I'm an Organized Disaster

Staying Sane(ish) While Neurodivergent at Home

Last week, Milo (our thinks-he-is-80-pound bark-powered chaos goblin disguised as a dog) yanked sideways on his leash while we were out for a walk, and my back said, “Nope. We’re out.”

Not ideal timing, because the next day the refrigerator repair guy showed up at 8 a.m.—an actual hero, since we’ve been without filtered water or ice, which is a major issue in this house. My husband (who has lovingly ignored his ADHD diagnosis for approximately 30 years), remembered to call someone, and they actually came. On time. I should have lit a candle in gratitude.

And then I looked around my house and started calculating the emotional cost of having a stranger step into this chaos.

Let me paint the picture:

• Boxes by the front door because recycling hasn’t come in two weeks.
• The bench covered in teenage debris that no one claims, but everyone uses.
• A sink so full of dishes it looked like a competitive art installation titled Entropy in Ceramic.
• Takeout containers, soda bottles, an empty Crumbl box that’s more memory than dessert.
• A Brita filter that somehow felt too small when we were relying on it for water, and now? It’s taking up an entire counter like it pays rent.
• A folding table still up from… something we’ve all emotionally blacked out.
  Tools on the dining table.
• Laundry draped dramatically across the couch like it fainted from the effort.

Then the fridge guy pulls it out and uncovers a scene that felt like a cross between a biohazard site and a time capsule. And I’m mentally drafting apologies I’ll never say.

I am extremely organized at work. I manage complex projects. I track details across multiple teams. My inbox has folders with folders. I build workflows in my sleep.

So why does my home look like a raccoon runs a side hustle in every room?

Because I’m two versions of myself.

At work: high-functioning, calm, efficient.
At home: a possum in a tornado with a label maker.

What gives?
I live with three neurodivergent people. None of us thinks “clean” means the same thing. And executive function doesn’t magically refill itself after business hours.

Our house runs on caffeine, late-night resets, and pure survival instinct. When something tips the balance—like a broken fridge or a bad night’s sleep—the whole thing crumbles.

And here’s the key point: none of us is lazy. We’re just maxed out.

Let’s Talk About “Just Clean It Up”
People love to offer suggestions:
“Just do one thing a day.”
“Clean as you go.”
“Get your kids to help.”

We try. Chore charts. Visual reminders. Executive function workarounds. Some days they work. Other days, the kitchen sink stages a coup.

What I’m Learning (Mostly the Hard Way)

You can be excellent in one area and messy in another.

You don’t need to explain the mess to anyone—not even the fridge guy.

Shame doesn’t clean a single dish.

Maybe I’ll reclaim the dining table this weekend.

Maybe I won’t.

Either way, I’m not a failure—I’m a person doing the best she can with a very full brain in a very full house.

If You’re an Organized Disaster Too…
You’re not broken. You’re just managing a lot.

You don’t need to earn your rest.

You don’t need to explain the mess.

You’re doing better than you think.