06/23/2025
I have Autism. ADHD. OCD. Executive Dysfunction.
And for most of my life, I had no idea.
All I knew was that I felt wrong.
Too loud. Too sensitive. Too anxious.
Too emotional. Too messy. Too “much” to love.
But somehow—never quite enough to stay.
I learned very early that if I wanted to be accepted, I had to perform.
So I became whatever people needed me to be.
I overachieved. I overexplained. I overfunctioned.
Because deep down, I believed if I wasn’t perfect—I’d be abandoned. Again.
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Foster homes trained me to be small and grateful for scraps.
Partners taught me that my worth was conditional—on how well I could hold it together.
So I did. I held it together with everything I had.
Even when it was crushing me.
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I pushed through chronic exhaustion.
I built a life out of performance and perfectionism.
I succeeded on the outside while falling apart on the inside.
And I told myself that maybe I just needed to pray harder.
Maybe if I was more obedient, more healed, more “normal”—God would take it away.
So I rebuked it. Denied it. Spiritualized it. Shoved it down so deep that I didn’t even recognize my own pain anymore.
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And then I became a mother.
And everything I had carefully masked started unraveling.
Suddenly, it wasn’t just about me anymore.
It was about the daughter God entrusted to me—
A daughter I refuse to raise through shame, silence, or survival mode.
So I started telling the truth.
And the truth is this:
> I am Autistic. I have ADHD. I live with OCD and executive dysfunction.
Not because I’m broken.
But because I was born with a different operating system—one no one ever taught me how to use.
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Now I wake up every day fighting to function in a world that was never built for my brain.
I don't do simple things and beat myself up
I clean one drawer and feel like I ran a marathon
I melt down in silence because no one sees how hard it is to “just get started”
I parent through overstimulation, exhaustion, and self-doubt—still showing up for my daughter every single time
I cry in prayer because reading Scripture feels impossible some days with my thoughts racing
I grieve the years I wasted trying to be someone I was never created to be
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And when I finally named it…
When I finally gave myself permission to stop pretending…
Christians told me not to “own it.”
“Don’t claim that.”
“You’re not autistic—you’re anointed.”
“You’re healed. Don’t speak that over your life.”
But the truth is:
I didn’t feel healed.
I felt exhausted from performing a version of myself that didn’t exist.
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> I’m not naming this to claim defeat.
I’m naming it to take back my dignity and direction.
To finally care for the version of me who was never allowed to exist safely.
I don’t need deliverance from how God designed me.
I need deliverance from the shame that said I couldn’t be loved as I am.
So yes. I name it. Because naming it set me free.
This is what healing looks like now:
Soft
Sacred
Slow
Real
Not “fixed.” Not “cured.” Not “perfect.”
But fully held by the God who never asked me to pretend.
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I am not broken. I am wired for something different. And I am finally learning how to live as the woman God created—before anyone else tried to change her.
Neurodivinemomma.com
