adhd

Radical Inaction: How to Live Like a Man Without Cleaning Up After One

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By Kayla Warner

There are men out there — I’ve met them, you’ve met them — who live wildly disorganized, beautifully chaotic lives. They forget appointments, lose track of time, get distracted in the middle of conversations, show up late to things they planned themselves… and no one seems to care. They’re still praised. Still considered “successful,” “brilliant,” “high-functioning.” Their chaos doesn’t cost them credibility.

Many of these men have ADHD — whether they know it or not. They don’t need a diagnosis, because no one’s pushing them to explain their behavior. They’re not constantly trying to prove they’re competent. Their messes aren’t cleaned up by them — they’re quietly cleaned up for them.

And almost always, there’s a woman (or two) in the background keeping things from falling apart. A girlfriend. A wife. A mom. An assistant. Someone who silently absorbs the impact of their executive dysfunction while they keep floating through life, charming as ever.

As a woman with ADHD, I recognized these patterns immediately — because I do a lot of the same things. I forget texts. I miss appointments. I lose things. I bounce between projects. I burn out. The difference is, no one’s cleaning up after me. I am the someone who keeps things from falling apart. For myself. And often for others too.

It’s exhausting.

Let me be clear: this is not a subtweet about my boyfriend. He is wonderful and neurotypical and genuinely supports me in navigating my neurodivergence. I’m lucky in that way. This essay isn’t about him — it’s about a system. A culture. A world that hands ease and grace to certain people just for existing, while asking the rest of us to earn it by being perfect.

At some point, I just got tired of trying to keep up. Tired of managing symptoms, masking messes, apologizing for being myself. Tired of trying to outperform the reality of my own brain.

So I asked a question I never thought I’d let myself ask:

What if I just stopped?
What if I stopped trying to make life easier by working harder?
What if I stopped chasing neurotypical perfection?
What if I stopped performing competence to be taken seriously?

That question — What if I just stopped? — is where something radical began to grow.

Not burnout.
Not failure.
But freedom.

I started letting myself do a lot less. I stopped apologizing for the days when my brain just said “no.” I stopped over-explaining my schedule, my symptoms, my forgetfulness. I lowered the bar. I chose rest over guilt. I let dishes pile up without spiraling into self-hate. I let myself forget things. I let things be messy. I let people be disappointed. And I didn’t die.

I call it radical inaction.

Not laziness. Not giving up. Not doing nothing because I’m stuck — doing less because I’m free. Free from the need to prove my worth through productivity. Free from the pressure to be the neurodivergent woman who “has it all under control.”

And yes — I want my life to be as easy as a man’s.
Not because men are the enemy, but because ease shouldn’t be a gendered privilege.

Ease should be a right.
Support should be a right.
Being a whole, messy, inconsistent, brilliant person — should be enough.

This isn’t about calling out one man. It’s about calling out the system that lets some people coast while others constantly clean up. The system that celebrates “visionary” men with unmedicated ADHD while quietly punishing women for the exact same traits.

Radical inaction is about reclaiming that space.
It’s about refusing to do the emotional labor of keeping up appearances.
It’s about letting go of the belief that you have to be “better” to be lovable, hireable, worthy of support.

I’m no longer interested in performing mental clarity I don’t always have.
I want softness. I want support. I want my brain to be okay as it is.
And I want that not just for me — but for every neurodivergent woman still burning herself out just to break even.

So here’s my offer: stop with me.
Let something slide.
Let someone wait.
Let it be messy.

The world didn’t fall apart when men forgot the details — it won’t fall apart when you do, either.

Ease is not a reward.
It’s something we’re allowed to claim.
No permission slip. No apology. No clean-up required.

A close-up selfie of a woman smiling beside a flowering plant with large green leaves, showcasing delicate white blossoms.

The Joy (and Intensity) of Special Interests: Loving Things the Autistic Way

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Intro

One of the best parts of being autistic is having special interests—the things I love with my whole heart, with an intensity most people don’t understand. Special interests aren’t hobbies. They aren’t phases. They aren’t just passing interests. They are passion, comfort, and joy. They are home.

The Joy (and Intensity) of Special Interests

People who aren’t autistic often mistake special interests for hobbies.
But special interests aren’t the same thing as liking something.
They are deeper. More consuming. They have weight.

When a neurotypical person says, “I’m really into tennis,” it means they play sometimes or enjoy watching it. When an autistic person says, “I love something,” it often means, I will spend hours, sometimes days, completely absorbed by it. I will think about it constantly. I will fall into it with my entire self, because it lights me up in a way nothing else does.

Special interests have always been part of my life.
Some have stuck with me for years. Others come and go, rotating, jumping, shifting.
But the intensity is always real.

Here are some of mine: Kendrick Lamar. Shania Twain. Hip-hop music in general. History. Classic rock. Fashion. Art. The law. Education systems. Cats. Feminism. Flowers and plants. Books. Notre Dame football. Pi Beta Phi. Social justice. Writing. And honestly so many more. In one of my autism books I have read to help me learn more about autism there is a couple pages in the chapter on “autistic special interests” that lists a long list of different special interests; I literally remember checking almost every single one on the list as one of my special interests even though I really tried not to do just that. Anyways..

I love these things the way a person loves oxygen. I can fall into them for hours and not want to come back.
I can skip meals. I can forget to use the bathroom, or purposefully hold it in for as long as I physically can until I find myself running to the bathroom. I can lose time.

There are days when, on the outside, it looks like I’ve done nothing. But in reality, I’ve spent hours researching one thing, then another, then another, jumping from thought to thought in a way that feels completely natural to me. That’s what happens when autism and ADHD live together inside the same brain.

Sometimes people think the ADHD ruins the “purity” of my special interests because I bounce around, because I don’t always stick with them forever. But the truth is, they don’t have to last to matter. The joy is real even when it’s temporary.

There’s something I hold onto that my dad told me over ten years ago when I was still in college. He said, “You have too many ideas.”
And he was right. I do. I have too many ideas. And that’s okay.

For a long time, I thought I was supposed to act on every single one. I thought I was supposed to become an expert, an encyclopedia, a living archive of every topic that captured my heart. But I’ve learned that I can let myself have too many ideas. I can let them live and fade and come back and evolve. I don’t have to finish everything I start. I don’t have to know everything. I don’t have to feel disappointed in myself for being pulled toward too many things.

Having too many ideas is part of who I am. It’s not a flaw. It’s a pulse.

Special Interests Aren’t Always Practical

Sometimes my special interests pull me into situations that are chaotic or hard to explain.

There was a day I was working at a law firm, doing reception and assistant tasks. I was supposed to be finishing something for the lawyer I worked for, but there was a snake plant in the office that caught my attention.

It didn’t really need to be repotted. But I couldn’t stop myself. I got distracted, started messing with the plant, and before I knew it, I was fully, aggressively repotting it in the middle of the office. Dirt was everywhere. It got all over my dress. I was sweating like crazy. I knew I should stop, but I couldn’t. The pull was too strong.

The task I was supposed to finish? Never got done.

I’m sure the lawyer and my coworkers thought I was out of my mind. And honestly? It’s kind of funny now. But it’s also real.

This is what special interests can do. They can take over. They can call your full attention whether it makes sense in the moment or not. And that’s not something to apologize for—it’s something to understand.

What I Wish People Knew

Special interests aren’t obsessions in the way people often mean when they use that word.
They aren’t distractions.
They aren’t problems to be managed.

They are anchors. They are comfort. They are joy. They are windows into the world. They are how I fall in love with life over and over again.

Sometimes people want to shame autistic people for being “too intense” or “too much” about the things we love. I wish people knew that the intensity is what makes it beautiful. I wish people knew that this is how we connect to ourselves. I wish people knew that sometimes, when the world is too fast, too loud, and too painful, a special interest is the thing that saves us.

Please don’t tell us we’re too much. Please don’t roll your eyes. Please don’t call it weird.

Let us love what we love.

Special interests don’t make life smaller. They make life big enough to hold us.

A person sitting on the floor next to several plant pots, surrounded by dirt and plant debris, with a focused expression, indicating engagement in repotting plants.

When Your Body Feels Everything: Autism, ADHD, and the Pain No One Sees

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This post was hard to write because it’s hard to explain—but I need to try.

A person walking on a sidewalk, wearing a gray sweatshirt, gray shorts, and sneakers, with a smile on their face. In the background, there are trees, a power line, and a residential area.

People often ask if I’m okay.

Usually, the answer is no—but not in the way they think. I’m not sick, not injured, not recovering from surgery or fighting off a cold. My body just… hurts. All the time. Not in a dramatic or even easily explainable way. Just in this persistent, buzzing, exhausting way that lives in my shoulders, my jaw, my stomach, my spine.

And no, it’s not “just anxiety.”
(Though sure, anxiety shows up too. It’s got VIP access at this point.)

What I’m trying to say is: I’m autistic. I have ADHD. And I carry pain—literal, physical pain—in my body almost every single day. It builds up in places I can’t always stretch out or rest away. I hold tension in my neck like I’m bracing for a crash that never happens. I clench my jaw until it aches. My back is a battlefield. And don’t even get me started on my digestive system.

But here’s the thing:
I didn’t get into a car accident. I didn’t pull something.
I didn’t do anything to deserve this pain.
I just am—sensitive.

Too Much, All the Time

Autistic and ADHD bodies often feel like they’re tuned to a different frequency. The world that others experience as background noise can feel like a full-blown rock concert in my nervous system.

Loud sounds? Tension.
Bright lights? Tension.
An unexpected comment, a small conflict, a passive-aggressive email? Yep, tension.

Even when something good happens—something exciting or beautiful—my body reacts. Because emotion, for me, is physical. Joy floods my chest. Grief sinks into my hips. Shame slithers into my stomach. I don’t just think or feel emotions—I store them. I wear them.

And that would be fine if my body were some kind of emotional Tupperware container. But it’s not. It leaks. It overflows. It breaks down.

My 20s Were a Blur of Pain

Through most of my 20s, I had terrible, unexplained pain—especially in my neck, shoulders, and traps. No injury, no diagnosis. Just a kind of constant body-scream no one else could hear.

Every time I brought it up to a doctor, they seemed confused. My nurse practitioner once offered me muscle relaxers, but I declined. I was already managing enough meds—ADHD, depression, anxiety—and didn’t want to add another layer.

I tried getting massages. They felt great in the moment, but the pain always came back. Same with chiropractors. I saw a couple, even committed to a full treatment plan. Each time, they’d say something like, “Have you been in a car accident recently?”
Nope. Never.

They couldn’t understand how my neck could carry that much stored trauma unless something had physically happened to me. But something had happened—just not in the way they expected. I’ve been living in a body that reacts to the world like it’s too much, too fast, too loud. Because for me, it is.

Yoga, stretching, and meditation help. They really do. But the relief is temporary, because the world doesn’t pause. The moment I reenter it—back into the bright lights, clashing sounds, sudden emotions, and social expectations—the pain starts crawling back in.

My ex-husband used to give me back massages, trying to help. He’d say it felt like bubble wrap back there—except not the kind you can pop. Just these crunchy, stuck little knots of tension. That’s what I carried. Still do.

Hypersensitivity Isn’t a Metaphor—It’s Neurological

There’s research out there that explains this better than I can. Studies show that autistic individuals often have increased sensitivity to pain, altered pain thresholds, and heightened interoception—meaning we feel internal sensations (like heartbeat, muscle tension, or digestive discomfort) more intensely.¹ ADHD adds its own chaos: constant scanning, restlessness, hyperawareness, and the never-ending effort to regulate.

And then there’s emotional pain, which doesn’t stay in my mind—it lives in my body. Especially when I’ve masked all day, ignored my own needs, or absorbed the feelings of everyone around me like a walking sponge.

When It’s Invisible, It’s Dismissed

This is what people don’t see when they ask if I’m okay.
They don’t see the full-body effort it takes to not fidget or cry or shut down in public. They don’t see the internal screaming when a light flickers or someone interrupts me four times in a row. They don’t see the pain that comes from trying to seem “normal.”

Because it’s not just the sensory overload—it’s the masking. It’s the people-pleasing. It’s the emotional labor of trying to be less “too much.”

I’m not saying all autistic or ADHD people experience pain like this—but I am saying many of us do. And I’m one of them.

So If You’re Reading This…

Maybe you’re one of those people who never understood why I cancel plans last-minute. Or why I seem so tired all the time. Or why I talk like I’m on fire, but move like I’m underwater. Maybe you’ve never realized how much pain a body can hold when the world keeps pushing too hard, too fast, too loud.

Or maybe you do know what I mean. Maybe your body hurts too, for reasons no one else sees or believes.

To you, I say: you’re not imagining it.
And you’re not alone.

We are bodies that feel too much in a world that demands we feel nothing. But our pain is real. And it matters.

A graphic summarizing the relationship between neurodivergence and chronic pain, highlighting how autistic individuals experience altered pain sensitivity and ADHD can increase physical tension and restlessness.

🧠 Research & Footnotes

  1. Autistic People and Pain Perception
    • Research shows altered pain thresholds and heightened pain responses in autistic individuals. Some report being more sensitive to certain types of pain, while others may under-report it due to interoception difficulties or alexithymia.
    • Source: Failla, M. D., et al. (2020). “Pain Perception in Autism Spectrum Disorder: A Review.” Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders.
  2. ADHD and Somatic Complaints
    • Individuals with ADHD are more likely to report chronic pain, headaches, and somatic symptoms, likely tied to nervous system dysregulation.
    • Source: Mikita, N., et al. (2015). “Somatic symptoms and their association with anxiety and depression in children and adolescents with ADHD.” European Child & Adolescent Psychiatry.
  3. Interoception and Emotional Pain
    • Neurodivergent individuals often experience interoception differently, which can lead to heightened awareness of internal pain and discomfort, and difficulty identifying or verbalizing these sensations.
    • Source: Quattrocki, E., & Friston, K. (2014). “Autism, oxytocin and interoception.” Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews.

🧠 What ADHD Actually Is (and Isn’t)

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Unmasking, One Post at a Time
By Kayla Sue Warner

Let’s just say this up front: the name “Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder” is wrong. Like, offensively wrong. There’s not actually a “deficit” of attention, and there’s nothing “disordered” about the way our brains work. ADHD is a neurotype—a naturally occurring variation in how human brains process time, emotion, focus, and executive functioning. It’s not something broken. It’s just something different.

Illustration depicting a brain with an exclamation mark, symbolizing attention and cognitive focus.

❗Wait, Why Is It Still Called a “Disorder”?

Let’s talk about the name: Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. It’s outdated. And honestly, inaccurate.

  • We don’t actually have a deficit of attention—we have too much of it in too many places at once, or we hyperfocus intensely on one thing and tune everything else out.
  • And the word disorder makes it sound like something’s broken or wrong with us. It’s not.
  • Our brains are just wired differently—and that’s okay.

ADHD is a brain difference, not a disease. The name hasn’t caught up with the science yet, and many people in the neurodivergent community are pushing for a change. But until the “official” terminology catches up, we’re stuck with a label that doesn’t reflect our actual lived experience.

So if you hear me use “ADHD,” just know: I’m talking about a neurotype, not something that needs to be “fixed.”

A colorful abstract painting featuring a quirky character with large eyes, a yellow face, and an orange outline, holding a pink flower against a textured blue-green background.

⚡ ADHD Is a Brain-Based Executive Function Difference

ADHD isn’t a character flaw, a lack of willpower, or a moral failure. It’s a difference in how the brain is wired—especially in areas related to executive functioning. That includes things like:

  • initiating tasks
  • following through on plans
  • regulating emotions
  • managing time and transitions
  • remembering what you were doing in the first place (before you got up and completely forgot)

And while the medical world still calls it a “disorder,” many of us know better. There’s nothing wrong with how our brains work—we just live in a world that isn’t designed for us. (CHADD, 2023)

Dr. Russell Barkley, who has studied ADHD for decades, once said:

“ADHD is not a deficit of knowing what to do. It’s a deficit of doing what you know.”

And let me tell you—that quote is my whole life.

A person standing on a beach wearing a black crop top and bright yellow high-waisted bikini bottoms, holding a drink and posing confidently under a cloudy sky.

🧬 It’s Not Your Fault. It’s How Your Brain Works.

ADHD isn’t caused by bad parenting, screens, sugar, or any of the other ridiculous myths floating around. It’s a neurodevelopmental difference—a variation in brain wiring, often linked to genetics, and especially connected to dopamine regulation (NIMH, 2021).

We don’t lack attention—we have inconsistent attention. And we don’t need to be “fixed.” We need understanding, support, and systems that work with our brains instead of against them.

A cluttered room featuring a white cabinet with glass doors showcasing books, alongside a pile of scattered books on the floor.

🌱 Final Thoughts

ADHD isn’t a disorder. It’s not a disease. It’s not something to be cured or controlled.

It’s a different brain. A different way of experiencing the world. A neurotype.

And even if the name hasn’t caught up yet, we can speak about it differently. We can unlearn the shame and rebuild our self-trust. We can stop viewing ourselves as “failures” for struggling in a world that was never built with us in mind.

A close-up of a small, vibrant flower with purple tips, set against a colorful, textured background.

Title: Hyperfocused on Gardening: A Neurodivergent Spin on a Joyful Day of Planting

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A black cat sitting inside a gardening planter on a patio, with additional empty pots nearby.

Today was one of those days where everything just clicked, and I got completely lost in something. I mean, I was hyperfocused—like, buzzing with excitement. My whole body was practically tingling with joy as I worked my way through this gardening project. If you’ve ever felt so into something that your entire body is just lit up, you’ll know exactly what I mean.

A person potting new plants on a wooden deck, with a black cat nearby. The individual is wearing a red floral top and white shorts, holding a gardening tool. A container for planting is visible in the foreground.
Me & Frodo during the potting process (which I’ll have to redo, but that’s OK!)

For a while now, I’ve wanted to grow a garden—not just flowers in pots, but something I could eat. Something I could snack on, something healthy. My first thought was strawberries. I’d love to grow them and just pop them in my mouth right from the garden. But, as it turns out, they were a little too expensive for my budget today (they were $30, which is way out of my price range). I’ll definitely be getting them eventually, but today wasn’t the day for strawberries.

Person taking a selfie in a mirror wearing a white shirt with paint splatters and a visor, sticking out their tongue and showing a playful expression.

As I walked through the garden center, I started thinking about what I could grow within my budget. That’s when I spotted cucumber plants, and it was like a lightbulb went off in my head. Cucumbers! They’re perfect for snacking, and I could totally make pickles someday. And at $4.56, they were a great fit for my budget. So, I grabbed one.

Then I saw it. Lavender. Oh, lavender. It was $5.37, and I had to have it. I debated for a second but knew I couldn’t leave without it. I was about to stop there, but THEN, when the cashier rang me up, I found out both the cucumber and lavender were on sale for $3.33 each. I couldn’t resist—so I ran back and grabbed a cantaloupe plant I had also been eyeing. It was my third choice, but at that price, it was totally meant to be!

A person sitting on a patio with potted plants, a black cat nearby, and a dog lying on the grass in a backyard setting.
HEY! 😀

I was so stoked, I couldn’t wait to get home and start planting. Now, I’m not a pro, but I had enough of an idea of what I was doing. I potted the plants into the containers I had on hand, but here’s the thing—after a little more research, I realized that I’ll definitely need bigger pots. So, that fun repotting session? That’s coming either tonight or tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it, though, because I’m excited to give them the space they need to grow.

Overgrown catnip plant and soil in a backyard with a white fence in the background.
A rustic wooden planter box sitting on grass, with a plain background.

And, of course, I also found out that cucumbers and cantaloupe need trellises, which sent me into another hyperfocused spin. I started Googling how to make trellises, and then I was texting my dad about any random pieces of wood he has in his garage (he has a ton, believe me). The idea of building my own trellis has me pretty hyped, and I can’t wait to see how that turns out.

The other part of my day that really lit me up was working with my hands to clear out the overgrown catnip plant in the backyard. I grabbed my cutters, started pulling out weeds, and getting all dirty in the soil was just so satisfying. I didn’t realize how much I’d enjoy using a hoe until today. It kind of felt like swinging a softball bat, but in a really productive way. So, I got a little workout in too (no complaints there). My muscles are definitely feeling it, and I think I’ll be sore tomorrow, but it was totally worth it.

By the end of the day, I had cucumber, cantaloupe, and lavender plants sitting in their new pots (for now). The backyard looks a million times better with the catnip cleared out. And honestly? It was so much fun. I was so into it that I forgot time even existed. This whole gardening thing? It’s turned into one of my “special interests,” and I think it’s a perfect example of how my neurodivergent mind works. When something captures my attention, it grabs hold of me fully. And today, gardening was that thing.

If you’re wondering what “special interests” are, they’re basically things that autistic people get really into. It’s not just a passing fascination, either. Special interests can bring so much joy and motivation. For me, gardening (and my house plants) has become a major part of that. It’s one of those things that makes me feel energized and alive in a way that’s hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it yourself.

Anyway, today was a reminder that it’s okay to get lost in something that excites you, even if you don’t have everything figured out. Sometimes, it’s about the joy of doing something right then and there, just because. And hey, if you haven’t tried gardening yet, I highly recommend it. It’s grounding, it’s thrilling, and it’s incredibly satisfying.

Thanks for reading! Drop a comment if you’ve had any hyperfocused moments (or gardening wins). I’d love to hear about it!

📚 One Book, One Day: How ADHD Helped Me Focus Posted in: Living Neurodivergent | Tags: ADHD, Focus, Reading, Self-Kindness, Lessons in Chemistry

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✨ Video below!

Yesterday, I picked up Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus.
Today, I’m already on page 347.
And yes—I’ll probably finish it before the sun goes down.

People often misunderstand ADHD as an inability to focus. But really?
It’s more like I focus with intensity. On one thing. For a while. And then I crash or shift.

For me, hyperfocus isn’t a flaw—it’s a part of my brain’s rhythm.
Sometimes, I dive in so deep I lose track of time.
Sometimes, it’s a book.
Other times, it’s painting, writing, researching, rearranging my plants, or pacing around thinking about feminism and the public education system.
(Or all of the above.)

And that’s okay. I’m learning not to apologize for how my brain works.
Instead, I want to celebrate it. Today it let me live inside a book.

💬 Watch this quick video where I reflect on what ADHD focus really feels like for me.

—

🧠 Reflection prompt:
When was the last time you got completely lost in something—in the best way?

👉 What Is Neurodivergence? (And Why You Should Know About It)

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Neurodivergence is a word you might hear tossed around more and more lately — but what does it actually mean? Is it just about autism? ADHD? Something else? Let’s break it down together.

1. What Neurodivergence Really Means:

Neurodivergence simply means that a person’s brain works differently from what’s considered “typical” (or “neurotypical”).
It’s not automatically good or bad — it’s just different.
And different isn’t wrong.

Neurodivergent people often experience the world, emotions, communication, and thinking patterns in ways that don’t line up with what society expects.

Some common forms of neurodivergence include:

  • Autism
  • ADHD
  • Dyslexia
  • Dyspraxia
  • Tourette’s
  • OCD (sometimes included, though it’s complex)
  • And many more

2. Why Neurodivergence Matters:

Because the world is mostly built for neurotypical brains, neurodivergent people are often misunderstood, shamed, or forced to “mask” who they are.
This can lead to:

  • Misdiagnosis (especially for women and marginalized groups)
  • Chronic exhaustion and burnout
  • Mental health struggles
  • Feeling like “something is wrong” when it isn’t

Understanding neurodivergence isn’t just for those of us who live it — it’s for everyone.
Because empathy, inclusion, and real acceptance start with knowing the truth.

3. Real Life Example:

Imagine you’re in a classroom where everyone learns best by listening to lectures — but you learn best by touching, moving, or building things.
The teacher says, “Sit still. Listen. Stop fidgeting.”
You start believing you’re broken.
But you’re not.
You just learn differently.
That’s neurodivergence in action.

4. Final Thoughts:

Neurodivergence isn’t a “problem” to be solved — it’s a beautiful, valid way of being human.
If you’ve ever felt “different” in ways you couldn’t explain…
If you’ve ever burned out trying to act “normal”…
If you’ve ever felt like you’re wired for a different rhythm of life…
You’re not alone.
You might just be neurodivergent. And that’s something to honor, not erase.

This Is Me: Paint, Blinks, Likes, Ums, and All

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Hola!

This is video #2 that I’m posting. I’m not sure if I’ll keep track of the number of videos forever, but for now it feels right.

This is just me being me — on video — even though I’ve never really been a “video of myself talking” kind of person. (I had to do it for a couple of college assignments and I hated it. That’s pretty much the only time I remember having to video myself.)

This one’s a little messy. I say “um” and “like” a lot — I know. Honestly, I do use “like” way too much in real life, but it’s just a word I love and it’s part of how I talk. I’m not usually much of an “um-er,” though.

I only recorded this once and watched it once, because I’m trying not to overanalyze or turn it into something it’s not. I just want to show up as the realest version of myself that I can.

I blink too much, and to me, it’s obvious I’m still not totally comfortable doing this yet. But that’s just how it is when you’re doing something new and vulnerable — and I know it’ll get easier with time.

For the next few videos, I might try writing myself a little script so I can get my points across more clearly. But for this one, I wanted it to be 100% natural.

Also, after I watched it back, I noticed the black paint on my fingers. But I’m not going to go wash my hands and re-record just because my hands are messy. Honestly, having paint on me (and usually some dirt under my nails) is pretty much my natural state.

Sincerely,

Kayla Sue Warner

Hi, I’m Me – Why I’m Starting These Videos

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I’ve shared a lot of words on this blog. But this time, I wanted to share my voice. My face. Me.

This video is the start of something new for me. It’s a little messy, a little scripty (I won’t lie), but it’s mine.

I’m not here to perform or perfect. I’m here to connect. To talk honestly about the things that matter—neurodivergence, burnout, healing, identity, feminism, softness, survival, joy.

If any of that resonates with you, welcome. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When was the last time you let yourself show up imperfectly—and still called it brave?

I’d love to hear your answer in the comments, or just let it sit with you quietly.

Not for Attention: Self-Harm in a Neurodivergent Mind

/ tammy4nd@gmail.com / Leave a comment

🧠💔 A personal essay on autism, ADHD, self-harm, and the journey toward self-compassion

⚠️ Note to Readers

This post contains personal reflections on self-harm, mental health, masking, and neurodivergence. Please read with care and compassion. If you are struggling, know you are not alone—resources are listed at the end of this post. I’m sharing this in hopes that someone else might feel seen.

I Didn’t Know Why I Did It

I was 21 the first time I self-harmed. It was the night of my sorority’s spring formal—an event I had spent weeks planning as the Vice President of Event Planning for Pi Beta Phi. That role wasn’t one I wanted; I took it on out of guilt and obligation when the original officer stepped down for her own mental health. No one else was willing to step up, and I didn’t want our chapter to fall apart under pressure from national headquarters.

So I did what I’d always done: I took on too much. I wore the perfect face. I planned the perfect party. I made sure everyone else had the time of their lives—even though I was barely surviving mine.

After the event, I went out with my boyfriend and friends to celebrate. Everything seemed fine. But later, back in my boyfriend’s room at his fraternity house, something broke. I sat down on the floor and started crying—hard. Full-body, couldn’t-stop sobbing. And then I started scratching the back of my neck, my arms, my shoulders. I pulled at my hair in sharp, frantic handfuls. It wasn’t premeditated. It wasn’t attention-seeking. It was a release. It was a meltdown. I didn’t know that word back then, but that’s what it was.

He pulled me into his arms and stopped me. And then I never spoke about it again.

The Perfection Trap

Looking back, it’s not surprising that it happened then. I was exhausted—emotionally, mentally, physically. But I didn’t know how to name it, and I didn’t feel like I had permission to admit it. I was a “high-functioning” sorority girl with leadership roles and a big smile. I was the girl people could count on. And I believed that being good meant never showing pain.

So I didn’t.

I buried it. I kept moving forward. I acted like it had never happened—because that’s what perfection required of me.

The Part of the Story I Didn’t Know Yet

It would be years before I’d begin to understand that I’m autistic. That I have ADHD. That my brain has always processed the world more intensely than others. That I’d been masking—hiding my real self to fit in, to survive—for most of my life.

That night wasn’t random. That moment on the floor was my body and brain screaming out after months (maybe years) of chronic overstimulation, internalized pressure, and emotional dysregulation. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t weak. I was melting down in the only way my nervous system knew how to.

But without a diagnosis, without language, without community or support—I thought it was just me. I thought I had snapped. I thought I was broken.

Teaching Burned Me Out Again

The next time it happened, I was a teacher—three years into my career at a public elementary school in Florida. I was overworked, under-supported, and living on Diet Coke, potato chips, and 3 hours of sleep a night. I stayed late at school. I brought home papers to grade and lessons to plan. I gave everything I had to my students and had nothing left for myself.

One night, the scratching and hair-pulling came back. I remember the sting, the sharpness, the brief moment of stillness that followed. The next day, a fourth grader asked about the marks on the back of my neck. I wore my hair in a bun every day, so they were visible.

I lied. “Oh, it was my cat,” I said. She believed me. Of course she did.

But they didn’t look like cat scratches.

It Wasn’t for Attention. It Was to Survive.

Self-harm is so misunderstood. Especially in neurodivergent people.

It wasn’t about getting someone to notice me. It was about trying to regulate a body that had gone completely dysregulated. It was a way to feel when I felt nothing. Or to distract myself from feeling too much. It was my brain’s desperate attempt to cope with things I didn’t know how to express in words.

And even when I did try to speak, I didn’t feel like I was allowed to.

Now I Know Better. Now I Treat Myself Kinder.

Today, I know that autistic and ADHD people are more prone to self-harm. Not because we’re “crazy” or “unstable” but because our brains and bodies are wired to experience the world in intense, overwhelming ways. We are more likely to internalize shame. More likely to mask. More likely to burn out quietly.

I’m not immune now. But I have better coping tools. I’ve found gentler ways to let the feelings out—through art, poetry, walking in nature, meditation, painting galaxies and wildflowers. I’m learning to ask for help. I’m learning to listen to myself when the early signs show up.

And I’m not pretending to be perfect anymore.

A Letter to My Younger Self

Dear Me at 21,

You weren’t crazy.
You weren’t too sensitive.
You weren’t weak.

You were breaking under the weight of a world that never taught you how to live in your body.
You were trying to carry everyone’s expectations without dropping your own.
You were masking pain with smiles and success and silence.

And when you finally cracked, you thought that meant something was wrong with you.

But all it meant was this:

You were overwhelmed.
You were hurting.
And you needed help.

I see you now.
And I love you fiercely.

You made it.
And you’re still making it.

Love,
The version of you who finally knows she never had to be perfect.
The one who wears softness like armor now.

Healing Isn’t Linear—But I’m Not Hiding Anymore

Up until this past summer, the self-harm moments had become more frequent than ever. It scared me. It felt like I was back in that place again—on the floor, overwhelmed, and alone.

But this time was different.

Because this time, I finally had answers. I was diagnosed with autism. And instead of shame, I felt relief. I was getting the help I needed. My parents, my siblings, and my friends showed up for me with love and support. There was no judgment. No pretending. Just care. And that made all the difference.

I still have moments. The past year has been one of the hardest of my life. So many changes. So much processing. So much unraveling.

But I also have more tools now. I can talk about the hard stuff instead of hiding it. I can lean on my boyfriend and my family. I can say “I’m not okay” without feeling like I’ve failed.

It still happens sometimes—but I don’t carry the shame anymore. I don’t keep it secret. And every time I speak it out loud, every time I let someone in, it loses a little more of its power over me.

I’m still working on it.

But the more I understand what’s really happening inside me—the sensory overload, the masking fatigue, the emotional spirals—the more I can show myself compassion. And the less alone I feel.

And that, to me, is healing.

💛 Resources