn’t punish myself for having it. I loosened my grip and kept going.

And of course, because life refuses to end a story cleanly…

Oops. Now something else is misplaced.

Good gravy.

But I’m confident it’ll turn up.

I’m grateful for the wallet, obviously. But I’m more grateful for the way I stayed present while it was missing.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

Subscribe

Learn more about how I can help you...

Share

Everything I write is free.

Subscriber resources (worksheets, scripts, downloads, companion tools) are also free.

You just need to subscribe so I know where to send them.

Subscribe now

“I swear they’re not trying to be weird.”
That’s the sentence a lot of partners and parents end up saying, quietly, after the fact.

Because from the outside, social anxiety in someone with AuDHD can look like disinterest. Or attitude. Or avoidance. Or that they’re making everything harder than it needs to be.

But here’s what’s usually true.

A lot of AuDHD social anxiety isn’t fear of people.
It’s fear of overload.

It’s their nervous system going, “This is getting expensive. We might not make it through this conversation with the lights still on.”

The misunderstanding

What it can look like from the outside:

• “They don’t care.”

• “They’re mad.”

• “They’re being dramatic.”

• “They’re avoiding me.”

• “They’re choosing this.”

What’s often actually happening:

They’re trying to keep their brain online while it juggles a ridiculous number of social tasks at once.

And if they go quiet, it may not be because they have nothing to say.
It may be because they’re busy not melting down in public. Small win. Gold star. Moving on.

What’s going on under the hood

1. Their brain is doing too many things at once

Conversation is not one thing.

It’s tone, timing, eye contact, facial expressions, background noise, remembering what you said three sentences ago, and trying not to interrupt while their brain is already writing a response in bold italics.

So when someone says, “Just relax,” their brain is like, “Sure. I’ll relax right after I stop processing the entire room.”

When working memory fills up, anxiety shoots up. Fast.

Not because they’re fragile.
Because they’re full.

2. They’re scanning for rejection without meaning to

If a person grew up getting corrected socially a thousand times, they start expecting the next correction like it’s part of the weather.

So they track:

• Did your tone shift?

• Did your face change?

• Was that pause normal or a “you’re annoyed” pause?

• Did they talk too much?

It’s not that they assume you hate them.
It’s that their brain is trained to look for the moment people start hating them.

That’s not drama. That’s history.

3. Timing is weirdly hard

Some people jump into conversation like they were born holding a microphone.

For someone with AuDHD, it can feel like merging onto a highway where everyone is going 90, and nobody uses a turn signal.

Do they jump in now?
Is that interrupting?
Did they miss their window?
If they wait, will they never get a turn?

So they either go quiet, or they accidentally interrupt, or they finally speak and it comes out like a TED Talk because they’ve been holding it in for ten minutes.

4. They’re exhausted from performing “normal”

A lot of AuDHD adults aren’t just socializing. They’re masking.

Calibrating facial expression.
Voice.
Intensity.
Eye contact.
Body language.

That’s effort.

So sometimes they’re fine at the beginning… and then halfway through, they hit a wall.

From the outside, it looks like they suddenly got distant.

From the inside, it’s: “Battery at 2%. Please land this plane.”

Click to Listen to this week's episode...

Let’s kill the shame right here

This isn’t a moral failing.

This isn’t laziness.

This isn’t disrespect.

If they shut down or go quiet, they’re not trying to punish you.
They’re trying to stay in the room without their nervous system flipping the table.

A line they can actually use

Here’s a repair sentence that works in real life:

“I want to stay with you. I just hit overload. Can we slow down for a minute?”

It does two important things:

1. It signals care.

2. It tells the truth about capacity.

No blame. No weird apology tour.

“But what about when they CAN talk?”

Yep. Sometimes they’re social. Sometimes they’re funny. Sometimes they’re on fire.

And then other times, they’re quiet and awkward and can’t find their words.

That’s not manipulation.

That’s regulation.

Capacity changes depending on:

• sleep

• noise and sensory load

• how many people are present

• how safe they feel

• how much masking they’re doing

• whether the topic is draining or energizing

• how much brain fuel is left today

Same person. Different conditions.

If you’ve ever been fine all day and then one small thing tipped you into “I can’t do one more thing,” you already understand this.

FREE eBooklet

How this ends

This isn’t about winning an argument over whether someone is “too sensitive” or “overthinking.”

It’s about making connection possible without pressure.

When pressure drops, their brain stays online longer.
When shame drops, they don’t have to recover for two hours after a ten-minute conversation.

And if you want the clearest translation:

If they’re quiet, they’re not leaving you.
They’re trying to stay.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

—

If this article helped you put language to something you’ve been carrying, there’s more waiting for you.

Subscribe free to access the companion worksheets, scripts, exercises, and tools that go with my writing.

No paywall. No upsell.

Just resources to help you do something useful with what you’ve learned.

Subscribe now

Everything Brian offers, one click away—coaching, podcast, courses, and more:

What I can do for you...

Everything I write is free.

Subscriber resources (worksheets, scripts, downloads, companion tools) are also free.

You just need to subscribe so I know where to send them.

Subscribe now

—

If you love someone with ADHD, please read this.

When someone with ADHD isn’t listening, it’s easy to draw a painful conclusion.

If you cared, you’d listen.

If it mattered, you’d try harder.

If you loved me, you’d be present.

That interpretation makes sense. For most people, listening feels passive. You’re either paying attention, or you’re not.

But ADHD changes the equation.

When someone with ADHD isn’t listening, it’s rarely about caring. It’s usually about regulation. And the solution isn’t pressure. It’s timing and consent.

For someone with ADHD, listening is not passive. It is an active process of regulating attention, energy, and sensory input in real time. Their brain is constantly deciding what to focus on, what to ignore, and how much effort it can spend.

They’re not only listening to your words. They’re also managing background noise, internal thoughts, body sensations, fatigue, and emotional reactions in one big sensory smoothie.

For most people, this happens automatically.

For someone with ADHD, it takes effort. Real effort.

And sometimes there is simply not enough left in the tank.

Here are three common causes of “not listening” in ADHD. None of them are personal.

1. Saturation

Working memory is full.

By the time you start talking, their mind may already be exhausted from everything it’s had to track, decide, manage, or suppress to get through the day. This is executive function at work, and it has limits.

This often shows up at the end of the day, after work, after social interaction, or after long stretches of decision-making.

What it can look like:

Blank stare. Delayed response. Zoning out mid-sentence.

What it feels like inside:

Trying to carry one more glass of water when your hands are already shaking.

Sometimes zoning out isn’t disinterest.

It’s depletion.

2. Distraction

People with ADHD often live with an all-or-nothing nervous system.

The brain treats most input as important. Sounds. Movement. Thoughts. Body sensations. Visual changes. Everything competes for attention, and the pull is automatic.

This isn’t a choice. It’s not selective listening.

It’s attentional hijacking.

In real life:

A noise across the room.

Something in the corner of the eye.

A random thought that jumps the line.

Focus gets pulled away before they even realize it happened.

Hyperfocus isn’t proof they can control this when they want to. It’s the other extreme of the same system. More on that in a minute.

​

3. Reflection

Sometimes you say something that matters.

It lands.

It sparks an insight.

An AHA moment.

And suddenly, the internal processing ramps up fast.

Connections form. Possibilities unfold. The mind takes off.

It’s like their brain hits “think deep” before it hits “stay tuned.”

What you might see:

They miss the next part of what you say.

What’s actually happening:

They’re thinking hard because what you said mattered.

Honestly, that’s a pretty high compliment.

Subscribe

Why this hurts

Listening is deeply tied to feeling safe, important, and respected.

When someone doesn’t listen, it can trigger feelings of rejection, invisibility, or not being valued. That pain is real. It deserves respect.

At the same time, assuming intent based on attention solely creates a misunderstanding that hurts both people.

One person feels unheard.

The other feels shamed for a nervous system they cannot override.

This is where most couples, families, and friendships get stuck.​

What actually helps

Scolding doesn’t work.

Repeating yourself louder doesn’t work.

Shame never improves regulation.

What helps is timing and consent.

Here’s the script that changes everything:

“Are you in a place to listen for five or ten minutes?”

This does a few important things at once:

• It gives the person with ADHD a moment to check in with their capacity.

• It creates a clear time frame, which reduces overwhelm.

• It communicates respect instead of demand.

If the answer is yes, you’re far more likely to get real presence.

If the answer is not right now, that’s not avoidance.

That’s honesty.

A quick word about hyperfocus

Hyperfocus is immersive focusing. Attention doesn’t just increase. It narrows and deepens so much that everything else fades into the background.

It’s not better focus.

It’s deeper, but far less flexible.

Think of it like slamming the gas pedal to the floor.

If something is exciting, urgent, fun, or emotionally charged, the brain lights up. Focus shows up fast and tends to stick.

People with ADHD often need higher stimulation to access focus consistently.

Everyday conversation is usually a low-stimulation activity.

Unless a topic connects to emotion, personal interest, or genuine curiosity, staying engaged takes active regulation.

When a topic does matter, you’ll usually see the difference immediately.

​Listen to this week’s episode…

Two quick notes

For partners:

• Ask about timing before assuming intent.

• Remember that attention lapses are usually capacity issues, not character flaws.

For people with ADHD:

• It’s okay to name your limits before you hit them.

• Asking for a pause is not failing. It’s self-awareness.

The bottom line

This isn’t about caring more.

It’s about timing, energy, and nervous system capacity.

Someone with ADHD not listening to you is rarely a judgment.

It’s usually a regulation issue.

And respecting limits is one of the most loving forms of attention there is.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

—

If this article helped you put language to something you’ve been carrying, there’s more waiting for you.

Subscribe free to access the companion worksheets, scripts, exercises, and tools that go with my writing.

No paywall. No upsell.

Just resources to help you do something useful with what you’ve learned.

Subscribe now

—

What Can I Do For You?

Everything Brian offers, one click away—coaching, podcast, courses, and more:

Click Here

Let me say the quiet part out loud.

For many autistic or ADHD people (or the fun combo platter, AuDHD), finishing one chore can genuinely feel like they earned the right to rest for the rest of the day.

And if you’re thinking, “Come on, it was just the dishes,” that reaction makes sense. From the outside, it looks like they washed a few plates.

From the inside, it can feel more like they wrestled a raccoon in a phone booth.

What You See vs What It Costs

Here’s the gap that causes most of the frustration.

You see:
“Take out trash. Done.”

Their nervous system experiences:

• The startup lag where their body feels glued to the couch

• The mental traffic jam of “what do I do first?”

• The sensory gauntlet: smells, textures, clanging, water, wet sleeves, the universe laughing

• The decision fatigue of a thousand micro-choices other people don’t even notice

• The post-task crash where their nervous system goes, “Great. Now we must lie down like a hibernating squirrel.”

So yes, by the time the chore is done, the task is finished.

But so is their battery.

Executive Function Is Not a Character Trait

Some people can flow from task to task like they’re on a moving sidewalk at the airport. Easy transitions. No drama.

AuDHD brains are more like a shopping cart with one broken wheel. You can still push it. It just costs sweat, swearing, and a brief crisis of faith in humanity.

Starting takes effort. Switching takes more. And stopping is weirdly the hardest, because restarting can feel like trying to crank a lawnmower… with emotional baggage… in the rain… while someone says, “Have you tried wanting it more?”

That’s why one chore can hijack the whole day. It isn’t that they don’t care. It’s that their brain just burned half the fuel on ignition.

Why “One Win” Feels Like a Whole Day

A lot of neurodivergent people carry a rule they didn’t choose, but learned the hard way:

“If I finished one thing, I won the day.”

It’s not a flex. It’s a protective shield.

Many grew up being corrected, rushed, criticized, or treated like they were “too much” and “not enough” at the same time. So when they complete a task that required real effort and regulation, they plant a little flag and think:

“Hey. I did a thing. Nobody gets to erase that.”

That isn’t weakness. That’s survival with a sticker chart.

Dopamine Is a Drama Queen

A lot of neurodivergent brains don’t get consistent “reward fuel.” It’s not a steady paycheck. It’s more like a random cash prize.

So when dopamine finally hits after a completed task, it can feel like the grand finale. Fireworks. Confetti. Credits roll.

Now imagine someone taps them on the shoulder right after the credits and says, “Great! Ready for the sequel?”

No. The cast has gone home. The orchestra is packing up. They’re backstage eating peanut butter out of the jar trying to remember their name.

Rest Is Not Laziness. It’s Recovery.

This is the part people miss.

When an autistic or ADHD person collapses after doing something “small,” it’s not because they’re milking it. It’s because their nervous system is doing damage control.

They’re not resting like, “Ah yes, leisure.”

They’re resting like, “If I don’t lie down, I might start crying because a fork touched my hand wrong.”

Big difference.

Related Reading…

To the Frustrated Parent or Partner

At this point, a lot of parents and partners are thinking:

“So we’re not supposed to expect anything from them?”

No. You can absolutely expect things.

But it helps to expect them like you’d expect things from someone with limited battery life, not someone who’s fully charged and pretending.

A better question is:

“What kind of expectation is realistic, and what helps them succeed?”

Here are a few shifts that change everything:

• Swap ‘more’ for ‘clearer.’
  “Clean the kitchen” is a fog bank. “Put dishes in the dishwasher for 5 minutes” is a target.

• Use fewer tasks, done more consistently.
  Two small chores done predictably beats one giant chore that triggers shutdown and avoidance.

• Build in recovery on purpose.
  Rest after a task isn’t a reward for being dramatic. It’s how the next task becomes possible later.

• Focus on sustainability, not intensity.
  The goal is not a heroic Saturday collapse. The goal is a livable week.

• Separate support from enabling.
  Support says, “Let’s make this doable.” Enabling says, “You never have to try.” Those are not the same thing.

You can hold expectations and still be compassionate about the wiring.

Structure is not the enemy. Shame is.

This week's podcast episode...

What I Hope You Take From This

So when an autistic or ADHD person says, “I did the thing, so I’m done,” it isn’t entitlement. It isn’t a tantrum. It isn’t a moral failure.

It’s honesty.

What looks “small” to you might have cost them a lot.
And the miracle isn’t that they did one chore.

The miracle is that they did it while their brain was yelling, “Absolutely not,” and they still showed up anyway.

If you live with someone like this, here’s the best translation to keep in your pocket:

They’re not avoiding life.
They’re recovering from it.

And yes, sometimes they really did need a nap after the trash.

Welcome to the glamorous world of executive function.

We can do this, we’re in it together.

One Last Thing,

Yesterday, I finished writing my first Novella, called “Agatha’s Garden”.

A neurodivergent young man inherits a garden he never expected to return to, and accepting it becomes the first step in releasing his grief and learning how to take up space in his own life.

Lot’s of editing now. Stay tuned 🙂

Thanks for being you,

Everything Brian offers, one click away—coaching, podcast, courses, and more:

View all Brian’s Links” https://brianraymondking.com/links/

A quieter challenge of living with AuDHD is this.

When I get dysregulated, there isn’t a clear place to return to.

There’s no internal couch I recognize.
No familiar exhale that says, okay, I’m back.

It’s more like standing in a house where the furniture keeps moving.
I know I’ve been here before, but I can’t quite tell where to sit.

A lot of people seem to have a place like that.

They notice their shoulders drop.
Their breathing evens out.
Their thoughts line up instead of talking over each other.

They might still be upset, still rattled, but there’s a sense of orientation.
A feeling of, I know how to get myself through this.

For me, the map has always been… smudged.

Not blank.
Just hard to read when my hands are shaking.

CLICK HERE to listen to this week's episode...

Calming Isn’t the Same as Returning

I know how to put out fires.

I stim.
I pace.
I rock.
I tap.
I put on the same song and let it loop until my nervous system stops shouting.

The volume comes down.
My jaw unclenches.
My breathing slows enough that I can think in full sentences again.

That matters.
That’s relief.

But afterward, there’s often a strange, hollow pause.

Like the smoke has cleared, but I’m not sure where I’m standing.

Okay, I think. Now what?

Where am I supposed to land?
What does “regulated” actually mean for me?
What am I returning to when the storm passes?

Calm isn’t a place. It’s a state.
And states slip away quickly when your nervous system never learned what “baseline” felt like.

If this sounds familiar, it’s not because you’re missing a skill.
It’s because no one ever showed you what “home” was supposed to feel like inside yourself.

My Center Was Physical Before It Was Emotional

For a long time, my center lived in my body.

In repetition.
In forms I could run without thinking.
In breath moving when I told it to.

Martial arts gave me edges.
Meditation gave me weight.
My feet on the ground, my spine upright, my muscles doing something predictable.

In those moments, I didn’t have to explain anything to myself.
I didn’t have to name my feelings or figure out what they meant.
My body knew where it was.

That kind of grounded feels like gravity working again.

But emotional center?

That’s different.

Emotions don’t move in straight lines.
They don’t wait their turn.
They burst in mid-thought, dragging old memories and future worries with them.

One moment I’m fine.
The next, I’m flooded.
And suddenly I’m looking around internally, thinking, Where did I go?

When emotions take over, I don’t instinctively know where “home” is.

Not because I lack insight.
But because I was never taught that my inner experience was allowed to settle anywhere.

Related Reading…

When the World Keeps Trying to Fix You

Here’s something that makes all of this harder.

Most environments don’t respond to dysregulation with curiosity.
They respond with correction.

Sit up.
Lower your voice.
Try harder.
Pay attention.
What’s wrong with you right now?

Even when the tone is polite, the message lands the same.

You are not okay as you are.

After enough of that, your nervous system stops looking for safety.
It looks for performance.

And it’s very hard to build an inner sense of home when you’re always being adjusted, redirected, or improved.

Because safety doesn’t feel like someone watching you closely.
It feels like being treated like a person, not a project.

Happiness Is a Terrible Anchor

We all say we want to be happy.

What we usually mean is, I want the discomfort to stop.

But happiness is unreliable.

It flickers.
It depends on sleep, pain levels, sensory overload, timing, hormones, weather, and whether someone nearby is chewing like a raccoon who lost a bet.

Some days happiness shows up.
Some days it ghosts you completely.

If happiness is the thing you’re trying to return to, every hard moment feels like failure.

And that wears people down.

So What Do I Anchor To?

Lately, I’ve been noticing something else.

Meaning doesn’t vanish when I’m overwhelmed.
It doesn’t care whether I feel calm or scattered.
It doesn’t ask me to earn my place by feeling better first.

Meaning shows up quietly and says,
This still counts.

Even now.
Even like this.

Meaning is a compass. Mood is weather.
Weather shifts by the hour.
A compass keeps pointing, even in the storm.

So the question changes.

Not, “Am I regulated yet?”
But, “What matters enough to stay present for, even in this version of the moment?”

That question assumes something radical.

That you are still here.
That you still matter.
That this moment isn’t wasted just because it’s uncomfortable.

Maybe Center Isn’t Stillness

Maybe center isn’t a peaceful lake you’re supposed to float on.

Maybe it’s a compass you learn to check when everything feels off.

Something that points true even when you’re jittery, overloaded, or emotionally sideways.

Something that says:
You can be dysregulated and still oriented.
You can be struggling and still moving.
You don’t have to be calm to be anchored.

I’m still learning what my center is.

But I know what it isn’t.

It isn’t happiness.
It isn’t compliance.
And it definitely isn’t pretending I’m fine.

It might be meaning.
It might be curiosity.
It might be the quiet decision to do more than just survive.

And if you recognize yourself anywhere in this, I want you to hear this part clearly.

You’re not failing to find your center.
You’re building one.

And that counts.

That really, really counts.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

Everything Brian offers is one click away—coaching, podcast, courses, and more:

View all Brian’s Links ” https://brianraymondking.com/links/

Most of us with AuDHD would never pass a lie detector test, in my opinion. Not because we’re criminal masterminds. More because we live with nervous systems acting like golden retrievers, thinking every doorbell is a home invasion.

A polygraph doesn’t measure lying. It measures panic. We come pre-panic’d. We could tell the truth about my own birthday, and our bodies would still be like, “ARE WE SURE? WHAT IF THIS IS A TRICK QUESTION?”

Then there’s the lifelong impulse to tell people what they want to hear. Not in a manipulative way. In a “please don’t be mad and also please continue to love me as a viable human” way.

This brain doesn’t answer questions. It negotiates peace treaties.

So when someone asks, “Did you do that thing?” The inner diplomat starts sweating and goes, “What’s the emotionally safest answer here?”

Then there’s our signature move: pretending we heard and understood what you said. Know what I mean, or do you want me to repeat it?

Someone: “So the meeting got moved to Thursday after the stakeholder sync, but only if legal approves the new workflow.”
Me, nodding like a wise monk: “Totally. Yes. That makes sense.”

In my head: I heard “Thursday,” “legal,” and “stakeholder,” and I’m now building the rest of this sentence like a choose your own adventure book.

Asking for clarification should be easy. But for us, it feels like grabbing the mic in a quiet room and announcing, “Hi, yes, I am currently failing at being a person.” So instead, we do the thing where we smile, nod, and hope context arrives later, like an Amazon package.

The lie detector would have a field day.

Polygraph guy: “Did you understand what she just said?”
Me: “Yes.”
My body: BEEP BEEP BEEP
My soul: What did she say?
My mouth: “Absolutely.”
My brain: We will circle back. We will not circle back.

And the worst part is: I’m not even lying to get away with stuff. I’m lying to avoid awkwardness. I’m lying to avoid the tiny social speed bump of, “Sorry, can you say that again?” Like that sentence is illegal in three states.

So on a polygraph, I’d fail everything.

“Did you steal the money?”
Me: “No.”
My pulse: 170
The machine: LIKELY DECEPTIVE
Me, internally: What if they think I stole the money? What if someone else stole the money and I somehow benefited emotionally? What if I once thought about stealing money in 2009?

I’d be convicted on misunderstanding alone.

Really, we don’t have a lying problem. We have an anxiety problem dressed up as customer service. We think clarity is confrontation; that’s based on overwhelming experience with other people. The ones who get offended when we ask for clarification.

So no, we’d never pass a lie detector test.

But I’d pass a “most likely to nod supportively while having no idea what’s happening” test with honors.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

“Everything Brian offers, one click away—coaching, podcast, courses, and more:
View all Brian’s Links” https://brianraymondking.com/links/

Yesterday was bumpy.

I thought I heard a rattle in one of the bird cages. Cath didn’t hear it the way I did. A little later, she went downstairs, and I heard her say, “Oh… you were right.” I briefly considered adding that sentence to my calendar. Recurring. Annual reminder.

Butter (kākāriki) had tangled her foot in one of her toys and was hanging upside down. Weirdly calm. No panic. No noise. Just… stuck.

Cath jumped in right away to help her. She called me for help, and I tried to move as fast as I could from the second story. Note: I don’t move fast anymore. It’s a sloppy medium at best. Thanks, hEDS. Rubber-band joints make me more like Stretch Armstrong than Superman.

She asked me to grab Lily, a hyper, curious, two-year-old cockapoo, while she tried to free Butter. Would you believe we never rehearsed this?

The layout worked against us. Lily was trying to get close. A big chair was behind Cath. Butter’s cage was in front of her. There wasn’t a clean path for anyone to move without becoming part of the problem.

At some point, Lily darted in front, and I moved fast. Faster than I should have. I bent down to grab her, lost my balance, and fell backward.

I fell well.

That part matters.

Without thinking, I turned about forty-five degrees to my right, rolled across my thigh and up my side, and tucked my head so I wouldn’t hit it. I curled in such a way that my body automatically rocked forward again, trying to help me get back up.

Pure body memory. Habit. Years of martial arts training quietly kicked in with a skill I hadn’t practiced in 10 years. The last time was when I showed my son how to do it during his martial arts special interest phase.

My first impulse was to pop back up and keep going. Not because it was wise, but because a part of me had already decided I was going to do whatever was needed to help Cath and Butter. That part of me is loyal. Brave. And occasionally not great at consulting my joints first. I struggled to get on my feet.

Cath told me to stay down.

And then something interesting happened.

Lily came to me. No chasing. No wrestling. She came over as if she wanted to see if I was okay. I held onto her while Cath continued working, and Butter was freed.

Mission accomplished, just not the way I pictured it.

Check out this week’s episode of my podcast…

Afterward, I quietly went upstairs to lie down. I was upset, almost angry, and I took time to process, so I didn’t turn my experience into a story about how I failed or how I should be different than I am.

What I landed on was this: I wasn’t angry at anyone. I was angry at the situation. It was unique and fast. No clear instructions. Competing priorities. A small animal in danger, a dog reacting, two people trying to coordinate in a cramped space, and a body with limits that doesn’t care about urgency.

That kind of moment is hard for a lot of AuDHD adults. When there’s no obvious “right move,” effort becomes the default. You don’t slow down to plan, you speed up to solve.

Lying in bed, I focused on breathing. On noticing soreness without tensing against it. I didn’t want to pile on a second injury by adding a shame story: this sucked, I sucked, how embarrassing, how wrong it was to expect anything of myself.

Not because it didn’t hurt, but because shame never makes pain easier to carry.

The lesson I took from it was simple and specific.

Get onto the floor. Call Lily over. Eliminate the risk of falling before anything else.

Sometimes “falling well” is less about how you hit the ground, and more about what you do once you’re there.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

“Everything Brian offers, one click away—coaching, podcast, courses, and more:
View all Brian’s Links”

What happens when life throws you a challenge that seems insurmountable? Ken Kunken’s story is a living answer.

In this deeply moving episode, Brian sits down with Ken, a man whose journey began with a devastating spinal cord injury on the football field and transformed into a legacy of resilience, purpose, and service. From being told he might not live through the week to becoming a celebrated prosecutor and father of triplets, Ken’s life is a blueprint for defying limits and living with intention.

This conversation explores:

• The moment that changed everything- and how Ken responded.

• Returning to Cornell University before accessibility was a guarantee.

• His rise to a 40-year legal career as a quadriplegic prosecutor.

• The creation of lasting impact and inclusion through grit and advocacy.

• The power of identity, values, and support systems in overcoming adversity.

His memoir, I Dream of Things That Never Were, encapsulates his journey and continues to inspire change.

• Why accessibility is about more than just ramps—it’s about dignity.

• The role of mindset in navigating long-term disability and professional success.

• How a single act of accommodation can create ripples of inclusion.

• Insights on DEI from someone who lived its necessity every day.

Feeling inspired? Learn more about Ken’s story and grab your copy of his memoir at ⁠kenkunken.com⁠. Prefer to listen? The audiobook is available, narrated by Ken himself, with production help from his son.

👉 Don’t forget to subscribe, rate, and share this episode with someone who needs a reminder that limits are often just the starting line.

Thanks for being you,
Brian

Focus, real concentration, is difficult to come by when you have the tentacles of ADHD hijacking your brain as a matter of course.

One result of this is that focus is fragile unless it tips into hyperfocus. So when I’m finally able to concentrate, deeply, and someone interrupts me, it isn’t annoying. It’s disorienting and sometimes startling.

It can feel like being shoved so hard you forget where you are.

So when I say, “Give me a second,” I’m not stalling. I’m working through a sequence of steps most people never have to think about, let alone do on command.

Step 1: Save my place

First, I have to stop in a way that saves my place.

Not “stop” as in pause. Stop, as in backing out without ripping the Velcro off my brain. I have to deliberately interrupt myself and mentally tag where I am.

What was I doing?
What was the next step?
What mattered most about this moment?

If I don’t do that deliberately, there’s a strong chance it all goes POOF. Not fades. Vanishes like force quitting the wrong app and watching unsaved work vanish.

Step 2: Transition

Then comes the transition.

This is where things get disorienting. I’m switching contexts, not just attention. My brain is turning away from an internal world and orienting toward an external one. That costs more than people realize. It’s loud. It’s jarring. My nervous system has to recalibrate before I can even be present.

This is often the moment where my body reacts. Breath shifts. Muscles tense. For a beat, I’m just trying to remember where I am and who I’m with. That’s the part that can feel frightening.

Step 3: Attend to you.

Only after that do I get to the part everyone assumes is the whole job: attending to you.

And I don’t mean passively hearing words. I mean actively trying to do right by you.

I’m tracking what you’re saying,
holding it in working memory,
listening for details,
considering clarifying questions,
monitoring my own distractions,
and trying not to miss anything important.

I’m also managing a low hum of anxiety because I care about responding well and not letting you down.

So “Hey, real quick” isn’t just a small ask.

It’s asking me to do three difficult things in a row:

1. Remember where I was and how to get back to it

2. Transition safely between mental worlds

3. Perform socially and attentively without dropping the ball

Most people only experience the third step. They have eloquently equipped executive functions that respond quickly and smoothly to the demands of the moment. That’s why the mismatch happens.

From the outside, it looks like I’m being interrupted for a moment. The assumption being it won’t cause that person the least amount of stress, because they can switch their attention back and forth, just like you do.

The reality is, on the inside, I’m doing a careful handoff between systems while hoping nothing crashes.

It’s like carrying a stack of fragile glass plates across a room. I’m finally balanced. Finally steady. And someone bumps my shoulder to ask a question. You didn’t mean to knock anything over. But now I’m scrambling to catch shards while reassuring you I’m still listening.

That’s why interruptions can feel physical.
That’s why I ask for a second.
And that’s why a little warning, structure, or choice makes such a big difference.

Quick overview

What an interruption actually asks an ADHD brain to do

1. Preserve the task
Mark where I am so the thought doesn’t disappear.

2. Transition
Shift my nervous system from task-world to people-world.

3. Perform socially
Listen, remember, clarify, respond well, and not miss anything.

All of this happens before you get an answer.

So no, “real quick” is often not quick.

It’s more like:
“Please do a careful shutdown, save your place, reboot into social mode, manage performance anxiety, then deliver.”

Fortunately, there is a way to interrupt without causing an unintentional Chernobyl.

How to interrupt without knocking someone over

Here are a few concrete solutions that make interruptions less painful for both of us:

• Lead with a headline.
  “Quick question about dinner” or “Quick question about the email.”
  Categories help my brain switch tracks without derailing.

• Ask for a time window instead of ambushing.
  “Is now okay, or can I grab you in 10?”
  Giving me a choice lowers the nervous-system spike.

• Let me bookmark my place out loud.
  If I say, “Let me finish this sentence,” that’s Step 1 in action.
  I’m saving my place so I can come back without starting from scratch.

• Put non-urgent asks in writing.
  Text it or email it.
  If it’s written down, my brain doesn’t have to hold it like a glass of water during an earthquake.

• If it’s urgent, say that plainly.
  “Sorry to interrupt, but this is time-sensitive.”
  Now my body understands why it just got tackled.

What I mean when I say “give me a second”

If I say, “Give me a second,” what I mean is this:

Let me do the mental work of stopping in a way that preserves my place, so I can show up for you and still find my way back.

What helps you most when someone needs your attention, but your brain is in the middle of building something?

Thanks for being you,
Brian

“Everything Brian offers, one click away—coaching, podcast, courses, and more:
View all Brian’s Links”

Subscribe now