Stop Renovating During The Storm

On Balancing Neurodivergence and Loss

Something terrifying has happened.

It has come to my attention that I am an autistic woman with things to lose…and that’s really inconvenient.

If I have a “bad day,” I might not be focused enough to send important emails, miss out on a collaboration, or leave loose ends with a client. I cannot afford to be “inconsistent.”

And, frankly, until recently, I had a pretty good system. Personally, I’ve found it useful to envision my brain as a house.

My house is a mix of old and new, complete with modern steel appliances and an assorted brick fireplace. There are dusty vases that contain my biggest fears, shoe racks that contain the dreams at the forefront of my mind, and paintings of the people I love the most.

When my mom passed away in 2019, I responded in the way that I respond to most things—with optimism. I wrote an article a few days afterward—probably as a way to intellectualize my feelings—and received considerable public appreciation for my perspective.

I’d been told it was uplifting. My colleagues told me that I displayed an enormous amount of strength and insightfulness. I do not regret the article, and I believe I was being as genuine and truthful as I could be at that point.

But I’m going to be honest…

A few days ago, I was explaining to a new friend how I ended up in my current city. The story involved my family, and I found it appropriate to share about the loss of my mom. I had told this story many times before. I had used the same monotone effect with the words “Lupus,” “Schleroderma,” and “oxygen tank.” I had gotten very good at telling this story. However, this time, for whatever reason, I told the story differently. I said the following phrase: “My family suffered a tragedy. We lost my mom.”

Tragedy.

Reader, I had never used that word before to describe that experience. Ever. Usually, it was “My mom passed away.” It was never “We suffered a tragedy.” It was never about us—about me. For some reason, though, this time, it was. I had suffered through something, and for the first time in 7 years, I admitted—out loud—that it was tragic. For a while after that, I was wrecked.

I admitted how painful it was to know that someone has a whole host of memories of you at your primary stages of life, and that person has vanished. The same person who told you she knew who you would become will never get to see you become that. The version of myself that exists now….she will never get to know.

I’m sure that the reason these thoughts started swirling this week is that my birthday is coming up, and there’s some metaphor in there about the passage of time and our unavoidable mortality. Still, when I take the Henry David Thoreau out of it, I understand that it is okay to store some things away in the basement, as long as you occasionally take inventory.

Many of us, especially if we’re of the sensitive or neurodivergent variety, will over-intellectualize our emotions because we are afraid that they will rush in like a flood. We are afraid that they will rip the front door off its hinges and destroy the living room to the point where we do not recognize the furniture or the paintings on the wall.

I assure you, though, you can handle more than you think. You can experience heartbreak. You can lose people. You can experience disappointment.

The house you build will be as strong as you make it. The beauty of it is that—even if the flood does rush in—your brain is pretty good at repairing itself when you offer the right tools. We were never meant to be invincible, and that’s the confusion. We are to be constantly in a state of either rest, destruction, or repair. I don’t think we should fight the storm. Whether we want it to or not, the storm is coming. It needs somewhere to go. So, instead of praying it doesn’t knock the door off its hinges, I hope to leave my door open.

-CM

If you’d like help building a structure where your well-being is prioritized, grab this 60-page workbook I designed to help you manage your work/life balance. Otherwise, I’ll see you soon.