After Everything You Can’t Do… What’s Left?

What remains when the deficits are stripped away may be more powerful than you think.

When the world keeps reminding you of everything you can’t do, it’s easy to believe there’s nothing left. But what if the truth is hiding in what remains?

Dear Friend,

You know how often people with autism or ADHD get reminded of what we can’t do? Plan ahead. Stay organized. Follow through. Hold more than a few things in working memory. For me, it isn’t just one or two—it’s all of it.

My working memory is so low it scrapes the 3rd percentile. Numbers don’t just slip through my fingers—they vanish like water down a drain. Trying to make a detailed plan feels like being locked in an escape room without clues.

For a long time, I thought of those deficits as a prison. One that kept me separated from everyone else, barred from a “normal” experience of life. I thought it meant I’d never measure up. Every reminder chipped away until the list of can’ts started sounding like my obituary.

But when I looked at what was missing, I realized something was still left. Those same deficits—by getting out of the way—had sharpened a different skill, like a pencil carved to a point. What was left wasn’t nothing. What was left was presence.

I used to feel ashamed of this: not being able to experience the flow of time. People talk about planning their week, remembering deadlines, or mapping out their future like it’s second nature. For me, it never was.

My brain drops me straight into the present, and for a long time, that felt like proof something was broken.

But here’s what I couldn’t see back then: being stuck here was what’s left. That strange, jarring immediacy wasn’t a defect at all. What was left was focus on the now—and it turned out to be a doorway.

Autism draws my attention to the smallest details—the barely noticeable hesitation before someone speaks, a subtle change in tone, the emotions of those around me.

ADHD yanks me into motion, insisting I respond before the moment slips away. Sometimes that means asking the question no one else is asking, naming the tension hanging in the air, or leaning in when I sense someone’s mask starting to crack.

Put that together with a mind that can’t remember much, and you get a kind of clarity most people never touch. That clarity is what’s left. A spotlight on the present, where truth shows up unfiltered.

Being wired to live in the present moment doesn’t just give me a different experience of life—it’s changed lives for my clients. I’ve seen a teenager drowning in self-doubt sit up straighter when I named the weight in their voice. I’ve seen a parent stop spinning in circles when I bottom-lined what was really happening. That ability to bottom-line in the present—that’s what’s left. And it changes everything.

I’m telling you this because I know how easy it is to measure yourself by what you can’t do. That list is real, but it isn’t the whole story. The deeper question—the one I wish someone had handed me sooner—is: what’s left?

For me, what’s left is present-moment clarity. For you, it might be something else. Maybe it’s sensing the mood in a room before anyone speaks. Maybe it’s staying calm in chaos when everyone else is unraveling. Maybe it’s turning pain into art or humor. Maybe it’s remembering conversations word for word. Whatever it is—that’s what’s left. And it matters.

So, my friend, don’t let the world bury you under what you can’t do. Look at what’s left. That’s where the strength is. That’s where your gifts live. You’re not broken. You’re built differently. And there’s power in what’s left.

Thanks for being you,
Brian