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 rolled my eyes the first time I was handed construction paper in therapy. A family tree? With map pencils? Surely this wasn’t going to help.

But what started as a throwaway assignment turned into a diorama that shifted how I understand myself—and how I work.

In the professional world, especially in nonprofit, policy, and tech circles, creativity is often treated like a nice-to-have. But for many of us who are neurodivergent, it’s how we adapt, lead, and survive.

This blog is about the first time I realized that.

And how creativity has quietly shaped every part of how I manage systems, solve problems, and bring clarity to the chaos.

If you’ve ever felt like your way of working doesn’t quite “fit,” this one’s for you.

It’s not extra. It’s essential.
You're doing better than you think you are.

I’m the kind of person who can build a pristine color-coded project tracker at work while simultaneously wondering if my home needs to be condemned by a health inspector.

Turns out, living with a neurodivergent brain (and a neurodivergent family) means your executive function doesn’t politely clock in at 9 and out at 5. It’s more like that unreliable friend who says they’ll help you move but shows up late with a half-empty Starbucks and no boxes.

This is a love letter to the organized disasters among us — the ones who can remember every detail of a work presentation but forget there’s a mystery smell in the fridge. The ones whose homes are living museums of “I’ll get to it later.”

Because the truth is: you can be deeply competent, highly capable, and still live in a house that looks like a raccoon-led Etsy craft fair exploded.

Let’s unpack the chaos, laugh at the mess, and remind each other that we’re not broken — we’re just human (and maybe also slightly feral).

Come on in. Just step over the laundry pile.

I didn’t come out with confetti cannons, a viral TikTok dance, or a triumphant “I’m here, I’m queer, get used to it!” banner.

Nope. I came out at 28 with the shaky subtlety of a middle-schooler reading their first love poem aloud: quiet, unsure, and somewhere between a whisper and a nervous system meltdown that could’ve powered a small city.

Back then, I didn’t have language for what was happening inside me — trauma, survival mode, chronic shape-shifting to please everyone except myself. I just thought I was being “flexible.” Turns out, there’s a clinical term for that (spoiler: it’s not “winning at adaptability”).

This is a story about the messiness of figuring yourself out, the terror and giddy thrill of your first Pride, and the radical act of learning to flirt with exactly the people your heart had been quietly screaming for all along.

If you’ve ever questioned your reflection, your plan, or your own heart — you’re in the right place.

Let’s get a little awkward, a little honest, and a lot more free together.

Hydration recommended. Dykes on Bikes will do that to you.

There’s a version of me I like to imagine: a serene, all-knowing parent who radiates calm energy, gracefully diffusing tantrums with a single deep breath and an Oprah-level pep talk.

Spoiler: That’s not me.

Sometimes, when my kids melt down, I’m right there with them — emotionally flooded, senses overloaded, and teetering on the edge of my own big feelings.

Parenting while neurodivergent isn’t a gentle yoga flow in soft lighting. It’s more like an unpredictable rave with glow sticks, unexpected fire alarms, and someone asking you to make dinner at the same time.

This is for every parent who has ever hidden in the bathroom, whispered “I can’t do this” into a towel, and then come back out anyway.

You’re not broken. You’re not failing.

You’re just a human — beautifully imperfect, brave enough to feel, and doing better than you think.

Come sit with me in this mess. We can breathe (or ugly cry) together.

Living while neurodivergent often feels like your brain is speaking a dialect the world refuses to learn.

Some days, that might mean forgetting something simple (like why you walked into a room) or spiraling for hours because of a tiny, offhand comment.

Other days, it’s freezing under pressure or obsessing over every detail until your brain is so tired it needs a nap, a snack, and possibly a small forest retreat.

And when that happens? The world usually offers judgment instead of grace.

Which is why we have to offer that grace to ourselves.

Self-compassion isn’t just about spa days or skipping the meeting that could’ve been an email. For neurodivergent folks, it’s a radical, everyday practice: noticing without shaming, responding with curiosity, and standing on your own side when the world would rather you shrink.

This is a love letter (and a gentle nudge) to anyone who feels like they’re always one meltdown or one missed task away from “not enough.”

You’re not broken. You don’t have to earn softness.

You deserve your own kindness — exactly as you are, right now.

Let’s talk about what that actually looks like, one tiny act of compassion at a time.