Voices From The Shelf
The shelf is a growing collection of anonymous stories, reflections and lived experiences shared by neurodivergent people.
Each contribution adds another perspective, helping build a richer understanding of what it means to navigate the world in different ways.
It Just Clicked
It’s honestly so hard to pick just one moment. There have been so many moments that have been so crucial, and that have stayed with me massively, that felt confusing or painful. There have been countless validating patterns that I've noticed within myself which have really helped me understand myself and my own self-discovery, and things that I wish that other people understood. I guess what mainly comes to mind is when I first got diagnosed. That was a really big shift in self acceptance, self compassion. Until then I felt really broken and deficient. I just didn't understand why things that seemed so easy for other people felt so hard for me. I didn't understand why I didn't learn from my mistakes. Why I felt like I was stuck in a loop, repeating the same pattern, why I felt like I couldn't just snap out of it. I had so much self judgment, self criticism, self hatred even. And I didn't realize that that those very things were making it even worse, and making it even harder to break the cycle. So definitely, coming to the realization that I was neurodivergent, understanding how my brain worked, having a label, having an explanation for why I am the way I am, how my brain works, helped massively just to lift a huge weight off my shoulders. Helped me feel validated. Explained to myself things I didn't understand about myself. It just clicked. I guess it's just the importance of the self-acceptance, and the importance of that initial diagnosis. But I guess there is another element to it that it doesn't end at the diagnosis point. Really it depends on what you do with that. What steps you take after that. What you interpret that to mean. Just a diagnosis on its own is not going to change anything. I was lucky enough to get access to medication - and it's not just one type of medication that you try and it's the perfect fit and you're cured forever. You might have to go through a long process of titration with the type of medication you're taking. With a qualified professional, you might need to try different types of medications to see which ones suit you. And then even when you get the right dosage and the right medication, it doesn't just end there. There's a lot of psychoeducation and coaching or counseling - basically like behavioral guidance and support that needs to come with it, and once all these things are in place, the sky's the limit. Honestly it's so liberating and empowering, and you just feel like you can do anything, and you can overcome any obstacle. I think a well-supported neurodivergent person is also a huge huge asset to society. We’ve got very unique individual superpowers.
I Rejected That Part of Me
Whilst I had an early diagnosis I rejected it until I was older, I would joke and say I had it but the language around it when I was diagnosed was all about the deficit and how risky and impulsive I was. A turning point came after a nervous breakdown that I now know was a burnout. The responsibility I held, the crisis after crisis I lived through broke me completely. I always thought it was because I had a ‘crisis mentality’ or was ‘addicted to the drama’ but through coaching being in spaces with other neurodivergent people I realise I was just stuck in a hyper vigilant impulsive cycle. I hadn’t been taught pause or regulation strategies and I certainly hadn’t been told that my brain was so good at pattern spotting and problem solving and that is why I love being in problems (mine or others). I rejected the neurodiverse part of me for so long but now I don’t, I see that is not a label but it is my very essence, it shapes how I see and experience the world and also how the world sees and experiences me.
ADHD Wasn't the Whole Story
For years I thought ADHD was the whole story. It wasn’t until perimenopause that I realised how much hormones had shaped my life. I spent years pushing through exhaustion, poor sleep, anxiety, brain fog and emotional overwhelm, believing it was something I simply had to cope with. As my hormones changed, everything became harder. The strategies that had worked before stopped working. My ADHD medication felt different. I felt like I was losing parts of myself. Finding the right hormone treatment hasn’t fixed everything, but it has helped me realise that I wasn’t failing. My body was asking for support. I wish people understood how much effort goes into things that might look easy from the outside. Being organised, turning up on time, remembering things, staying focused in conversations, managing emotions and maintaining relationships can take a huge amount of energy. People often see the mistakes but not the effort behind them. For me, ADHD isn’t a lack of care. In many cases, it’s the opposite. I care deeply, but sometimes my brain doesn’t communicate that in the way people expect. Having people who saw the good in me before I saw it in myself. Growing up, I often felt confused by why I got things wrong or why I seemed to struggle with things that looked easy for other people. Having people who were patient, understanding and willing to explain things rather than judge me made a huge difference. One of the biggest things that helped was having someone who gently encouraged me to build better habits and routines. Not by trying to change who I was, but by helping me find ways of working that suited me. Over time, those routines became my own and made life feel far less overwhelming. I still have chaotic days, but I’ve learnt that small changes can have a huge impact. Having a cleaner space, a bit more structure and people around me who understand how my brain works has helped me become much kinder to myself.
My Mum Said I Was a Contradiction
Growing up, I was always getting myself into trouble. I would blurt things out, interrupt people, act on impulse or react before I had properly thought things through. What I remember most isn’t getting told off, but the confusion that came with it. I rarely understood why I’d upset someone or what I had done wrong. Often, it felt like people were talking about me rather than to me, and I spent a lot of my childhood wondering why I seemed to get things wrong so often. At the same time, my mum used to say I was a contradiction. My room would be a complete mess, with clothes covering the floor so completely you could barely see the carpet. Yet if you looked at my desk, all my pencils would be lined up perfectly by colour and distance. Looking back, that probably sums me up quite well. I wish people understood how much effort goes into things that might look easy from the outside. Being organised, turning up on time, remembering things, staying focused in conversations, managing emotions and maintaining relationships can take a huge amount of energy. People often see the mistakes but not the effort behind them. For me, ADHD isn’t a lack of care. In many cases, it’s the opposite. I care deeply, but sometimes my brain doesn’t communicate that in the way people expect. Having people who saw the good in me before I saw it in myself. Growing up, I often felt confused by why I got things wrong or why I seemed to struggle with things that looked easy for other people. Having people who were patient, understanding and willing to explain things rather than judge me made a huge difference. One of the biggest things that helped was having someone who gently encouraged me to build better habits and routines. Not by trying to change who I was, but by helping me find ways of working that suited me. Over time, those routines became my own and made life feel far less overwhelming. I still have chaotic days, but I’ve learnt that small changes can have a huge impact. Having a cleaner space, a bit more structure and people around me who understand how my brain works has helped me become much kinder to myself. I was born over two months premature and was diagnosed with dyslexia at four years old. From as early as I can remember, I knew I found some things harder than other people. I always seemed to need more time than everyone else, whether that was in lessons, exams or everyday life. Growing up, I spent a lot of time comparing myself to other people and wondering why things that seemed simple for them felt so difficult for me. For a long time, I genuinely thought that meant I wasn’t very clever. Looking back, I know that’s not true. I think I was trying to navigate learning difficulties and neurodivergence before I had the words to understand them. Ironically, I now find myself graduating with a First-Class degree in Wildlife Ecology and Conservation Science, having spent eight months conducting orangutan research in the rainforests of Borneo. My younger self would never have believed that was possible. It has taken me a long time to realise that needing more time doesn’t mean you’re less capable. Comparison has probably been one of the biggest challenges throughout my life. Whether it was school, friendships, relationships or work, I often found myself looking at other people and wondering why things seemed easier for them than they did for me. I’m still working on it, but I’m slowly learning that comparing my struggles to someone else’s highlights reel rarely tells the full story.
What They Don't See
People often see me as capable. I work. I show up. I get things done. What they don’t see is the constant calculation happening underneath. The balancing of grief, burnout, work, discrimination, sensory overwhelm, chronic health issues and the expectations of other people. Sometimes my body tells me long before my mind is ready to listen. Recently I’ve realised that I don’t always need more resilience. Sometimes I need rest. Sometimes I need to disappoint people. Sometimes I need to say no. I’m still learning that.
More Than Anything, I'm Just Tired
For me, burnout has felt like reaching a point where I just can't keep carrying everything in the same way anymore. I lost my dad recently and although it was a beautiful send-off, it was also incredibly difficult. I think that, combined with work stress and things going on at home, has left me feeling completely exhausted. More than anything, I'm just tired. One thing I've noticed is how much time I spend explaining myself. Even when nobody is asking, I feel like I need to justify why I'm working from home, why I need a break, or why I'm struggling. It's like there's this constant conversation in my head trying to prove that I'm not being lazy. I think I've spent most of my life pushing through things. If I felt overwhelmed, I'd keep going. If I needed rest, I'd tell myself to get on with it. Lately, that's stopped working. The biggest thing I'm learning is that I can't think my way out of burnout. I've spent years looking for better systems, better routines, better ways to organise myself. Right now, what seems to help most is slowing down enough to notice what I actually need. I'm still figuring it out, but I'm starting to understand that being kind to myself isn't giving up. It might actually be part of getting better.
I Thought Everyone Experienced the World the Way I Did
I spent most of my life thinking everyone experienced the world the way I did and that I was just worse at coping with it. The first time ADHD was suggested to me, I laughed. I was at an event and remember asking a friend if they thought it sounded like me. What surprised me wasn't the possibility that I had ADHD. It was finding out that almost everybody around me seemed to have already worked it out. Friends, family and colleagues all appeared to know something about me that I hadn't recognised in myself. Looking back, there are so many things that make more sense now. One of the hardest things to explain is that some tasks feel physically painful. I have boxes from moving house that need unpacking and every time I look at them, my whole body reacts. People assume I can't be bothered or that I'm procrastinating, but it genuinely feels like something inside me is pushing back. The same thing happens with overwhelm. It's not just stress. Sometimes it feels like my entire body hurts. I've always had strong sensory preferences too. Certain lights feel unbearable. Certain fabrics make me uncomfortable. I've bought laptops simply because I couldn't tolerate the feel of a keyboard. For years I thought I was being difficult, fussy or dramatic. Now I understand these things differently. One of the biggest changes has been learning that support doesn't always mean somebody doing something for me. Sometimes I just need somebody nearby. Having someone sit in the same room while I tackle a task I've avoided for months can make all the difference. I don't need rescuing. I just need a little bit of company. I'm also learning to be kinder to myself. There are days when the only food I can manage is pizza or a meal shake. There are days when I need a dark room because the light feels too much. There are days when my brain is so full that any new piece of information means something else gets lost. For a long time I judged myself for all of this. Now I'm starting to see these things as information rather than evidence that I'm failing. The more I understand my neurodivergence, the more I realise I was never lazy, broken or not trying hard enough. I was trying to navigate a world that felt louder, brighter and more demanding than it seemed to for everyone else. I think what I'm learning now is that life gets easier when I stop fighting myself and start listening.
I Just Wanted to Sit Still
I was diagnosed with ADHD later in life and one of the biggest surprises wasn't the diagnosis itself, it was realising how much of my life suddenly made sense. Recently I came back from a break and just couldn't get going again. Everybody around me seemed ready for a fresh start and a new year, but I wasn't. I didn't feel motivated. I didn't feel rested. I just wanted to sit still and be left alone. For a long time I thought that meant I was lazy or lacking discipline. Now I understand it differently. I had spent months pushing myself to finish things before the holidays, tying up loose ends and forcing myself through work. By the time I stopped, I had nothing left. Since being diagnosed, I've become much more aware of how often I override my own needs. I've worn headphones with nothing playing just to stop people talking to me. I've looked busy so nobody would question whether I was working hard enough. I've pushed myself through exhaustion because I thought that was what adults were supposed to do. I've also had difficult experiences trying to access support at work. At times I've felt like I had to justify my diagnosis, explain myself repeatedly or share information that felt deeply personal just to be taken seriously. Those experiences have made me question myself and lose trust in systems that are supposed to help. The biggest thing I'm learning is that not everything can be solved by trying harder. Sometimes the kindest thing I can do is slow down and listen to what my brain and body are telling me.
