A Glimpse Inside A Neurodivergent Mind

What It’s Like to Live in My Mind

Trying to describe what it’s like to live in my body—my brain, my nervous system, my flesh and bones—is a challenge. Language can only take me so far. No one can truly know what it’s like to be another person. We each have our own lens of perception, shaped by our genetics, our experiences, and every moment we’ve lived.

But words are all we have. So, I’ll try...

For me, being neurodivergent means constantly seeing patterns and connections—apophenia—a web of meaning between everything around me. It can be beautiful and overwhelming. ADHD means my mind is like a river with endless branching streams. I’m highly distractible, unable to filter out visual or auditory input. My experience of auditory processing disorder adds to the noise, and my hypervigilant nervous system, trained by trauma, amplifies it further.

Loud or unexpected sounds can startle me into panic. I gasp out loud, my heart racing. I must work hard to bring myself back down from that place. It’s exhausting.

And yet, I’m also grateful. The simplest beauty in nature moves me close to euphoria. I notice the way sunlight hits the leaves, the intricate details of insects, the curl of a cat’s tail, and my heart feels full. My mind finds life and detects human, animal, or fantastical creatures in inanimate objects. It’s strange and wonderful. It pulls me into delightful mind-wandering—until it becomes too much, distracting me from everything else.

Mindfulness and meditation help, but they require energy and intention. These practices aren’t effortless; they’re more tools in the endless toolbox which I must rummage through and decide the most wise or appropriate one to use. Sometimes the decsion making process is so overwhelming I collapse into tears instead. Why is it all so difficult, I wonder, why must the forces of entropy be greater that the energy I have? This is only a glimpse into the constant work it takes for me to function in the world.

Simple tasks that others take for granted feel monumental. Following a recipe? Not this brain. Having to look back and forth between instructions and the actual initiation of action introduces a gazillion opportunities for distraction or mistakes or both. Same for trying to shop for food. Too many options. A gauntlet of overwhelm.

The fluorescent lights, the endless shelves of colors and choices—every aisle feels like a labyrinth. I carry a list, but I almost never leave with everything I need. My attention fractures. I return home frustrated, realizing I forgot the most important things. Now I’ll need to go back out into the chaos.

Even at home, moving from one room to another is an adventure of distraction. If I get up to grab a book, I’ll notice an unfinished task, then another, and another, until hours have passed, and I’m far from where I started. Time is slippery—an abstract concept I cannot grasp. Calendars? Which one!? And clocks only serve to remind me that I’ve lost track again.

And then, the self-loathing creeps in. The shame of never finishing anything. The weight of too many inspired ideas, none of them realized. Depression tightens its grip. Anxiety pushes me to rush, to do more, until despair takes over.

And just when the hopelessness feels too much, light streams through the window.

The sunlight lands on my cat’s fur, soft and golden. One of my plants has grown a new leaf. The wind carries birdsong through the air, and in that moment, I feel a rush of gratitude.

This is what it’s like to live in my mind—a kaleidoscope of chaos, beauty, exhaustion, and wonder.

A constant dance between too much and just enough.