Thinking in Overdrive: Fast Thoughts, Hyperfocus & the Neurodivergent Brain

nov 20, 2025

I think roughly seven times faster than I speak. Words spill out, branching like an oil spill at 100 km/h. Connections form instantly, possibilities and blind spots mapped in a complex web. My mind works in layers—each processing a different type of information, overlapping, expanding, and sometimes colliding.

My Layers of Thought

  1. Current Task Layer: Cooking, typing, speaking, eating.

     

  2. Analytical Layer: Web of all information, making sense of patterns.

     

  3. Environmental Layer: Processing everything around me.

     

  4. Sensory Layer: Images, sounds, feelings—visualized in 5k.

     

  5. Emotional Layer: Deciphering emotions—mine or yours.

     

  6. Self-Reflection Layer: Inner monologue with critic, cheerleader, and relativator.

  7. Earworm Layer: Songs stuck on repeat for days.

When hyperfocus hits, all layers condense into one: laser-sharp attention on a single subject. The world disappears, and I become pure conceptual energy. I learn, absorb, and create at Mach-like speeds. I forget food, water, and even the bathroom. Interrupt me, and my irritation is immediate. But when a project is complete, I land back on Earth with the satisfaction of ultimate productivity.

The Upside of Speed

This rapid mental processing allows for extraordinary creativity and problem-solving. I can see associations others miss and absorb vast amounts of information quickly. Visual and auditory thinking help me design, plan, and invent in ways that feel almost like superpowers.

The Downside: Burnout

Life as an adult often strips away the ability to indulge these layers. Obligations replace curiosity. Over time, the inability to hyperfocus on things that matter to me contributed to my autistic burnout. Energy depletes, joy fades, and survival mode kicks in.

Recovery & Balance

The capacity for fast thinking and hyperfocus is a strength—but like a high-performance engine, it burns fuel quickly. Rest, recovery, and permission to engage in flow states are essential. For neurodivergent individuals, honoring hyperfocus isn’t optional—it’s a basic need. It sustains creativity, curiosity, and even mental health.

Hyperfocus is more than obsession; it’s a fundamental mode of being. Respect it, protect it, and structure life so it can thrive.

Your brain’s speed is not a flaw—it’s a gift, and giving it room to operate fully is essential to living fully.

Public Transport & my Neurodivergence: A One-Way Ticket to Overload

nov 20, 2025

Public Transport: More Than a Ride

For most people, public transport is simple: you buy a ticket, hop on, and get from A to B. But for me, and many other neurodivergent people, it’s the absolute definition of hell. The smells, the noise, the crowds pressing into your personal space, the weather, the delays, the unpredictability — it’s not a ride, it’s an obstacle course. And one that leaves me completely drained.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve walked away from a bus or train ride shaking, overstimulated, and bleeding from biting my lips and fingers just to cope.

The Whiplash of Switching States

Taking public transport feels like mental whiplash. I’m switching between modes constantly: hyper-alert for delays, scanning for empty seats, bracing for smells and noise, watching out for aggressive passengers, trying not to get lost in the sensory overload. It’s not just getting somewhere — it’s surviving the ride, and just keeping a smile to mask it all away from my surroundings.

The Stories That Stick

I have stories burned into my memory:

  • Age 14: Packed into a bus, crushed between bomber jackets, boiling hot inside while freezing outside. Suddenly, a girl fainted and collapsed on the floor. As others rushed to help, I crouched down, trying to calm my racing heart and breath. By the time I arrived at school, my fingers were bleeding, and I was already done for the day.

  • Age 16: Laughing with a friend on the bus. Suddenly, a stranger turned to me, furious: “You’re laughing at me because of my colored lenses!” Before I could react, she slapped me in the face. (I wasn’t talking about her, I didn’t even notice her before. I told the driver, who shrugged and said, “Not my problem.” My dad literally chased down the bus to confront the girls. That moment of protection meant everything to me.

  • Age 22: Commuting from Almere to Amsterdam with my foldable bike. I locked it to a pole in the train, not realizing it wasn’t allowed. The conductor stormed in, screaming, threatening to throw me off. Even after I unlocked it, he kept raging until passengers stepped in to defend me. I was shaking for hours.

And these are just a handful of stories. I have at least dozens more.

The People Factor

It doesn’t help that much of the staff are underpaid, overworked, and regularly abused by passengers. I’ve seen them spat on, yelled at, and physically threatened. They’re stressed, and sometimes, they break. And when they break, I’ve been their safe target more than once. I’ve been screamed at by staff for absolutely nothing, at least six times.

But there have also been moments of kindness. Like the bus driver who saw me panicking at 13 when I couldn’t find my card and just waved me in. Or the Amsterdam tram conductor who rhymed every stop announcement, making the whole tram laugh. Small things that felt huge in the middle of chaos.

The Neurodivergent Cost

For me, public transport isn’t just inconvenient. It’s exhausting. It’s overstimulating. It’s anxiety-inducing. Every trip eats up energy I don’t have to spare. By the time I arrive, I’m not just physically there, I’m mentally wiped.

And here’s the kicker: it’s expensive. In the Netherlands, you pay ridiculous prices for the privilege of being stuck in a crowded, sweaty, noisy sensory hellscape. At least in other countries, the misery is cheaper.

For many autistic, ADHD, or otherwise neurodivergent people, this isn’t just whining. It’s reality. It’s why so many of us avoid it when we can, or why we need extra recovery time when we can’t.

It’s not just a ride. It’s survival.

Processing the World Through Art: How Neurodivergent Minds Find Order in Chaos

nov 19, 2025

Processing the World Through Art: How Neurodivergent Minds Find Order in Chaos

Living with Autism and ADHD means living with a brain that doesn’t filter the world the way most do. Every sound, every flicker of light, every shifting facial expression—nothing slips past unnoticed. Add to that an endless web of associations firing at lightning speed, and daily life becomes an experience of relentless intensity.

From the outside, it may look like I am “just sitting there,” but inside, my brain is working at the speed of a supercomputer. It processes everything, all the time, in layers.

Thinking in layers

My thoughts are not linear. They exist in stacked dimensions:

  • Task Layer: What I’m actively doing—speaking, typing, cooking.
  • Analytical Layer: Making sense of patterns, weaving information into a web.

  • Environmental Layer: Processing every sound, smell, and visual cue around me.

  • Sensory Layer: Vivid 5K images, sounds, and feelings.

  • Emotional Layer: Tracking my emotions, and yours.

  • Self-Reflection Layer: An inner dialogue between critic, cheerleader, and philosopher.

  • Earworm Layer: A song looping for days.

Most people operate with one or two of these layers at once. I live with all of them active—constantly. It is beautiful, but it is also exhausting.

When hyperfocus hits

Then there are moments of hyperfocus, when all the layers condense into one. Suddenly the chaos becomes order. My attention sharpens into a laser beam, and I disappear into learning, absorbing, creating. Hours vanish. I forget food, water, even the bathroom. Interrupt me and you’ll feel my irritation. But when I resurface, it feels like touching ground after flying at supersonic speed.

This is the paradox: my brain can either be everywhere at once or nowhere but here.

The cost of overstimulation

This layered, high-speed processing comes with a cost: energy depletion. Even joyful events—birthdays, concerts, family outings—can leave me with what feels like a hangover. Not because the event was bad, but because my brain has burned through every reserve.

When the energy bank is empty, even simple actions like getting up for a glass of water feel impossible. This is not laziness. It’s neurological bankruptcy. And when I push through, I borrow energy from tomorrow, leading to days of collapse.

Why art is survival

In the midst of all this, art is not optional. It is how I process, organize, and release the overwhelming flood of stimuli.

When I paint, photograph, or work in mixed media, I am taking the chaotic web of sensory data and giving it form. Through art I find:

  • Structure: Patterns and logic in the noise.
  • Reason: A way to make sense of relentless thought.
  • Perspective: Distance from what overwhelms me.
  • Relief: A place to rest my brain.
  • Expression: A window into my inner world for others to glimpse.

Without art, the layers remain tangled. With art, I untangle them—thread by thread, color by color, image by image.

The science of creativity and regulation

Neuroscience confirms what I’ve lived: autistic and ADHD brains often process stimuli with less filtering, which means more detail but also more exhaustion. Art therapy has been shown to regulate emotions, process trauma, and help the brain “file” experiences in ways words cannot.

For neurodivergent people, creativity isn’t just self-expression. It’s nervous system regulation. It’s medicine.

Conclusion

My art is not a hobby. It is a survival strategy. A necessity. It transforms overstimulation into beauty, chaos into order, exhaustion into expression.

I don’t create to be productive. I create to live.

Autistic Burnout: Ignoring Special Interest and rest needs will Slowly Destroy You

okt 8, 2025

How My Autistic Burnout Unfolded

 

My autistic burnout didn’t strike like lightning. It built itself layer upon layer across my entire life, like the infamous boiled frog metaphor: the water grows warmer and warmer until you don’t even realize you’re being cooked alive.

For me, “normal life” meant constantly pushing myself to the very edge, mentally and physically, then labeling the exhaustion as laziness. If I had trouble completing routine tasks, the conclusion was always the same: I’m weak. I need to push harder.

What most people don’t realize is that for an AuDHD brain, everything that isn’t driven by intrinsic motivation costs one hundred times more energy. ADHD comes with a broken reward system for routine or boring tasks. There’s no natural dopamine hit for doing laundry, replying to emails, or cooking dinner. Every action has to be done manually, step by step, as if wading through syrup. “Just do it” doesn’t exist. Each task is a negotiation between brain and body: Move your arm. Now your hand. Now pick this up.

And yet, the inner critic whispered: But everyone else does it. How hard can it be? You’re just lazy. Try harder.

So I did. I forced myself through life.

Childhood and Adolescence

As a child, I struggled deeply with fitting in. I was the “weird kid,” always slightly off from what was expected. But by my teenage years, I cracked the social code. I became adaptable, even popular, wearing the mask so well that nobody suspected how hard it was.

But behind the mask, I began experiencing panic attacks at sixteen. I ignored the signs. I thought it was just part of life. I kept pushing, kept adapting, kept pretending.

When you live this way—masking, forcing, never resting—something eventually breaks.

Motherhood: The Steepening Slope

Becoming a mother made everything heavier. The hill I’d been climbing suddenly turned into a vertical wall. Sleepless nights, breastfeeding, the endless cries of “mama” every day, all while trying to maintain a career, a household, and a relationship.

Add in the invisible labor: doctor’s appointments, school meetings, birthdays, playdates, shopping, cooking, cleaning, and remembering every tiny detail of family life.

It’s a choreography of a thousand moving parts—and I refused to drop a single ball. Delegating cost even more energy than doing it myself. So I carried it all.

And then came the breaking point.

The Final Straw: A Crashed Hard Drive

One day, our hard drive failed. Years of personal photos vanished. Birthdays, vacations, ordinary moments of joy—erased. To make matters worse, an entire wedding shoot for a client was on that same drive. We managed to recover most of the client’s photos from memory cards, but our own images were gone.

It might sound trivial, but for me, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. As I write this, I still feel the sting. Those memories were irreplaceable, and losing them ripped something open inside me.

I shattered.

Eight Months of Collapse

Every morning, I woke with violent heart palpitations, as if an electric current jolted me awake. My body shook with adrenaline. I curled into a ball under the blanket until my heartbeat calmed.

I survived only by functioning on the bare minimum. I took my kids to school on sheer willpower, then came home and collapsed on the couch under a blanket, paralyzed by exhaustion. Eight months passed like this.

Cooking, cleaning, even making myself a drink were impossible. Some days I lay frozen, unable to gather the energy to feed myself. My life shrank to survival mode: keep the kids alive. That was it.

The doctor called it “probably depression” or “just burnout” and told me to rest. But what does rest mean when you’ve already abandoned everything except bare survival? Even resting was too much. My recovery stalled. Two steps forward, one step back.

The Diagnosis Journey

I entered the diagnostic process, which dragged on for nearly three years. First they suspected ADHD. Then autism. Then “maybe just one, maybe both, maybe neither.”

Finally, the conclusion arrived: ADHD, Autism, and Anxiety. Along with one truth I already knew in my bones: I was in the depths of autistic burnout.

The Forgotten Lifeline: Special Interests

Looking back, I can see it clearly: a huge piece of my collapse came from starving my special interest.

Before kids, my life was built around creation. Career, art, content, sports, and rest balanced each other. I had space to breathe.

But with children, that space vanished. All my time and energy poured into family logistics. Creativity, art, and content creation became luxuries I no longer allowed myself. The cruel irony is that the very things that recharge me were the first things I abandoned. How could I sit down to draw, write, or create when there were still groceries to buy, dinners to cook, forms to fill out?

My perfectionism wouldn’t allow it. So I kept going, drained dry, until nothing was left.

And this is the cruel cycle: without art, I lost my lifeline. Without rest, my brain had no time to form ideas. Without ideas, there was no creation. Without creation, there was no self-expression. And without self-expression, I lost myself.

Something in me withered. The piece of me that makes me me: gone.

Recovery: Art as Medicine

The turning point came with my diagnosis. With words to describe my brain, we could finally restructure our household, hire help, and carve out breathing room.

And when I returned to art, I returned to myself. Creativity is not indulgence—it is survival. My AuDHD brain thrives on hyperfocus, structure, and the deep dive into special interests. It’s both my strength and my vulnerability. But only when I feed it the fuel it needs: creation.

Now I treat my art the way others treat medication. It is non-negotiable. It is medicine.

What Happens When You Finally Make Space

The difference is night and day. When I carve out space to create, the ideas pour in. My brain sparks like a nuclear core. Hyperfocus takes over—I lose track of time, forget to eat or sleep, and surrender to pure creation.

And those moments? They’re not indulgence. They’re survival.

This is the cruelty of burnout for neurodivergent parents, especially mothers: the first things sacrificed are the very activities that keep us alive. Self-care, creativity, joy—they’re the first to go. And the cost is devastating.

The Message: Claim Your Space

If you are neurodivergent and see yourself in my story, hear this:

Your special interest is not optional. It’s not “just a hobby.” It is your oxygen, your compass, your lifeline.

Claim the space. Demand the time. Fight for the hours that seem impossible to carve out. Because without it, you risk losing yourself too.

I lost myself when I abandoned art. Through art, I found myself again.

And that is the quiet truth of recovery: sometimes survival looks like picking up a pen, a brush, a camera, or a keyboard—and letting your whole self breathe again.

Body Picking & Jaw Clenching: A Neurodivergent Struggle

okt 1, 2025

When people hear about “bad habits” like biting your lips or picking at your fingers, they imagine it’s something you can simply stop. A matter of willpower. But for those of us who are neurodivergent, living with ADHD, autism, or sensory processing disorder, these aren’t habits. They’re survival strategies. They’re called stims.

What Stimming Really Is

Stimming, or self-stimulatory behavior, is a form of self-regulation. It’s the body’s way of calming an overwhelmed nervous system or maintaining focus in a chaotic world. For some people, stims are harmless, like bouncing a leg or twirling hair. But for many of us, they turn into body-focused repetitive behaviors (BFRBs), where our own skin becomes the outlet.

My Personal Reality

For me, this has meant decades of bloody fingers, shredded cuticles, and raw lips. I bite, pull, and pick until the skin breaks, often without realizing it until it hurts. Add jaw clenching and tensing around my eyes, and I end up with headaches, tension, and even worn-down teeth. It’s not pretty, and it’s not optional. Stress, sensory overload, or even deep concentration will trigger it.

I once walked around with bandages on every finger, hiding the damage from myself and others. I tried the usual “cures”: bitter nail polish, snapping elastics on my wrist, even sheer force of will. None of it worked—because the root cause was never “bad behavior.” It was my nervous system crying out for regulation.

Why Neurodivergent Brains Do This

Research into sensory processing disorder (SPD) explains why so many autistic and ADHD people stim. Our brains process stimuli differently: louder, brighter, more intense. Stimming releases that pressure. For some, it’s repetitive movement. For others, it’s skin picking, biting, or clenching. What looks destructive is actually an attempt to survive sensory and emotional overload.

Finding What Helps

My turning point came with something as small as a fidget ring. I was skeptical. After thirty years of bleeding fingers, how could a piece of jewelry fix it? But it worked. The repetitive motion my brain craved finally had a safe outlet. For the first time in decades, my lips and fingers healed.

That’s the key: not punishment, not shame, not “just stop”, but replacing harmful stims with ones that meet the same need without leaving scars. For some, that might be fidget jewelry. For others, textured fabrics, putty, or movement. It’s about trial and error, and about giving ourselves permission to stim safely.

The Bigger Picture

Stimming is often misunderstood, even within neurodivergent spaces. Not every autistic or ADHD person experiences it the same way. Some stim outwardly, others inwardly. Some destroy their skin; others don’t. The spectrum is wide. But for those who live this reality, know this: you’re not broken. You’re adapting.

Final Thoughts

Body picking and jaw clenching aren’t quirks I can laugh off, they’re part of my neurodivergent wiring. They’ve caused pain, scars, and frustration, but they’ve also taught me resilience. I’ve learned that my body isn’t the enemy. My nervous system is simply looking for balance.

If you struggle with BFRBs, you’re not weak. You don’t lack discipline. Your brain is wired differently, and that’s okay. With understanding, compassion, and the right tools, healing is possible—sometimes one fidget at a time.

Autism, ADHD and Energy: Why Rest Is Survival, Not Laziness.

sep 24, 2025

If you live with Autism or ADHD, you already know your brain doesn’t run like everyone else’s. It processes more data, faster, with fewer filters, and that comes with a cost. What looks like “doing nothing” from the outside is often an exhausted brain trying to recover from a heavy cognitive load.


Understanding this energy cycle can help replace shame with acceptance. Rest isn’t weakness. For autistic and ADHD brains, rest is survival.

 

 

The Brain That Sees Everything

An ADHD/Autism hybrid brain, for some, can be wired to observe details most people filter out. Every sound, smell, expression, or subtle change in environment gets noticed and processed. On top of that, the brain makes endless associations, mapping connections at lightning speed.

The result? A mind that operates like a supercomputer, but one that burns through energy far quicker than most.

Why Energy Runs Out So Fast

Many neurodivergent people describe their energy system as “all or nothing.” Full throttle, then collapse. There’s rarely a middle ground.

Even joyful experiences can be draining:

  • A family birthday
  • A day at the pool
  • Meeting a celebrity hero
  • A concert or festival
  • A Themeparc
  • The gym

These moments are amazing, but they also involve sensory input, social interaction, and nonstop processing. The aftermath can feel like a physical hangover, not because the event was bad, but because the brain spent all its reserves.

The exhaustion can go so far as to the point where I’m unable to get myself a glass of water or get up for my book. That’s not laziness. That’s energy bankruptcy. When the tank is dry, even the smallest action feels impossible. The cost of “just get up” can be days of recovery. My body isn’t dramatic — it’s depleted.

 

 

Rest Is Not Laziness

From the outside, recovery can appear to be “doing nothing.” But inside, the autistic/ADHD brain is still hard at work:

  • Mapping experiences
  • Sorting through emotions
  • Filing sensory data
  • Making sense of patterns

This invisible labor explains why rest doesn’t always mean sleep. Sometimes it’s sitting in silence, letting the brain untangle its own complexity.

 

 

The Cost of Overdrafting Energy

 

When reserves are gone, even small actions feel impossible. Choosing not to get up for water isn’t laziness, it’s energy bankruptcy. The body prioritizes survival.

Pushing through this state often means borrowing energy from tomorrow, leading to multi-day crashes. Recognizing this cycle is the first step toward protecting long-term well-being.

 

 

Reframing Rest: The Lioness Analogy

 

Think of a lioness. She isn’t lazy when she rests. She’s conserving energy for when it matters most: The hunt.

The same is true for autistic and ADHD brains. Rest is what allows us to show up fully when it counts. Without it, the tank stays empty.

 

Powerful and demanding

 

Living with Autism and ADHD means living with a brain that is both powerful and demanding. It processes more, feels more, and burns energy faster than most.

That’s not a weakness. It’s different. And with that difference comes a truth worth repeating: rest isn’t optional; it’s essential.

Autism, ADHD: When Empathy Becomes Absorption

sep 17, 2025

When people talk about autism, they often repeat the stereotype of the “cold, unempathetic” person. But that couldn’t be further from my experience. As someone with both autism and ADHD, empathy is not something I lack; it’s something I drown in.

Feeling emotions as if they’re mine

I remember being in the hospital as a child for a minor procedure. Next to me was a younger child who cried a lot. Every time they cried, I didn’t just hear it; I felt it. Their fear, pain, and sadness landed in my own body as if I was experiencing it too. It confused me for years. I thought that’s how everyone felt emotions.

As I grew older, I realized this was a pattern. If someone cried, I cried. If someone fell and hurt themselves, I felt the sting in my own head. If someone radiated joy, I was high on it too. Later, I wrote a blog post about it (back in 2019) when I thought I was “just” an empath. Now I know this goes deeper—it’s connected to how autism and ADHD shape my brain.

What the science says

Research has shown that autistic people don’t lack empathy—our empathy often just functions differently. Some studies describe this as “emotional contagion”: the automatic process of mirroring and absorbing another person’s emotional state. Combine that with ADHD’s heightened sensitivity and impulsivity, and you get a brain that reacts instantly and intensely to other people’s feelings.

For me, this means I don’t just understand someone’s emotions—I become them. Neurologically, my boundaries blur. My nervous system doesn’t filter: what’s yours feels like mine.

The double-edged sword

On one hand, this hyper-empathy is a strength. It allows me to connect, to comfort, to notice when something is “off” even if someone hides it. It’s also tied to my ability to “cold read”—analyzing micro-expressions, tone, and posture until I know what someone isn’t saying.

But it’s also a weight. When emotions are huge, I can lose myself in them completely. If someone else is angry, I feel it burn through me. If someone else is anxious, my own chest tightens. And that leaves me drained.

Learning to set boundaries

The difference today is that I understand what’s happening. I know when a feeling comes from me and when it belongs to someone else. That doesn’t stop me from feeling it—but it allows me to draw a line. “This isn’t mine. I don’t need to carry it.”

It’s not easy. It takes conscious energy every single day. But naming it helps. And it prevents me from collapsing under the emotional weight of others.

Why this matters

Autistic empathy doesn’t always look like the stereotype. Some people on the spectrum may indeed struggle to recognize or express empathy in the expected way. But others—like me—experience it in overdrive. Both versions exist, and both are valid; both belong under the autism and ADHD spectrum.

So if you’re reading this and think: “That’s me, too”—know that you’re not broken, you’re not “too sensitive,” and you’re not alone. This is simply one of the many ways neurodivergent brains connect to the world.

A note of compassion

When people lash out in their own overwhelm, it’s not fair—but often, it’s not malicious either. They’re drowning, too. Holding that perspective helps me stay calm. I remind myself: their emotions are theirs, mine are mine. That boundary is survival.

And when it’s joy, excitement, laughter? Let yourself get carried away. Ride the wave. Just maybe… think twice before you act on every impulse in that moment. (I’ve learned that the hard way.)

Unmasking, Social Scripts, Eye Contact & the Villain Era of Self-Preservation

sep 10, 2025

Unmasking, Social Scripts, Eye Contact & the Villain Era of Self-Preservation

, “Wow, but you make such good eye contact, you can’t be autistic!”
 …Sure, Sharon. Because what you don’t see is the silent dance happening in my head: 2…3…4 look away. Smile. Nod. Back to eyes. Don’t stare too long. Don’t look at the mouth. Did they just frown? Was that sarcasm? Keep the rhythm.

For neurodivergent people, social interaction isn’t just “natural.” It’s an algorithm.

The Choreography of Eye Contact

Every conversation is a balancing act. Too much eye contact? Intense. Too little? Cold. Too long at someone’s mouth? Flirty. Too distracted? Disconnected. It’s exhausting. What looks like “instinct” for others, I run like software in the background of my brain, while simultaneously analyzing tone, microexpressions, body language, and context.

It’s not just about eyes. It’s about decoding, predicting, and managing connections in real-time.

The Energy Cost

People often think “social battery” means you get tired gradually. For me, it feels more like an implosion. The download of information keeps running long after the conversation ends. Sometimes, an hour later, I’ll suddenly get a flash: oh… that was sarcasm. Or: wait, were they upset?

Masking, forcing myself to keep the choreography perfect, multiplies the cost. It leaves me drained, second-guessing, and sometimes spiraling into self-doubt.

 When Masking Breaks

Here’s the paradox: the only times eye contact feels easy are when I’m deeply interested. Then the mask falls away, and I slip into hyperfocus. The result? Either intense, unblinking eye contact that makes others squirm, or none at all, because I’m lost in words. Cue the “verbal diarrhea.” Both confuse people. Both are authentic.

The Misreads

My focus on facial details can backfire. Sometimes I get mistaken for flirting when I’m simply overanalyzing expressions. Other times, genuine flirting goes right over my head because I logged it as “friendly.” These misfires aren’t carelessness; they’re the brain juggling too many layers of input at once.

And honestly?
 “I’m probably not flirting, it’s just the ’tism.”

What feels like deep interest and focus to me can easily be read as romantic or suggestive. Long, unbroken eye contact. Fixating on someone’s smile. Mirroring their expressions. To me, it’s data collection, connection, or genuine enthusiasm. To the other person, it can look like an attraction.

On the flip side, when someone really is flirting with me, I often don’t notice, because I’m too busy running my inner choreography: keep the rhythm, decode tone, manage my own body language. By the time I realize, the moment has usually passed.

This double-bind is something many neurodivergent people recognize: being misunderstood socially, even when your intention is simply connection, not seduction.

Learning to Unmask

The truth? I actually like people. I enjoy connection, deep conversations, and shared laughter. But to survive socially, I’ve often over “masked” suppressing quirks, running the full choreography, and pushing myself past my own limits.

Now, I’m learning to loosen my grip. Sometimes I’ll hold eye contact too long. Sometimes I’ll avoid it. Sometimes I’ll ask 101 clarifying questions. Sometimes I’ll choose silence and headphones instead of small talk. If masking takes too much energy, I will think: Adapting or explaining myself is too much work, please just judge me if you must. 

And that’s okay. Because the people who truly matter, the ones I want close, don’t need the mask. They accept the quirks, the glitches, the intensity.

Tips (short & simple):

  • Notice your own limits. When you’re masking too hard, pause.

     

  • Let go of “perfect” eye contact. Authentic beats choreography.

     

  • Protect your energy: you don’t owe everyone full access to you.

     

  • Remember: unmasking filters out the wrong people and draws in the right ones.

     

villain era

Unmasking sometimes feels like my villain era, like I’m being mean by not accommodating others to be more palatable, but honestly? Unmasking is freedom. If that makes me “strange” in the eyes of some… so be it.

My energy, my rules.

Menstruatie ondergoed? Dit is mijn favoriet!

sep 6, 2025

Menstruatie ondergoed? Dit is mijn favoriet!

Sinds 2022 draag ik menstruatie ondergoed. Eerlijk, ik wil nooit meer terug naar de ouderwetse maandverbandjes of tampons. In deze blog vertel ik je waarom menstruatie ondergoed (ook wel ongesteldheid onderbroeken genoemd) voor mij echt een gamechanger is. En ik deel waarom ik persoonlijk het meest enthousiast ben over snuggs, wat mij betreft het beste menstruatie ondergoed dat er is.

Wat is menstruatie ondergoed eigenlijk?

Menstruatie ondergoed ziet eruit als gewoon, normaal ondergoed. Het voelt ook zo. Het verschil? Er zit een speciale absorberende laag in die je menstruatie op een hygiënische en comfortabele manier opvangt. Je hoeft dus geen maandverband of tampon meer te gebruiken. 

Veel mensen noemen het ook wel ongesteldheid onderbroeken. En eerlijk: die term klinkt misschien een beetje gek, maar de uitvinding zelf is briljant.

Waarom ik ben overgestapt

Jarenlang gebruikte ik maandverband. Maar ik vond het nooit echt prettig:

  • Het voelde zweterig en onfris

  • Het verschoof regelmatig

  • En dat gekraak van plastic… verschrikkelijk!

Toen ik in 2022 menstruatie ondergoed ontdekte, was ik meteen nieuwsgierig. Ik heb verschillende merken getest en vergeleken, maar uiteindelijk nu we 3 jaar verder zijn ben ik toch blijven hangen bij snuggs.

Waarom snuggs voor mij het beste menstruatie ondergoed is

Er zijn tegenwoordig veel merken die ongesteldheid onderbroeken verkopen, maar snuggs sprong er voor mij echt uit.
Dit zijn mijn redenen:

  1. Comfort – snuggs voelt écht als gewoon ondergoed. Zo comfortabel dat ik op dagen zonder krampen vaak vergeet dat ik überhaupt ongesteld ben. De stofjes voelen zacht aan en snijden niet in je curves. Ik merkte dat ik steeds een voorkeur had voor mijn Snuggs uit mijn zeer divers stapeltje menstuatie ondergoed. 

  2. Design – de modellen zien er leuk en stijlvol uit. Je voelt je niet alsof je een “speciale” onderbroek draagt, maar gewoon iets moois.

  3. Fris gevoel – in snuggs voel ik me fris. Het enige wat kan gebeuren met menstratie ondergoed is dat ze zwaar worden als ze te “vol” raken en dan kun je het gevoel hebben dat (vooral katoenen en bamboe modellen) kunnen gaan hangen. Bij Snuggs had ik hier geen last van, de elastische stofjes blijven mooi op z’n plek en blijven licht en droog aanvoelen.

  4. Duurzaam & voordelig – je wast ze gewoon uit en kunt ze keer op keer dragen. En mijn Snuggs gaan ruim 2,5 jaar mee. Niet alle geteste modellen hielden het zo lang vol.

Voor mij is snuggs dus écht het beste menstruatie ondergoed dat ik tot nu toe geprobeerd heb. 

Hoe voelt het om snuggs te dragen?

Heel eerlijk? Op dagen zonder krampen vergeet ik soms gewoon dat ik ongesteld ben. En op de dagen mét krampen, dan helpt het comfort van snuggs me in ieder geval een stuk relaxter door de dag heen.

Geen verschuivend maandverband. Geen onhandige situaties. Gewoon ondergoed dat doet wat het moet doen – zonder gedoe.

Voor wie is menstruatie ondergoed geschikt?

Eigenlijk voor iedereen die menstruatie heeft. Of je nu:

  • Net begint met je eerste menstruatie,

  • Al jarenlang maandverband of tampons gebruikt,

  • Of juist duurzamer wilt leven en afval wilt verminderen.

Ongesteldheid onderbroeken zijn er in verschillende maten, stijlen en absorptieniveaus. Er is dus altijd wel een snuggs-model dat bij jou past.

Conclusie

Als je nog twijfelt: probeer het gewoon eens. Ik dacht ook eerst: “werkt dit wel écht?” – maar na mijn eerste keer gebruik was ik verkocht.

Menstruatie ondergoed heeft mijn menstruatie zoveel comfortabeler, frisser en relaxter gemaakt. Voor mij is snuggs het beste menstruatie ondergoed dat ik tot nu toe getest heb.

Ben je benieuwd? Neem eens een kijkje bij de verschillende modellen snuggs en ontdek zelf hoe fijn het is om afscheid te nemen van ouderwets maandverband en tampons.

En natuurlijk heb ik voor jullie een kortingscode geregeld! Met mijn code WILDANDBOHO krijg je 20% korting op jouw snuggs! Check hun webshop voor de nieuwste modellen op snuggs.nl

Analytical processing of social interactions, Audhd

sep 4, 2025

Walk into a birthday party. Everyone’s laughing, drinks in hand. But I spot her instantly, the woman hugging her own arm, smiling with her mouth but not her eyes. Her laugh drops the second no one’s looking. I know she’s not okay. When we’re alone, I ask gently: “Are you really fine?” Tears spill. I knew it.

People call it “instinct.” For me, it’s data. Analytical interviewing & processing social situations. And it’s not optional, it’s the only way I can make sense of people as an autistic woman with ADHD.

Analytical interviewing & processing social Interactions 101

Analytical interviewing is typically described as a technique used by law enforcement: picking up on small cues, posture, facial tension, tone shifts, word choice, to get to know things. For me, it isn’t a trick, its not mind-reading. It’s my default.
It’s the only way I can make sense of the world and the people around me.

While neurotypical people often process social interactions intuitively, my brain doesn’t. Autism means I don’t automatically decode social norms. ADHD means my attention jumps, scanning every detail. Combined, it creates hyper-attunement. I don’t just see what you say, I see what you’re hiding.

Personal Story: The Employer Who Proved Me Right

Years ago, in my 20’s I started a job with a boss who oozed friendliness. Too friendly. My hair stood up every time he entered the room. Staff tightened, voices softened. They laughed at his jokes, but their bodies screamed tension. Alarm bells.

During my probation period, I quit. I told him I’d stay until they replaced me. He exploded. Screaming, insulting, throwing my things into my bag, and ordering me out. The mask dropped. My instincts were dead-on.

Since then, I have never ignored that gut-punch. Because it’s not “intuition.” It’s cold, hard data my nervous system has collected and analyzed in the background.

The Science Behind It

Autistic individuals often focus on detail-level processing and are hypersensitive to micro-expressions, tone changes, and body language cues. While neurotypicals rely on unconscious social scripts, autistic brains compensate by consciously tracking cues, sometimes more accurately than others.

ADHD adds hyper-vigilance. ADHD brains show altered attention patterns, often picking up subtle contextual cues others ignore. It’s a double-edged sword: you see everything, but it costs enormous mental energy.

Why It Feels Like Instinct

To outsiders, my observations look like “gut feelings.” In reality, my brain is running a high-speed analysis:

  • Facial micro-twitches

     

  • The mismatch between tone and words

     

  • Self-soothing gestures (like arms crossed or sighing)

     

  • Group dynamics (who shrinks when who speaks)

     

I don’t consciously choose to notice this. It’s the only way I can understand the room. Without it, social interactions feel like static noise.

The Cost of

Analytical interviewing/reviewing

People romanticize “being empathic.” The reality for me is exhausting. While others relax, my brain is scanning for inconsistencies. Did his eyes drop? Did her tone sharpen? Did the group shift weight? Constant analysis = constant strain.

It’s also isolating. When I call out dishonesty or discomfort, people act surprised or accuse me of overreacting. When the mask finally slips and my reading is confirmed, nobody thanks me. They just say, “How did you know?”

The Power of Analytical interviewing/reviewing

But it’s not all bad. Analytical interviewing and reviewing has saved me:

  • Safety: avoiding abusive bosses, manipulative people, and toxic friendships.

     

  • Connection: spotting when someone’s struggling before they collapse.

     

  • Clarity: cutting through fake pleasantries to see what’s really happening.

     

It’s a survival skill honed over years of masking and adapting.

The Birthday Party

At parties, I can’t not notice. That woman whose smile doesn’t match her eyes? My brain screams: alarm. When I ask, people often open up. They feel “seen.” But while they feel relief, I feel drained. Because I wasn’t just vibing—I was working. (with all the love in the world, but it costs me)

Why This Matters for Autism & ADHD

Selective attention, hyper-focus, sensory processing differences—these are core parts of autism and ADHD. for me Analytical processing social situations is the byproduct. Neurodivergent brains often struggle with “typical” social intuition, so we overcompensate by scanning every available clue.

That constant decoding? It explains why social interaction is both fascinating and utterly exhausting for many autistic women.

Tips & Takeaways

  1. Trust your alarm bells. If you feel it, you’ve probably seen something real.

     

  2. It’s not mystical. You’re not psychic. You’re reading data most people ignore.

     

  3. Know your limits. Cold reading drains energy; set boundaries on how much you invest.

     

  4. Reframe it. This isn’t a flaw. It’s a neurodivergent survival skill.

 

Final Thoughts

I used to call it empathy. Now I call it unpaid emotional labor. Analytical processing isn’t a party trick, it’s how I survive. And while it’s heavy, it’s also proof that autistic and ADHD brains don’t miss the details. They catch what others can’t.

So if I say my alarm bells are going off—believe me. Because I’ve learned the hard way: I’m almost always right.