I spent most of my life being told I was gifted. I tested well. I read constantly. I could write. I played instruments. I could pass almost any class without really trying. Except algebra. Algebra and I have been enemies since birth, and honestly, I still suspect letters should stay out of math.
I was first published for poetry when I was fourteen, back before AI existed and when writing with repeating phrases and dramatic punctuation was considered proper instead of a sign someone needed to “sound less robotic.” Funny how things change.

On paper, I looked successful. Smart. Capable. The kid people expected to excel at everything. But off paper? Things were always a little harder than they looked. As I got older, I became “the anxious one.” The socially awkward one. The one whose jokes either went completely over everyone’s head or who missed the joke entirely because my brain took things literally first and socially second.

I could walk into a room already replaying every possible conversation before it even happened. Then afterward, I would replay it again for three business days wondering if I sounded weird when I said thank you to the cashier. I missed opportunities because I talked myself out of them before I even tried. I stayed in situations and relationships longer than I should have because my brain could rationalize almost anything if given enough time.

There were moments in my life where temporary pain felt permanent, and looking back now, I can finally admit how dangerous that mindset can become when you’re drowning quietly.

As science progressed and conversations about mental health and neurodivergence became less taboo, I eventually found another label: 2E. Twice exceptional. Gifted… with challenges hiding underneath the giftedness. And suddenly so much of my life made sense.

Not in a magical movie moment where everything became easier, because it didn’t. A label doesn’t change who I am. It doesn’t suddenly make social situations relaxing or stop my brain from opening seventeen mental tabs at once. But it did help explain why I can disappear from people for two weeks and return acting like only ten minutes passed. Why I hyperfixate on hobbies, projects, ideas, and phrases.

My poor family can always tell what phrase my brain is obsessed with that month because I’ll use it seventeen times a day until my brain finds a new shiny sentence to latch onto. The same thing happens with hobbies. One month I’m convinced I should learn watercolor painting. The next I’m reorganizing my house at 2 a.m. while researching antique cabinets. Then suddenly I’m writing for fourteen hours straight fueled by caffeine, determination, and what can only be described as raccoon energy.

Honestly, this is also why I spend thousands of hours on my books. I never want my writing to feel like a passing hyperfixation tossed into the world half-finished. I want the stories to mean something. I want someone sitting awake at 2 a.m. feeling lonely, anxious, overstimulated, exhausted, or invisible to read my words and feel seen for a minute. That’s really what my blog has always been too. Not perfection. Not curated motherhood. Just a mom who has hit rock bottom before and survived it. A mom trying every single day to give her children a softer place to land than she had, even though my own childhood wasn’t bad.

I think that’s just motherhood. We all want our kids to carry a little less pain than we did. I want my kids to make good choices. I want them to feel loved. I want them to know their home is safe even when life isn’t. I want them to understand that people can struggle differently and still deserve kindness. Because this house? This house is beautifully mixed-neuro. We have autism, ADHD, anxiety, giftedness, sensory overload, big emotions, awkward humor, hyperfixations, safe foods, overstimulation, shutdowns, social exhaustion, and approximately six people asking me questions at the exact same time.

One kid needs quiet while another loudly sings the same line of a song for forty-five minutes straight. Someone is crying because their toast broke in half while someone else is explaining Minecraft lore like they’re defending a doctoral thesis. And somehow I’m standing in the kitchen reheating the same cup of coffee for the fourth time trying to remember if we still allow screen time this week or if sugar is poison again. The parenting rules change every six minutes now anyway. No screens. More screens. Gentle parenting. Not too gentle. Red dye is evil. Chuck E. Cheese is overstimulating. Actually Chuck E. Cheese is nostalgic now.

I gave up trying to fully keep up years ago. But I will always support people trying to help others with kindness. Always. So here I am. The awkward neurodivergent queenager creeping toward perimenopause, losing my sanity one child at a time, trying to survive modern motherhood with humor, coffee, overstimulation, unfinished house projects, and a deeply concerning emotional attachment to sticky notes and planners.

Maybe understanding myself later in life wasn’t some tragedy. Maybe it was just bad timing. Like algebra. Letters that didn’t belong where they landed, until suddenly the equation made sense and you realize you were never actually bad at math. You were just solving the wrong problem. Maybe it wasn’t a tragedy at all. Maybe it was just Tuesday.