I Stay Up Too Late Because I Survived the Day

By approximately 3:00 every afternoon...

I'm exhausted.

Not "I could use a nap" exhausted.

I'm talking...

"If someone laid a mattress down in the middle of Target, I'd seriously consider it."

By dinner...

I'm dreaming about pajamas.

By 8:00...

I'm telling my husband,

"I'm so tired."

By 9:00...

I've mentally fluffed my pillow seventeen times.

By 10:00...

I finally have the chance to go to bed.

...

So naturally...

I stay up until midnight.

This makes absolutely no sense.

I know that.

You know that.

My husband definitely knows that.

Every night he asks,

"I thought you were tired?"

I was.

I still am.

That's not the issue.

The issue is...

I need...

Me Time.

Not productive time.

Not laundry time.

Not "let's finally answer those emails" time.

Absolutely not.

I need gloriously pointless time.

This is the magical hour where my brain demands absolutely nothing useful.

Reality television.

Mindless phone games.

Videos of dogs wearing rain boots.

Someone organizing a pantry I'll never have.

Kevin the squirrel folding glitter pants.

Whatever.

I don't care.

I have reached the part of the day where my brain wants...

Candy.

Not literal candy.

Although...

Maybe that too.

I'm talking about candy for my attention.

Tiny little dopamine snacks.

People sometimes ask,

"If you're so tired, why don't you just go to sleep?"

Friend...

Because sleeping ends today.

And today...

Finally belongs to me.

Think about it.

All day long I've been...

• Making decisions.

• Answering questions.

• Working.

• Writing.

• Creating.

• Remembering appointments.

• Forgetting appointments.

• Finding my phone.

• Losing my phone.

• Being responsible.

• Being productive.

• Being an adult.

It's exhausting.

Then...

Everyone goes to bed.

The house gets quiet.

Nobody needs anything.

No emails.

No phone calls.

No expectations.

It's just...

Me.

And somehow my brain says,

"We've been waiting for this."

So I sit there.

Watching television I will barely remember tomorrow.

Playing games that have absolutely no educational value whatsoever.

Scrolling through videos of baby goats wearing pajamas.

Living my best life.

Until...

I look at the clock.

12:17.

...

Well.

That escalated quickly.

The next morning...

I'm shocked.

Shocked, I tell you.

Why am I so tired?

Surely it couldn't have anything to do with the fact that I stayed awake watching someone pressure-wash a driveway for forty-three minutes.

No.

That seems unrelated.

Every single night I make a promise.

Tonight...

I'm going to bed early.

Tonight...

Will be different.

Narrator:

It would not, in fact, be different.

I've learned something about myself over the years.

I'm not procrastinating sleep because I don't value it.

I'm protecting the only part of the day that feels completely mine.

The quiet.

The freedom.

The permission to do absolutely nothing of value.

After spending all day trying to manage my brain...

I finally get to let it wander around barefoot for a while.

Now...

Am I saying this is a healthy habit?

Absolutely not.

Sleep is important.

I know that.

You know that.

My under-eye circles know that.

I'm simply saying...

I understand why I do it now.

And understanding yourself is often the first step toward changing.

Or...

At the very least...

Toward not feeling guilty every single night.

These days...

I'm trying to make peace with the fact that I deserve breaks before I'm completely depleted.

Maybe if I gave myself little pockets of joy during the day...

My brain wouldn't feel the need to steal them from tomorrow morning.

I'm not there yet.

But I'm working on it.

Until then...

If you happen to text me at 11:48 p.m. and ask what I'm doing...

There's an excellent chance I'm lying in bed...

Watching raccoons wash grapes...

Playing a game involving cartoon fish...

And telling myself...

"Just one more episode."

We all know how that story ends.

Probably around 12:47.

Which, now that I think about it...

Is an awfully uneven number.

Guess I'll have to stay up until 12:50.

My brain has standards.

Uneven Numbers Make My Brain Itchy

I have a completely irrational relationship with numbers.

Not all numbers.

I'm not over here judging the number 37.

Thirty-seven seems lovely.

It's the numbers in my life that become a problem.

My brain has rules.

I did not make the rules.

I do not understand the rules.

But apparently...

I am expected to follow them.

Let's start with the gas station.

I have one simple request.

Can my gas total be an even number?

Apparently not.

If the price lands on exactly $40.00...

The gallons are 11.736.

If I somehow manage to stop at exactly 12 gallons...

The total is $41.83.

I have become convinced this is an elaborate psychological experiment.

There is no other explanation.

The gas pump knows.

I stand there trying to stop on an even number like I'm performing surgery.

Thirty-nine ninety-six...

Thirty-nine ninety-eight...

THIRTY-NINE NINETY-NI—

Forty dollars and twenty-three cents.

Fantastic.

We were so close.

Then there's the clock.

My brain absolutely refuses to begin important things at random times.

5:38?

Ridiculous.

Who's starting anything at 5:38?

Obviously...

We'll wait until 5:40.

Never mind that waiting until 5:40 means I've just spent two minutes...

Waiting...

To save absolutely zero time.

Logic has left the building.

Sometimes it gets worse.

I look at the clock.

It's 6:57.

Well...

Can't possibly start now.

Three minutes until seven.

Might as well wait.

Then it's 7:00.

Perfect.

Except...

Now I should probably get coffee first.

7:08.

Well...

Obviously we're waiting until 7:10.

You see how productive this system is.

The funniest part?

My brain genuinely believes the even number possesses magical properties.

As though beginning at 6:30 somehow guarantees success.

Whereas 6:29 practically invites disaster.

I've caught myself doing this with volume controls too.

The TV cannot be on 17.

It needs to be 18.

Or 20.

Or 22.

Not 17.

What is this?

Chaos?

Timers.

Same thing.

I don't set a timer for 13 minutes.

Absolutely not.

It's 10.

Apparently my microwave is also expected to respect the rules.

People love to say,

"Just start."

Friend...

I would love to.

Unfortunately...

It's currently 4:53.

The universe has spoken.

Now...

Do I actually believe something terrible will happen if I begin at an odd time?

No.

Of course not.

I'm fully aware this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Which somehow makes it even funnier.

My logical brain is standing over in the corner saying,

"You know this isn't real, right?"

Meanwhile...

My ADHD brain is already setting an alarm for 8:00 because beginning at 7:58 feels deeply irresponsible.

I've spent years trying to understand why I do this.

Maybe it's about creating tiny bits of order in a brain that often feels delightfully chaotic.

Maybe even numbers feel...

Finished.

Balanced.

Neat.

Like little punctuation marks.

Who knows?

Brains are weird.

Mine certainly is.

These days...

I laugh more than I fight it.

If waiting until 5:40 helps me start...

Fine.

I'll take it.

Because here's what I've learned.

The goal isn't to become someone whose brain makes perfect sense.

The goal is to understand the wonderfully strange little operating system you've been given.

Mine apparently runs on coffee...

Glitter...

Kevin the squirrel...

And numbers that end in zero.

Although...

If the gas station ever lets me stop on exactly $40.00 and exactly 10 gallons...

I'll know one thing for certain.

Kevin has finally been promoted to Regional Manager.

I'm Aggressively Uninterested in Things I Don't Care About

Let's start with a confession.

If I'm interested in something...

Good luck getting me to stop talking.

I'll research it.

Read books about it.

Watch documentaries.

Listen to podcasts.

Create spreadsheets.

Buy supplies.

Accidentally build an entire business around it.

I become...

Enthusiastic.

Passionate.

Slightly unhinged.

If I'm not interested?

Well...

That's a different story.

I'm not just mildly bored.

I'm...

Aggressively uninterested.

It's almost impressive.

Most people experience boredom.

My brain experiences...

Protest.

Like a tiny union worker standing in my head holding a picket sign that says,

"WE REFUSE TO PARTICIPATE."

Someone starts explaining football.

My brain clocks out.

Not politely.

Not gradually.

It slams the laptop shut.

Turns off the lights.

Locks the door.

And leaves a note that says,

"We'll be back when somebody starts talking about squirrels or coffee."

Here's what's so frustrating.

I don't choose this.

If I could simply decide to care...

I would.

Life would be so much easier.

Taxes?

I'd care.

Insurance paperwork?

I'd care.

Instruction manuals?

I'd probably even read them.

Imagine the possibilities.

Instead...

My brain treats uninteresting tasks like they're personal attacks.

Fold laundry?

Absolutely not.

Sit through a meeting that could've been an email?

How dare you.

Listen to someone explain cryptocurrency?

I would genuinely rather alphabetize my spice rack.

Which is saying something...

Because I don't even have my spices alphabetized.

The funny thing is...

The exact same brain that refuses to spend ten minutes on something boring...

Will happily spend six straight hours researching whether medieval castles had indoor plumbing.

Don't ask.

I don't know.

It seemed important at the time.

My husband has witnessed this transformation.

One minute I'm practically asleep because someone is explaining printer settings.

The next minute someone mentions ADHD research...

And suddenly I'm delivering a TED Talk nobody requested.

It's like watching someone plug me into a wall outlet.

People sometimes assume this means I'm lazy.

I'm not.

Lazy people don't accidentally spend eight hours building something they're excited about and forget to eat.

Ask me about anxiety.

I'll lose track of time.

Ask me about executive dysfunction.

I'll accidentally write a book.

Ask me about courage.

Cancel your afternoon.

We're going deep.

But ask me to sit through something my brain has labeled,

"Not Interesting."

Friend...

We're negotiating with terrorists.

I've spent years trying to force myself to become interested in things I simply...

Wasn't.

I thought being an adult meant I should be equally engaged by everything.

Turns out...

That's not how my brain works.

Now...

Before anyone misunderstands me...

This doesn't mean I only care about my interests.

Sometimes the people I love are excited about things I know absolutely nothing about.

And because I love them...

I want to hear about it.

That's different.

I'm interested because they're interesting.

Not because I suddenly woke up passionate about lawn fertilizer.

The older I've gotten, the more I've realized that curiosity isn't something I can force.

But respect?

That I can choose.

I can choose to listen.

I can ask questions.

I can be present.

Even if my brain is quietly filing paperwork to leave the meeting early.

So yes...

If I'm interested...

You may have trouble getting me to stop talking.

If I'm not interested...

My brain may stage a dramatic walkout.

Neither one makes me a bad person.

It just means my attention doesn't have an "on" switch and an "off" switch.

It has two settings.

ALL IN...

...or...

"I'd rather watch Kevin the squirrel organize his glitter pants."

Honestly...

I'd probably learn something.

Long live Kevin.

Chief Sparkle Officer.

CEO of Woodland Confidence.

Keeper of the Emergency Confidence Drawer.

Protector of the Glitter Pants.

My Hyperfixation Crushes

I used to think I was just really passionate.

Turns out...

I was just hyperfixating on men.

Not all men.

Just one at a time.

Like a very emotionally committed laser pointer.

It started when I was twenty-three.

He was thirty-four.

Older.

Confident.

In the Coast Guard.

Owned a motorcycle.

Owned a house.

Had an actual grown-up life.

Meanwhile, I was over here trying to remember to sign up for my company’s dental plan. And to figure out if my company even had a dental plan.

Naturally...

I decided he was The One.

Not because we'd built some deep emotional connection.

Not because we'd spent years getting to know each other.

No.

Because my brain had selected him.

Apparently there was a committee meeting.

I wasn't invited.

Once my ADHD brain chooses someone...

It gets...

Enthusiastic.

Everything reminds me of them.

Every song is about them.

Every conversation somehow circles back to them.

They're all I can think about.

Not in a creepy way.

...

Okay.

Maybe a little creepy.

Here's the weird part.

The pursuit?

Amazing.

The butterflies?

Fantastic.

Wondering if he likes me?

Peak entertainment.

Actually getting somewhere?

Well...

Let's not get carried away.

One day we were on the phone.

Everything was going wonderfully.

Then...

As we hung up...

He casually said,

"Love ya."

I replied,

"Okay, byeeee!"

Hung up.

And my brain quietly packed its bags.

I swear I could hear the emergency evacuation alarm.

"Attention passengers..."

"This relationship has become emotionally real."

"Please proceed calmly to the nearest exit."

My brain did not proceed calmly.

It sprinted.

I called him back later.

Asked what he meant.

He said,

"Oh...I say that to all my friends."

Now...

An emotionally mature person probably would've said,

"Oh! Got it."

I was twenty-three.

I was not emotionally mature.

I reacted...

Poorly.

Let's just say I found a way to make the entire situation wonderfully awkward.

Mission accomplished.

He backed away.

Fast.

Two days later...

I was interested in someone else.

Not because the first guy was awful.

He wasn't.

Not because I'd stopped finding him attractive.

I hadn't.

Because...

The movie had ended.

My brain wanted a new trailer.

Years later my best friend said something that made me stop in my tracks.

She said,

"You love the chase."

The funny thing is...

I don't think I was chasing men.

I think I was chasing dopamine.

There's a difference.

The anticipation.

The wondering.

The possibility.

The excitement.

The little rush every time my phone buzzed.

That's what my brain was addicted to.

Not the person.

The possibility.

And then...

Real life showed up.

Relationships require vulnerability.

Consistency.

Communication.

Patience.

Those things aren't nearly as chemically exciting as,

"Oooooh...I wonder if he likes me..."

Looking back...

I hate admitting this.

But my best friend was right.

I loved the pursuit.

I loved the challenge.

I loved the dopamine that came from trying to win someone over.

Once I did...

Something changed.

Sometimes I'd get bored.

Sometimes I'd panic because things were becoming real.

Sometimes it was both.

Either way...

I'd find a way out.

I don't say that proudly.

Quite the opposite.

There are younger versions of ourselves that make us cringe.

This is one of mine.

I wasn't trying to hurt anyone.

I wasn't collecting hearts like trophies.

I simply didn't understand that my brain confused novelty with compatibility.

I wish I could tell you there was some grand psychological reason.

There probably was.

But if I'm being completely honest...

Sometimes I was just...

Bored.

I needed excitement.

I needed novelty.

I needed that rush of wondering what might happen next.

And once the wondering disappeared...

So did the dopamine.

These days...

I understand my brain a lot better.

I don’t have to run away from vulnerability.

I don’t have to throw a wrench into the spokes every time something gets serious.

It’s okay to take things slowly, on my own time, and be vocal about it.

Butterflies aren't always a green light.

Sometimes...

Butterflies are just my nervous system throwing confetti.

And butterflies don't have to mean forever.

They don't have to mean soulmates.

They don't have to mean this person is "The One."

Sometimes...

They just mean you're enjoying getting to know someone.

That's okay too.

And honestly...

As it turns out...

The healthiest love I've ever known wasn't even the one that made my heart race.

It was the one that finally helped it slow down.

I Don't Have Favorite Songs. I Have Temporary Emotional Support Anthems.

I don't casually enjoy music.

I become emotionally entangled with it.

There is no,

"Oh, I like this song."

No.

My brain hears one lyric...

One.

And suddenly I've entered a full-blown, emotionally committed relationship with a four-minute recording.

It starts innocently enough.

Spotify recommends something.

The radio plays a new song.

Someone posts a Reel.

I hear a lyric that punches me directly in the feelings.

And that's it.

It's over.

Congratulations to everyone else in my life.

You're about to hear this song approximately 7,000 times.

For the next several weeks...

I don't simply listen to it.

I study it.

I analyze it.

I assign meaning to lyrics the songwriter probably never intended.

I replay one line twelve times because...

"HOW DID THEY GET INSIDE MY BRAIN?"

My husband knows the signs.

He'll get in the car.

The song starts.

He smiles.

"Again?"

Yes.

Again.

And again.

And probably three more times before we get to Walmart.

Here's the fascinating part.

It's never random.

Every song arrives exactly when I need it.

When I'm heartbroken...

One song.

When I'm hopeful...

Another.

When I'm building my business...

Different song.

When life feels impossible...

Some artist I've never heard of somehow writes the exact sentence my soul has been trying to say for six months.

How do they do that?

Are musicians okay?

Who hurt them?

People ask,

"What's your favorite song?"

Friend...

That's like asking me my favorite child.

I don't have favorite songs.

I have...

Temporary Emotional Support Anthems.

They're assigned by season.

Like emotional interns.

My current anthem becomes...

Everything.

I clean to it.

Drive to it.

Cry to it.

Celebrate to it.

Stand in the kitchen dramatically staring out the window while it plays...

As though I'm in the final scene of a movie no one asked for.

Sometimes I don't even hear the whole song.

I hear...

That one line.

The one that somehow explains my entire existence.

I'll rewind it.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until I'm absolutely certain I've squeezed every last molecule of meaning out of those twelve words.

At some point...

The lyric no longer even sounds like English.

I've listened to it into another language.

Then...

One morning...

I skip it.

No emotion.

No excitement.

Nothing.

It's as though my brain quietly whispers,

"We've extracted everything we needed."

Mission accomplished.

The song has completed its assignment.

Thank you for your service.

It's honestly a little sad.

This song that carried me through an entire chapter of my life...

Suddenly becomes...

Just another song.

Not because it changed.

Because I did.

And then...

It happens.

A new song.

A random lyric.

A different artist.

One line.

That's all it takes.

My brain immediately announces,

"EVERYONE CALM DOWN."

"This is who we are now."

The funniest part?

If you scroll through my playlists...

They're basically an autobiography.

Not organized by genre.

Organized by emotional identity crisis.

"Anxiety."

"Hope."

"Courage."

"Building."

"Grief."

“This One Made Me Feel Like Maybe I Wasn't Completely Winging Adulthood.”

(Very niche category.

Highly recommended.)

I've realized over the years that music isn't just entertainment for me.

It's translation.

Sometimes a song explains what I couldn't.

Sometimes it gives words to feelings I didn't even know I was carrying.

Sometimes it reminds me who I am when I've forgotten.

And sometimes...

It just gives me permission to ugly cry in the Target parking lot.

Which is a public service, really.

So if you ever get in my car...

And I play the same song...

Again.

And again.

And again.

Please don't worry.

I haven't forgotten there are other songs.

I'm just not finished with this one yet.

I'm still wringing every last drop of hope...

Or courage...

Or grief...

Or joy...

Out of it.

Eventually it'll let me go.

Until then...

We're in a committed relationship.

Exclusive.

Possessive.

Slightly unhealthy.

But don't worry.

My brain has already started looking for my next emotional rebound.

Spotify calls it a recommendation.

I call it destiny.

Although...

If you ask my husband...

He'll probably just call it Tuesday.

Please Don't Hug Me.

I have a confession.

I'm not a hugger.

I know.

Some of you just gasped.

Some of you are already opening your arms, determined to "fix" me.

Please don't.

Before we go any further...

I love people.

I really do.

I have wonderful friends.

I adore my family.

I care deeply about the people in my life.

I simply don't understand why we've collectively decided that smashing our bodies together is the official greeting of humanity.

Who came up with this?

Was there a meeting?

Did we vote?

Was I absent that day?

There are people who walk into a room like this:

"Oh my gosh! Hiiiiiiii!"

HUG.

Then another hug.

Then another.

Sometimes they hug people they've literally just met.

Meanwhile...

I'm standing over in the corner wondering if waving has suddenly become illegal.

Here's the thing.

When someone starts walking toward me with their arms open...

My brain doesn't think,

"Aww...connection."

My brain thinks,

"Why are you widening your stance?"

And don't even surprise-hug me.

There are very few situations in life where someone wrapping their arms around me unexpectedly feels like a reasonable decision.

My nervous system immediately responds with,

"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"

Then, approximately half a second later...

"Oh.

It's affection.

Carry on."

The worst hugs are the ones where nobody knows when they're over.

You both step in.

You awkwardly pat each other's backs.

One person lets go.

The other person doesn't.

Now you're trapped.

You've entered some kind of slow-motion hostage situation.

Then there are side hugs.

Those I can tolerate.

They're efficient.

Professional.

Minimal body contact.

It's the handshake of hugs.

I respect that.

Now...

If you're my husband...

Different story.

Come here.

If you're my daughter...

Absolutely.

If you're one of my dogs...

Please.

Let's cuddle.

Forever.

Apparently my rules become surprisingly flexible when you have fur.

But acquaintances?

Church greeters?

People I met seventeen seconds ago?

WHY are we embracing?

We don't even know each other's last names.

Let's not skip straight to body contact.

People often assume that because I'm not physically affectionate...

I'm cold.

I'm not.

I'm just...

Different.

If I love you...

I'm probably going to show it by listening to you.

Making you laugh.

Driving across town when you need me.

Remembering your favorite coffee.

Helping you move.

Checking in when life gets hard.

Writing you a ridiculously long text because apparently brevity and I aren't on speaking terms.

Love has lots of languages.

Mine just isn't "surprise octopus."

I've noticed something interesting over the years.

The people who know me best...

Don't expect hugs.

They know that if I voluntarily hug you...

It means something.

You've reached an elite level of friendship.

Congratulations.

There isn't a certificate.

But there probably should be.

And then there are the social rules.

You know the ones.

Someone goes in for a hug.

You panic.

You commit to the hug.

Halfway through, they switch sides.

Now you've accidentally headbutted each other.

Somewhere a photographer captures this forever.

It's all very stressful.

I've spent years wondering if I should force myself to become "a hug person."

You know...

Smile bigger.

Hug more.

Pretend it feels natural.

Then one day I thought...

Why?

Why am I trying to love people somebody else's way?

Why isn't it enough that I love deeply?

Why do I have to express it exactly like everyone else?

So if you're a hugger...

Wonderful.

Keep hugging.

The world needs people who make others feel welcomed that way.

Just know that if you open your arms and I instinctively stick out my hand...

Or wave enthusiastically from a respectful distance...

Or offer you coffee instead...

It's not rejection.

It's just...

Me.

Besides...

I have an excellent system.

You keep your personal space.

I keep mine.

We smile.

We laugh.

We talk.

Nobody has to wonder when to let go.

Honestly...

I think it's beautiful.

Although...

If you're a squirrel wearing glitter pants...

I'll make an exception.

(Mostly because Kevin has earned it.)

Kevin’s Instagram Reads:

✨ Woodland Fashion Icon
🌰 Professional Acorn Collector
👖 CEO of Glitter Pants
📍Tree #47

Squirrels and Glitter, Yo.

Let's clear something up right away.

ADHD is a legitimate neurological condition.

It's well documented.

Well researched.

Frequently misunderstood.

And it deserves to be taken seriously.

So when people reduce it to,

"Oooh...look! A squirrel!"

I usually roll my eyes.

Because ADHD is so much more than distractibility.

It's executive dysfunction.

Emotional regulation.

Working memory.

Time blindness.

Impulsivity.

Mental exhaustion.

Difficulty switching tasks.

It affects careers.

Relationships.

Finances.

Self-esteem.

It's a real thing.

A complicated thing.

An exhausting thing.

...

That being said...

SQUIRREL.

No, seriously.

There was a squirrel outside my window yesterday.

And I completely lost my train of thought.

In fairness...

He was adorable.

Actually...

He looked like he was wearing glitter pants.

Now, before you judge me...

The sunlight hit his little squirrel hiney at exactly the right angle.

It sparkled.

I stand by my original assessment.

There was glitter involved.

My husband looked.

Then looked at me.

Then looked back at the squirrel.

"That's just sunlight."

Friend...

No.

That squirrel made fashion choices.

I would also like to point out that if squirrels ever did start wearing glitter pants...

I would become the world's least productive human being.

Nothing would ever get done again.

Forget emails.

Forget laundry.

Forget taxes.

I'd be outside whispering,

"Yaaaas, Kevin! You work those sequins!"

Here's the problem with ADHD stereotypes.

They're funny...

Until they're all people believe.

If you think ADHD is just getting distracted by shiny things...

You'll completely miss the woman who's drowning in overwhelm.

You'll miss the mom who cries because she forgot another appointment.

You'll miss the business owner who spends two hours trying to start one email.

You'll miss the person who looks incredibly capable...

While silently feeling like they're failing at adulthood.

That's why reducing ADHD to squirrels isn't just inaccurate.

It's incomplete.

...

But...

If we're being completely honest...

I really do like squirrels.

A lot.

They're tiny woodland chaos goblins.

They make terrible decisions.

They forget where they buried things.

They start one project.

Then immediately sprint toward another one.

Honestly...

They're kind of my people.

And glitter?

Don't even get me started.

I love glitter.

Not craft glitter.

Craft glitter is the herpes of the craft world.

Once it enters your house...

You're finding it six Christmases later.

I'm talking about magical glitter.

Confetti.

Sparkles.

Things that catch the light.

Anything that makes the world feel just a little more whimsical.

Life is hard.

I'm in favor of unnecessary sparkle.

So yes...

It is entirely possible for two things to be true at the same time.

ADHD deserves to be understood as the complex neurological condition that it is.

And...

If a squirrel runs by carrying something shiny...

There's a very real chance I'll lose my train of thought.

Not because squirrels cause ADHD.

Because squirrels are objectively delightful.

I think that's something people often misunderstand about us.

We're not distracted because we lack intelligence.

We're distracted because our brains notice...

Everything.

The bird.

The funny sign.

The song playing in the background.

The weird-shaped cloud.

The fact that your earrings match your shoes.

The squirrel with suspiciously fashionable pants.

Our attention doesn't disappear.

It multiplies.

Sometimes in incredibly inconvenient ways.

Sometimes in wonderfully magical ones.

So no...

Please don't reduce ADHD to squirrels and glitter.

It's so much bigger than that.

It's frustrating.

It's exhausting.

It's complicated.

It's misunderstood.

It's all of those things.

But...

If you happen to see a squirrel wearing glitter pants...

You should absolutely let me know.

Immediately.

I'll bring the coffee.

You bring the binoculars.

We'll get to the bottom of this together.

Narrator:

It was still just sunlight.

Tracy remained unconvinced.

His name is Kevin.

Kevin wears glitter pants.

And somewhere in the woods another squirrel is rolling his eyes.

"Kevin has become insufferable since he discovered sequins."

I'm Listening to You. I Am. But Please, for the Love of All That Is Good...Finish Your Sentence.

I want to start by saying...

I am listening to you.

Really.

Mostly.

Kind of.

Okay, let's say I'm listening at somewhere around 73%.

The other 27% is currently occupied wondering if I remembered to order paper towels, mentally rehearsing a conversation I need to have on Thursday, deciding whether fish have feelings, and trying to remember where I put my reading glasses.

Which, ironically...

...are on my head.

Again.

Please don't mistake this for disinterest.

I'm interested.

Very interested.

In fact, I might be too interested.

Because while you're telling me your story...

My brain is already connecting it to seventeen other stories.

"Oh! That reminds me..."

Except I don't say that.

Because I'm trying to let you finish.

Trying.

Here's the problem.

Some people...

Pause.

A lot.

They tell stories like they're being paid by the dramatic silence.

"So then...

...

...

I walked into the store...

...

...

And you'll never guess who I saw..."

Meanwhile, my brain has already guessed.

Thirty-four times.

I've imagined your ex.

Your boss.

Taylor Swift.

A llama wearing sunglasses.

Three people I went to high school with.

And somehow...

Abraham Lincoln.

Don't ask.

I don't know either.

The longer the pause...

The louder my brain gets.

"Maybe they're done."

"No...don't interrupt."

"They're definitely done."

"Wait...they're breathing."

"Maybe now?"

"Nope. False alarm."

Having a conversation with me is basically competing with an over-caffeinated game show announcer.

Then there's the moment...

The moment when I know exactly what you're about to say.

Or at least I think I do.

My brain practically tackles me.

"Say it! Say it! We know the ending!"

So I interrupt.

Not because I'm rude.

Because my ADHD has all the impulse control of a Labrador who just heard the word "treat."

The really frustrating part?

Sometimes I'm wrong.

You'll be halfway through a sentence and I'll enthusiastically finish it.

Except...

I finish it with the wrong ending.

Now we've both forgotten what you were actually trying to say.

Congratulations.

We've created conversational chaos.

Here's another fun feature.

While you're talking...

I'm trying so hard to listen that I become deeply invested in maintaining eye contact.

Too invested.

Now I'm wondering...

"Am I making too much eye contact?"

Should I blink?

People blink, right?

I've been staring at this poor person for what feels like an eternity.

Blink.

Too much blinking?

Oh no...

I missed the last sentence.

People think listening is passive.

For my brain...

It's an Olympic sport.

I'm listening to you. And…

Filtering out the air conditioner.

Ignoring the dog licking himself across the room.

Trying not to notice that one picture frame is slightly crooked.

Wondering whether I turned the coffee maker off.

Feeling my sock bunching up inside my shoe.

And somehow...

Still trying to remember your cousin's name.

It's Karen.

No.

Lauren.

Wait...

Something with an "-en."

And then...

You say something that reminds me of something.

Now I have a choice.

If I don't say it immediately...

It will disappear forever.

Gone.

Evaporated.

Lost somewhere between the paper towels and the emotionally offended fish.

So I interrupt.

Not because your story isn't important.

Because my thought has the lifespan of a soap bubble.

The older I've gotten, the more I've realized that conversations aren't difficult because I don't care.

They're difficult because...

I care enough to want to stay with you.

My brain just keeps trying to drag me onto side quests.

It's like trying to watch a movie while someone changes the channel every twelve seconds.

I've learned a few tricks.

If you're telling me something important...

I put my phone down.

I turn off the TV.

I look at you.

If I think of something I want to say...

I literally hold onto it in my head like it's a slippery fish trying to escape.

Sometimes it works.

Sometimes the fish wins.

So if you've ever been talking to me and I've accidentally interrupted...

Or finished your sentence.

Or asked you to repeat something because my brain briefly wandered off to wonder whether penguins have knees...

Please know...

It was never because I didn't want to hear you.

Quite the opposite.

My brain simply has the attention span of a squirrel...

Driving a school bus...

Full of squirrels.

Now...

What were we talking about?

Oh, right.

Listening.

Sorry.

I got distracted.

By my own article.

There’s Nothing I Can’t Explain in Seven Thousand Words or Less

I have never had a short answer in my life.

People ask me simple questions.

I give them documentaries.

Someone says,

"How was your day?"

Friend...

Do you have a snack?

Because this is going to require context.

I'm a writer.

So, in fairness...

Words are kind of my thing.

I love them.

I collect them.

I arrange them.

I dramatically overuse them.

If there were an Olympic event for "Explaining Something That Could Have Been Said in One Sentence," I would bring home the gold.

And then give an acceptance speech.

Here's what happens inside my brain.

Someone asks a question.

Instead of simply answering it...

My brain immediately begins building a PowerPoint presentation.

With supporting evidence.

A timeline.

Several side stories.

At least one disclaimer.

And a conclusion that somehow circles back to where we started forty-five minutes ago.

Take this completely hypothetical conversation.

"Hey Tracy, what time is it?"

Well...

It's funny you should ask because my watch stopped working last Tuesday, which reminds me that I really need a new battery, but then I remembered batteries are in aisle fourteen at Walmart and every time I go to Walmart I somehow spend eighty-three dollars even though I only needed toothpaste, which, by the way, why is toothpaste suddenly so expensive?

...

Oh.

It's 3:15.

My husband has perfected something I call...

The Look.

It's the expression he gets somewhere around Minute Six.

He's still smiling.

Technically.

But his eyes have quietly left the conversation.

He's physically present.

Mentally...

He's wondering whether we remembered to lock the garage.

The really funny part?

Everything I'm saying makes perfect sense.

To me.

Every tangent is connected.

Every detour has purpose.

Every rabbit trail eventually rejoins the main road.

Eventually.

Usually.

Sometimes.

Okay...occasionally.

Imagine my brain as one of those conspiracy boards from detective movies.

Pictures.

String.

Pushpins.

Everything is connected.

So when I tell a story, I naturally assume everyone else can see the string.

Apparently...

They cannot.

I also suffer from what I like to call...

The Important Background Information Disorder.

I cannot simply tell you I went to Target.

No.

You need to know why I went.

What I intended to buy.

What I actually bought.

How crowded it was.

That the cashier reminded me of my third-grade teacher.

The weather.

The parking situation.

The emotional journey.

Only then...

Can I tell you I bought paper towels.

Context matters.

People often interrupt me with,

"You can skip ahead."

Can I?

Can I really?

Because if I skip the part about the squirrel in the parking lot...

How are you supposed to fully appreciate why I forgot to buy the paper towels?

Honestly.

Think these things through.

The worst part is...

I'm aware I'm doing it.

Halfway through a story I'll suddenly think,

"Wow...I'm talking a lot."

So naturally...

I explain why I'm talking so much.

Which somehow makes the story even longer.

It's a gift.

Then there's texting.

Someone asks me a question.

I send...

One paragraph.

Then another.

Then another.

Then I realize I've accidentally written something that could qualify as a short novella.

The little typing bubbles become a public service announcement.

"She's still going."

Voice notes are even worse.

Mine always start with,

"This will just take a second."

Narrator:

It did not take a second.

Eight minutes later I'm apologizing for the length of the voice note...

Inside the voice note.

People sometimes apologize for talking too much.

I've stopped apologizing.

Mostly because I'd have to explain why I was apologizing.

And honestly...

None of us has that kind of time.

The funny thing is...

The older I've gotten, the more I've realized that all those extra words aren't really about loving the sound of my own voice.

They're about wanting to be understood.

I don't just want you to know what happened.

I want you to understand how it felt.

Why it mattered.

What I was thinking.

The connections my brain made.

The reason the story made me laugh.

Or cry.

Or both.

I'm not trying to make the conversation longer.

I'm trying to bring you into my world.

Besides...

If you've made it all the way to the end of this article...

I have some news.

You're probably my kind of person.

Because anyone who willingly read 1,800 words about why I use too many words...

Clearly enjoys people who use too many words.

And for that...

I could never thank you enough.

Although...

Given my personality...

I could certainly try.

But it would probably take another seven thousand words.

Text Messages Go to My Phone to Die

I am the Queen of Unanswered Text Messages.

All hail...me.

Just...

Please don't text me about it.

Because I won't answer that text either.

It will simply join the thousands of others in what has become...

The Cemetery of Good Intentions.

I genuinely mean to answer every single message.

Really.

I do.

In fact...

I usually answer immediately.

In my head.

Then my brain proudly checks the task off as complete.

Conversation over.

Excellent work, everyone.

Except...

Nothing was ever actually sent.

This has happened so many times that I honestly don't trust my own memories anymore.

Someone will say,

"Did you get my text?"

And I'll confidently reply,

"Yep! I answered you."

Then I open my phone.

Read.

No reply.

Apparently I responded using telepathy.

The worst part?

I care.

Probably too much.

If I didn't like you...

I'd answer immediately.

Wait.

That came out wrong.

What I mean is...

The people I love most often get the longest delays.

Because I don't want to send a rushed response.

I want to really think about it.

Write something thoughtful.

Maybe ask how they're doing.

Maybe use the perfect emoji.

Maybe tell a funny story.

Then...

Life happens.

The dog needs out.

The phone rings.

I remember I left the laundry in the washer.

I walk into the kitchen.

Forget why I went into the kitchen.

Start making coffee.

Organize a junk drawer.

Research whether octopuses dream.

And somewhere in all of that...

Your text quietly slips into another dimension.

Sometimes my phone becomes so full of unread messages that opening it feels emotionally dangerous.

It's like walking into a room where everyone is disappointed in you.

Thirty-seven unread texts.

Six missed calls.

Four voicemails.

A partridge in a pear tree.

I don't even know where to begin.

So naturally...

I begin nowhere.

My favorite feature is when my phone politely reminds me.

"You haven't replied."

Thank you, tiny electronic guilt machine.

I was trying to ignore that.

Then there's the panic.

You finally remember.

Three days later.

Or three weeks later.

Sometimes three months later if we're being completely honest.

Now it's awkward.

Can I still answer?

Do I pretend it never happened?

Do I apologize?

Do I fake my own disappearance and move to another state?

These are the options my brain presents.

I've become an expert at writing apology texts.

"I'm so sorry! I thought I answered!"

Which, inconveniently...

...is true.

And can we please talk about group texts?

Who invented those?

I read every message.

I laugh.

I mentally contribute.

I think,

"I'll answer after I finish this one thing."

The next time I look...

There are 127 new messages.

The conversation has somehow moved from birthday plans to someone's cousin buying goats.

I have missed my window.

There is no catching up now.

Godspeed, everyone.

The really funny part?

If you text me,

"Can you send me that thing?"

It might take me four days.

But if you text,

"Emergency."

I'll answer before you've even finished typing.

That's because my problem has never been that I don't care.

It's that my brain has an unfortunate habit of confusing

"I need to respond..."

with

"I have already responded."

These days I've gotten better.

Not perfect.

But better.

Sometimes I answer immediately.

Sometimes I mark messages unread so Future Tracy sees them again.

Sometimes I set reminders.

Sometimes I still completely forget.

Progress, not perfection.

So if you're one of the wonderful people who has ever waited far too long for a reply from me...

Please know this.

It was never because you weren't important.

Quite the opposite.

You mattered enough that I wanted to give you a real response.

Unfortunately...

My ADHD filed that response under

"Already Handled."

It was not, in fact...

Already handled.

If you've texted me recently...

And you're suddenly wondering...

"Wait...is she talking about me?"

...

Maybe.

Go ahead and send it again.

There's a decent chance your original message is currently enjoying a peaceful retirement somewhere around message number 4,382.

Right next to the one I absolutely, definitely answered...

In my head.

My Purse: AKA The ADHD Vortex of Death

My purse isn't a purse.

It's a survival kit.

An archaeological dig.

A small nation with its own ecosystem.

I'm honestly not convinced it obeys the laws of physics anymore.

At this point, I'm pretty sure there's a family of raccoons living in there paying rent.

Nobody in my family trusts my purse.

My husband won't reach into it.

He's seen things.

My daughter refuses to go digging around in there...

...unless she's looking for my credit card.

Funny how courage suddenly appears when Starbucks is involved.

As for me?

I avoid looking inside whenever possible.

Mostly because I'm afraid of what I'll find.

Or what might find me.

People with organized purses amaze me.

You know the ones.

One zipper.

Wallet.

Phone.

Keys.

Done.

Meanwhile, opening my purse is like opening one of those storage units people bid on.

Nobody knows what's inside.

Least of all me.

Let's see what today's excavation reveals.

A receipt from two months ago.

Why?

I don't know.

What did I buy?

Couldn't tell you.

Will I throw it away?

Absolutely not.

What if I need proof that I purchased printer paper on a random Tuesday in April?

You don't know my life.

A hairbrush.

Hand sanitizer.

Mints.

Asthma inhaler.

Lip balm.

Lip gloss.

Another lip balm.

A lip balm I thought I'd lost.

Backup hair ties.

Backup backup hair ties.

A hair tie that has somehow fused itself to three pens and a cough drop.

Science can't explain it.

My wallet deserves its own chapter.

Inside are approximately seven store loyalty cards for places I haven't visited since 2019.

A gift card with somewhere between 14 cents and $83 on it.

I refuse to check.

It's more exciting this way.

A driver's license photo that looks like I was being held hostage.

And enough business cards to network with the entire Eastern Seaboard.

Am I attending networking events?

No.

But if one suddenly breaks out in the cereal aisle...

I'm ready.

Then we have...

The Mystery Pocket.

Every purse has one.

You unzip it expecting a couple of coins.

Instead...

Three bobby pins.

A safety pin.

A cough drop with no wrapper.

Two earrings.

Neither of which belong to the same pair.

A tiny screw.

Where did it come from?

Should I be concerned?

Has something in my house slowly been falling apart for six months?

We'll never know.

There are also...

Pens.

So many pens.

Some work.

Some don't.

One has exploded.

One belongs to a bank I've never used.

One is mysteriously sticky.

I don't ask questions anymore.

Then there are the wrappers.

I have no explanation for the wrappers.

Apparently I consume snacks by removing the wrapper...

...placing the wrapper back into my purse...

...and convincing myself this is somehow a temporary arrangement.

Narrator:

It was not temporary.

Here's my favorite discovery.

Pads.

Several of them.

Which would be incredibly thoughtful...

If I weren't in menopause.

I haven't actually needed them in years.

Yet there they sit.

Faithfully waiting.

Optimistic little overachievers.

I don't have the heart to remove them.

They've been through so much together.

The most fascinating thing about my purse is this:

The less I need something...

The morelikely I am to find it.

Need a random receipt from 2023?

Boom.

Need a punch card for a frozen yogurt shop that closed during the pandemic?

Got it.

Need three different shades of lip gloss?

Take your pick.

Need my keys?

...

Hold, please.

I once spent ten minutes digging through my purse looking for my phone.

You know where it was?

My hand.

I WAS HOLDING IT.

In fairness...

The purse and I were both embarrassed.

I've often wondered what would happen if someone else cleaned it out.

I imagine there would be questions.

"Why do you have twelve pens?"

"Excellent question."

"Why is there a tape measure?"

"I wish I knew."

"Why is there a dog treat?"

"...I don't even have the dog with me."

Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved.

Honestly...

If I were ever stranded on a deserted island and could only bring one thing...

Forget a survival knife.

Forget matches.

Forget a satellite phone.

I'm bringing my purse.

Because I'm reasonably confident it already contains:

Water purification tablets.

A granola bar from 2022.

Dental floss.

Bandages.

A tiny flashlight.

Three dollars in loose change.

An expired coupon.

And somehow...

A single Lego.

I don't have any idea where the Lego came from.

But I trust that, when the time comes...

It'll reveal its purpose.

Eventually.

Probably.

Maybe.

I'll just have to find it first.

I Have a Drinking Problem ☕

Before we go any further...

No.

Not that kind of drinking problem.

Although if my husband walks into the living room and counts the number of beverages surrounding me, I can understand why he might have questions.

My problem isn't alcohol.

It's...

...drinks.

All of them.

Every single one.

Apparently my brain has decided that hydration isn't a goal.

It's a lifestyle.

At any given moment, I am surrounded by beverages.

Not one.

Not two.

A small beverage convention.

Let's take a look at today's lineup:

Fresh hot coffee.

Yesterday's hot coffee.

Which is now...

Today's iced coffee.

A bottle of water.

An emotional support water.

(Yes, those are different.)

A peach tea.

A healthy soda.

A cola-flavored sparkling water.

I like options.

Apparently.

Here's the thing.

Every drink serves a purpose.

The coffee helps me wake up.

The water helps me feel responsible.

The sparkling water makes me feel like I'm making healthier choices.

The peach tea reminds me of summer.

The healthy soda lets me pretend I'm basically a wellness influencer.

Am I drinking all of them?

Absolutely not.

But I could.

And somehow that's comforting.

The funniest part is...

I don't finish any of them.

Instead, they slowly migrate around the house.

There's a cup on my desk.

One on the kitchen counter.

Another beside my bed.

One in the car.

One that somehow ended up in the laundry room.

At some point, I stop knowing which drinks belong to today...

...and which have become archaeological discoveries.

My husband has developed a fascinating little hobby.

He walks through the house collecting cups.

Not because he's cleaning.

Because he's conducting an inventory.

"Did you know you have six drinks going?"

No.

No, I did not.

The car isn't much better.

Every cup holder is occupied.

Water bottle.

Sparkling water.

Coffee.

Receipt.

Wait...

Not a drink.

Although at this point I wouldn't be surprised if there was somehow a smoothie under the passenger seat from 2024.

I've started wondering if beverages are actually my version of emotional support animals.

Some people carry a security blanket.

I carry hydration.

Leaving the house with only one drink feels...

reckless.

What if I get thirsty?

What if I want caffeine?

What if I suddenly crave peach tea?

What if I become the first documented case of someone desperately needing sparkling water at a stoplight?

You don't know.

It could happen.

Then there's the tragic moment when I finally decide to take a sip...

...and it's the wrong cup.

Nothing prepares you for expecting hot coffee and discovering it's yesterday's room-temperature disappointment.

That's a betrayal you don't recover from quickly.

I've learned there's actually a reason many of us with ADHD collect beverages.

Novelty.

Choices.

Tiny dopamine hits.

Every drink represents a slightly different experience.

Hot.

Cold.

Sweet.

Bubbly.

Comforting.

Refreshing.

Our brains love variety.

So instead of committing to one drink...

We build a tasting menu.

I've stopped fighting it quite so much.

Do I really need four beverages within arm's reach?

Probably not.

Do I still have them?

Absolutely.

I've just added one tiny rule.

Before opening a new drink...

I have to look around and see if Past Tracy has already opened one.

Past Tracy is incredibly optimistic.

She genuinely believes she's going to finish every drink she starts.

She is...

consistently incorrect.

So yes...

I have a drinking problem.

Just not the one people usually mean.

If you come over to my house and can't find a beverage...

Give me five minutes.

I'll accidentally make another one.

Because apparently my brain is convinced that the secret to surviving adulthood is staying simultaneously caffeinated, hydrated, carbonated, and emotionally supported.

And honestly?

Who's to say it isn't?

The Glittery Dress Saga

I have a branding photoshoot coming up.

This isn't just any photoshoot.

It's for my business.

Speaking.

Writing.

Creating.

The kind of pictures that say,

"Look! I know what I'm doing!"

Whether or not I actually know what I'm doing is beside the point.

I needed outfits.

And that's where everything fell apart.

I've spent most of my life wanting to be...

That Girl.

You know her.

She always looks effortlessly put together.

She somehow knows how to curl her hair without looking like she lost a fight with a curling iron.

She owns perfume that costs more than my first car payment.

She walks confidently in heels.

She can wear white without immediately finding ketchup.

She has "signature jewelry."

Meanwhile...

My signature accessory is chapstick.

I have always wanted to be more...

Girly.

The kind of woman who instinctively knows what blush does.

I still don't.

I OWN blush.

I just don't entirely trust it.

My makeup routine has changed very little since approximately 1993.

Black eyeliner.

Lip gloss.

Hope for the best.

Fashion?

Let's discuss.

I'd love to be one of those women who always looks elegant.

Instead...

My closet mostly says,

"Prepared to assemble furniture at a moment's notice."

Jeans.

T-shirts.

Hoodies.

Sneakers.

Comfort has been winning this argument for decades.

Then there are high heels.

In theory...

I love them.

In reality...

I walk like a baby giraffe that's just been introduced to gravity.

There is nothing graceful happening.

If confidence made noise...

Mine would sound like,

"Whoa...whoa...whoa..."

all the way across the room.

So naturally...

When it came time to choose a dress for my photoshoot...

I ignored every single thing I've ever known about myself.

Because that's what we do.

I found...

The Dress.

It was sparkly.

It was dramatic.

It practically glowed from my computer screen.

I swear it whispered,

"Tracy...look at meeeee.

I'm magical.

I'm glamorous.

I'm the woman you've always wanted to be."

Well.

Who am I to argue with a dress?

I clicked "Buy Now."

Obviously.

Now let's pause here.

Because this is important.

I wasn't buying fabric.

I was buying a fantasy.

I wasn't thinking,

"This is a pretty dress."

I was thinking,

"This dress is finally going to unlock Fabulous Tracy."

You know...

The version of me who somehow knows which fork to use at fancy restaurants.

The woman who floats into rooms instead of accidentally tripping over the welcome mat.

The glamorous author who looks equally comfortable on stage and at brunch.

Apparently...

Amazon sells identities now. Who knew?

The package arrived.

I ripped it open with the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning.

I held it up.

It shimmered.

It sparkled.

It was everything I'd hoped.

Then...

I put it on.

...

No.

Just...

No.

It wasn't the dress.

The dress was beautiful.

It just wasn't...

Me.

Somehow I'd managed to dress myself like I was attending the Oscars when, in reality, I'd be happiest laughing in Converse.

I stood in front of the mirror and realized something.

I wasn't disappointed because the dress was ugly.

I was disappointed because I was still trying to become someone else.

So I returned it.

Instead...

I found this dress.

Purple.

Soft.

Flowy.

Pretty without trying too hard.

Comfortable enough that I could actually breathe.

The kind of dress that doesn't scream,

"LOOK AT ME!"

It quietly says,

"This feels like home."

Funny enough...

The second I put it on...

I smiled.

Not because I looked like someone else.

Because I looked like...

Me.

I think a lot of us carry around this imaginary woman.

The perfectly organized woman.

The effortlessly fashionable woman.

The woman who meal preps.

Who never forgets birthdays.

Who drinks enough water.

Who doesn't have seventeen tabs open in her browser and six more open in her brain.

We spend years trying to become her.

Buying what she'd buy.

Wearing what she'd wear.

Wondering what she would do.

And somewhere along the way...

We forget to appreciate the woman we've already become.

The truth is...

I'm probably never going to be "That Girl."

I'll probably always choose comfort over couture.

I'll probably always own more hoodies than handbags.

I'll probably always feel more like myself in jeans than stilettos.

And honestly?

I'm okay with that.

Because I've realized something.

Strength has never come from sequins.

Confidence doesn't come from heels.

Purpose isn't stitched into a dress.

The woman wearing the dress is what matters.

So when you see those branding photos...

Don't see someone who finally became glamorous.

See a woman who stopped trying to audition for someone else's role.

A woman who learned that authenticity photographs far better than perfection ever could.

Turns out...

I didn't need a glitter dress to become the woman I wanted to be.

I just needed to stop overlooking the woman I'd already become.

And honestly...

I think she looks pretty amazing in purple.

Technology and I Are in a Toxic Relationship

I don't think technology likes me.

I know.

People say, "Technology doesn't have feelings."

Those people have clearly never tried to upload a video five minutes before bedtime.

Technology absolutely has feelings.

And most of them are directed at me.

It starts the same way every single time.

I wake up full of optimism.

"Today's the day. Today we're going to be productive."

I open my laptop.

Technology looks me dead in the eyes and says...

"Oh...you needed this button? We moved it."

Excuse me?

Who approved this?

Every app in existence seems to hold weekly meetings where they ask one very important question.

"How can we make sure Tracy has absolutely no idea what's going on tomorrow?"

Mission accomplished.

Yesterday, the button was on the left.

Today it's under three mysterious dots.

Tomorrow it'll require a blood sample and a retina scan.

The worst offender is video editing.

I have a simple dream.

I would like to trim the beginning.

Maybe add captions.

Perhaps some music.

That's it.

Nothing fancy.

Instead...

Three hours later...

I've accidentally created a transition that makes me look like I'm teleporting through another dimension.

My audio is somehow speaking before my mouth moves.

The captions have decided my name is "Traffic."

And the background music is playing at the emotional intensity of someone announcing the apocalypse.

Let's not even discuss passwords.

Technology tells us every password should be unique.

Great.

Wonderful.

Fantastic.

So now I have 437 different passwords.

None of which I remember.

Every login goes something like this:

Wrong password.

Wrong password.

Wrong password.

Reset password.

"The new password cannot be the same as your previous password."

It isn't!

It's the same password with an exclamation point because I have run completely out of creativity.

And then...

The verification codes.

Technology:

"We've sent a six-digit code."

Excellent.

Where?

Email?

Text?

An authenticator app I downloaded in 2023 and immediately forgot existed?

By the time I find the code...

It has expired.

Apparently verification codes have the lifespan of fruit flies.

People love to say,

"There's an app for that."

Friend...

The app is the problem.

Every app wants me to download another app.

Then connect it to a different app.

Which syncs with another app.

Which requires permissions from an app whose sole purpose seems to be asking permission to use other apps.

I don't need another app.

I need an adult.

Now let's talk about software updates.

You know...

Those cheerful little messages that say,

"We've made improvements!"

Lies.

What they mean is:

"We've hidden everything you've spent the last six months learning."

The button you use every day?

Gone.

The menu?

Renamed.

Half the icons?

Completely different.

But don't worry.

They've also added seventeen features you'll never use.

Here's my favorite part.

Every company advertises their software exactly the same way.

"So intuitive!"

"Easy to use!"

"User-friendly!"

If that's true...

Then why am I watching a fourteen-year-old on YouTube explain it to me?

Nothing humbles a fifty-year-old woman faster than hearing,

"Okay guys, this is super easy..."

No, Trevor.

It isn't.

You were born knowing how to do this.

I still remember when phones were attached to walls.

I've noticed something else.

Technology has an uncanny sense of timing.

Everything works beautifully...

Until someone is watching.

The webinar starts in two minutes?

Internet gone.

Speaking engagement?

Microphone won't connect.

Podcast interview?

Camera suddenly believes it has never met your computer before.

Need to screen-share?

Congratulations.

Every file you've ever created has vanished.

The moment the meeting ends?

Everything works perfectly again.

Technology is a comedian.

I'm just the punchline.

People assume I hate technology.

I don't.

I love what technology allows me to do.

I can write books from my recliner.

Talk to women around the world.

Record podcasts.

Create courses.

Reach people I'd never meet otherwise.

That's incredible.

What I hate...

Is that technology keeps promising simplicity while somehow requiring seventeen tutorials, three updates, two subscriptions, and one emotional support beverage.

So yes...

Every once in a while you'll hear me mutter something under my breath at my laptop.

Or threaten to throw my phone into the nearest body of water.

Or declare that I'm moving to a cabin in the woods where the only thing buffering is gravy.

I don't mean it.

Mostly.

Because as much as technology and I fight...

We'll both be back here tomorrow.

Me trying to figure out where they moved the button this time.

Technology pretending it has absolutely no idea what I'm talking about.

It's a toxic relationship.

But apparently...

We're committed.

I Accidentally Bought a Whole New Personality…

I'd like to begin by saying that I am a financially responsible adult.

...

I'm sorry.

I couldn't even finish that sentence without laughing.

Listen.

We pay our bills.

We contribute to retirement.

I don't gamble.

I don't own a yacht.

But apparently I have one tiny financial weakness.

I firmly believe that the next Amazon package is going to fix my entire life.

Not improve it.

Not make it slightly easier.

No.

Completely transform me into the kind of woman who has color-coded spice racks and remembers to return library books before the final notice.

Every purchase starts with the same lie.

"This is the thing."

The planner.

The storage bins.

The fancy pens.

The label maker.

The meal prep containers.

The crochet kit.

The watercolor set.

The book about minimalism.

(Yes, I realize the irony of buying a book to help me own less stuff.)

Every single one whispers the same sweet promise.

"You'll be different after this."

The problem is...

I don't actually shop for things.

I shop for imaginary future Tracy.

Future Tracy is incredible.

Future Tracy meal preps.

Future Tracy exercises.

Future Tracy journals every morning while sipping lemon water.

Future Tracy definitely remembers birthdays.

Future Tracy has a capsule wardrobe.

Future Tracy somehow folds fitted sheets.

Current Tracy?

Current Tracy has seventeen reusable grocery bags stuffed inside one another like Russian nesting dolls.

The excitement starts the second I hit "Place Order."

Instant dopamine.

Then...

Shipping confirmation.

More dopamine.

Out for delivery?

Even MORE dopamine.

Suddenly I'm checking the front porch every seventeen minutes like I'm waiting for royalty to arrive.

The package gets here.

I tear into it like a caffeinated raccoon.

For approximately fourteen glorious minutes...

I have become the woman I imagined.

Then reality arrives.

Turns out...

Buying resistance bands does not automatically make me athletic.

Purchasing watercolor paints does not magically make me remember I enjoy watercolor.

Owning a bread maker does not mean I suddenly want to make bread every Tuesday.

Who knew?

My spare bedroom has become less of a room...

...and more of a museum.

A museum dedicated to every version of myself I was absolutely certain I was about to become.

Exhibit A:

The Professional Organizer Era.

Exhibit B:

The Crocheter.

Exhibit C:

The Candle-Making Phase.

Exhibit D:

The Woman Who Was Definitely Going To Use Resistance Bands.

Exhibit E:

The Person Who Thought Acrylic Pour Painting Looked Relaxing.

The gift shop is currently closed.

Mostly because I can't find the cash box.

Here's the thing no one tells you.

Shopping doesn't just sell products.

It sells hope.

Hope that this planner will finally make you consistent.

Hope that these containers will finally make your kitchen Pinterest-worthy.

Hope that this new hobby will become the one that sticks.

Hope that this gadget will make life easier.

For a brain that's constantly chasing dopamine...

Hope is a pretty convincing salesperson.

And let's talk about emotional shopping.

Because apparently my brain has determined that every emotion deserves a purchase.

Sad?

Treat yourself.

Happy?

Celebrate yourself.

Stressed?

You deserve it.

Bored?

Browse Amazon.

Anxious?

Maybe candles.

Overwhelmed?

Obviously what you need is a new storage system.

Lonely?

Have you considered decorative baskets?

There isn't an emotion alive that my brain hasn't tried to solve with free two-day shipping.

I used to beat myself up about it.

I'd look around at all the unopened boxes, abandoned hobbies, duplicate kitchen gadgets, and enough notebooks to supply a small university.

I'd think...

"What is wrong with me?"

Now I ask a different question.

"What was I hoping this purchase would do for me?"

Because usually it wasn't about the item.

It was about relief.

Hope.

Comfort.

A fresh start.

A tiny hit of excitement on an otherwise exhausting day.

The shopping wasn't the problem.

It was the solution my tired brain had learned to reach for.

That doesn't mean I let Amazon become my therapist.

I've learned to slow myself down.

Sometimes.

Not always.

But more often than I used to.

Now, when I find myself hovering over the "Buy Now" button, I ask myself:

"Do I need this...

...or do I need a nap?"

Shockingly, the answer is often the nap.

Or a walk.

Or calling a friend.

Or eating lunch because, once again, I've somehow made it to three o'clock fueled entirely by coffee and determination.

Don't get me wrong.

I still buy things.

Probably more than I should.

I'm not writing this from atop a minimalist mountain wearing linen and judging everyone else.

I'm writing this while sitting suspiciously close to a package I genuinely don't remember ordering.

Maybe it's socks.

Maybe it's dog toys.

Maybe it's another planner.

We'll find out together.

But I've stopped believing that every package contains a brand-new version of me.

Because the truth is...

I was never one purchase away from becoming enough.

And neither are you.

Although...

If Amazon ever starts selling executive function in bulk...

I'm probably going to need Prime shipping.

The Bermuda Triangle of ADHD

Scientists have spent decades trying to explain the Bermuda Triangle.

Ships disappear.

Airplanes vanish.

People argue over magnetic fields and alien abductions.

Bless their hearts.

They've been looking in the wrong place.

The real Bermuda Triangle is in my living room.

Specifically...around my recliner.

Things enter.

Nothing leaves.

Not because they're lost.

Because my ADHD has declared them permanent residents.

The only time I attempt to tame it is when company is coming over.

And even then...

...it depends entirely on who's coming.

If it's my best friend?

Girl, step over it.

You already know how I live.

If it's someone I don't know well, suddenly I'm throwing things into closets like I'm on a game show called Hide the Evidence.

My best friends know about my tendency to create tiny ecosystems around wherever I sit.

I'd like to think they understand.

Or at the very least...

...they're polite enough not to say, "Tracy, why are there seventeen pens and three different beverages within arm's reach?"

Because the answer is obvious.

What if I need all seventeen pens?

I discovered my personal Bermuda Triangle years ago.

My ex-husband casually mentioned one day that I create a triangle of stuff around myself no matter where I'm sitting.

At first I wanted to be offended.

Then I looked around.

There it was.

Coffee.

Books.

Papers.

Remote.

Shoes.

Random charging cable that may or may not fit anything I currently own.

A single sock.

(I don't know whose sock.)

I don't ask questions anymore.

He wasn't wrong.

From that day on, it sort of became...

...my signature look.

Some women wear statement necklaces.

Some carry designer handbags.

Some accessorize with scarves.

Me?

I accessorize with controlled chaos.

My signature accessory is the Bermuda Triangle of Crap.

As a writer, creator, and business owner, I genuinely believe everything around me serves an important purpose.

On my right side you'll find:

My coffee.

My cola-flavored water.

Morning medications.

A cup overflowing with pens, markers, and highlighters.

Regular glasses.

Reading glasses.

Because apparently my eyeballs like wardrobe changes.

The TV remotes.

A bag of floss picks.

Hand lotion.

Because dry hands are unacceptable, but apparently living in organized conditions is asking too much.

On my left...

The Paper Pile.

Every ADHD household has one.

Don't lie.

It's full of things I absolutely intend to look through.

Someday.

Probably.

Maybe.

Important papers.

Not-so-important papers.

Coupons that expired during the Obama administration.

A receipt I'm convinced I'll need for taxes.

I won't.

But what if?

Next to that sits a growing stack of books.

Books I've read.

Books I'm reading.

Books I bought because buying books and reading books are two completely different hobbies.

Then a tissue box.

Because allergies.

Or tears.

Or both.

Life keeps you guessing.

Slightly to the right sits what I lovingly call...

The Floor of Doom.

This is where abandoned hobbies go to process their feelings.

My crochet basket lives there.

Inside is the beginning of a blanket.

And by "beginning," I mean about fourteen inches of what was absolutely going to become a beautiful heirloom quilt.

Three years ago.

Maybe four.

Who's counting?

Resting on top is my daughter's sweater that needs one tiny repair.

One.

Tiny.

Repair.

I've been mentally repairing it for about eighteen months now.

Nearby you'll also find my slippers.

Flip-flops.

A rogue phone charger.

And usually at least one dog who has accepted that this pile is now part of the furniture.

To the left lives the trash can.

A blanket basket.

And perhaps the greatest decorating decision I've ever made...

Chair Cow.

Chair Cow is a giant stuffed Highland cow that my daughter convinced me to buy.

I honestly have no memory of what I planned to do with him.

Maybe hug him?

Display him?

Become the eccentric cow lady?

Instead...

He's become my laptop stand.

I prop my computer on his fuzzy little belly while I write.

I've written thousands upon thousands of words sitting in that recliner with Chair Cow faithfully supporting my laptop like it's his full-time career.

He's not just a stuffed animal anymore.

He's an unpaid intern.

Now before you think that's the entire triangle...

Oh, sweet friend.

No.

That is merely the starter package.

Depending on what creative obsession currently has me in a chokehold, additional items may appear.

Notebook number six because apparently the first five weren't "the right notebook."

Sticky notes.

Colored Sharpies.

Half-finished website sketches.

Book outlines.

Random Amazon boxes that I'm saving because surely I'll need a box someday.

Three charging cables.

(None of which fit the device currently dying in my hand.)

A candle.

A snack.

Another snack because I forgot I already had one.

A tape measure.

Don't ask.

I don't know either.

The truly fascinating thing about ADHD is that none of this feels messy to me.

It feels...efficient.

Everything I might possibly need is within arm's reach.

I have carefully engineered my own tiny command center.

Could another human walk into my living room and identify the system?

Absolutely not.

Could I?

Also...not really.

But I know the vibes.

Here's what's funny.

People often assume clutter means laziness.

Or carelessness.

Or a lack of discipline.

But for many people with ADHD, it's actually the opposite.

We're trying to reduce friction.

Every object is there because our brain knows one important truth:

If I put it away...

...there's a decent chance I'll never think about it again.

Out of sight doesn't become out of mind.

It becomes deleted from the operating system.

That crochet basket isn't sitting there because I'm irresponsible.

It's sitting there because if I put it in a closet, I won't remember I crochet until approximately 2037.

The medications stay visible because invisible medications don't get taken.

The books stay stacked because hidden books stop existing.

The paperwork stays where I can see it because...

...well...

Okay, that one still isn't getting done.

But at least I know where it is.

The older I've gotten, the less shame I've attached to my Bermuda Triangle.

Sure, I clean it up.

Eventually.

Usually because I've reached the point where I can't find my coffee despite the fact that I'm holding it.

But I've stopped believing it means there's something wrong with me.

My brain simply builds little ecosystems that help me function.

Could they use a little pruning now and then?

Absolutely.

Should Chair Cow maybe negotiate for better working conditions?

Probably.

But I've learned something important.

My home doesn't have to look like a magazine to support the life I'm building.

It just has to work for the wonderfully weird brain living inside it.

Although...

If I ask if anyone has seen my reading glasses...

Tell me to check the Bermuda Triangle.

That's where everything ends up eventually.

Well, That Explains a lot…

Ever read something and think, "Wait...you do that too?"

Welcome.

You're among friends.

This is where I share the funny, frustrating, wonderfully ridiculous moments of living with ADHD, anxiety, executive dysfunction, and a brain that seems determined to keep life interesting.

From the Bermuda Triangle surrounding my recliner to unfinished crochet projects, emotional support beverages, Chair Cow, and the mysterious disappearance of everything I set down five seconds ago—it's all fair game.

These stories aren't here to make fun of ADHD.

They're here to make fun with it.

Because sometimes the fastest way to replace shame with understanding is through laughter.

If you've ever walked into a room and immediately forgotten why, bought a planner that was definitely going to change your life, or wondered whether everyone else's brain came with an instruction manual you somehow missed...

...well, that explains a lot.

Pull up a chair. (Just make sure it's not The Chair.)