I didn’t expect a performance review to unravel me.

But when the document arrived—fully written, never discussed, and delivered the day before the conversation—I spiraled. I brought it to therapy. I analyzed every word. I stayed up nights wondering what I missed.

That’s when I learned about Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria.

It wasn’t the feedback itself that hurt the most. It was how it was delivered.

This post is about what I wish had been done differently—and what I now know about giving feedback that supports, not scars.

Healing taught me I didn’t need external validation.
Work taught me that silence still feels like rejection.

When you’re neurodivergent, validation isn’t just encouragement — it’s orientation. It’s how we know we’re safe, seen, and on track. But how do you ask for that in a workplace that prizes confidence, composure, and independence?

This blog explores what happens when therapy and masking collide in the professional world — and why needing reassurance doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.

Ever studied your heart out for a big test… only to sit down and feel like you accidentally signed up for a pop quiz on an alien planet?

That was me with the PMP exam.

For those unfamiliar: The PMP (Project Management Professional) certification is a globally recognized credential for project managers. It’s known for being rigorous — covering everything from Agile to Waterfall, risk management, resource juggling, and more. It’s basically the Olympics of project management exams.

If you’ve ever felt like the system wasn’t built for your brain, you’re not alone.

Existing in a professional environment while neurodivergent is like showing up to a potluck with a single sleeve of saltines while everyone else brings charcuterie boards.

I often can’t tell if what I’m feeling is mine or borrowed from the emotional buffet around me. So, I turn to movies, music, and books as my emotional GPS—my way of connecting and translating my inner world to the outer one.

If you see me quoting Tommy Boy in a meeting or humming Death Cab for Cutie before a presentation, just know: that’s me trying to bridge the gap between my weird, wonderful brain and yours.

“I didn’t go because the anxiety magically disappeared—I went because I love someone, and I’ve finally learned how to support myself through the spiral. Bravery didn’t show up with a battle cry. It showed up with a water bottle, a planned route, and a backup exit strategy. It was quiet, slightly sweaty, and very much on edge—and still, it counted.”

If you’ve ever RSVP’d “maybe” to life because your brain preloaded all the worst-case scenarios before you could even get dressed, you are not alone. This one’s for the quietly courageous and the crowd-sensitive heroes among us.