Living in a Brain That Doesn’t Feel Safe
A few years ago, I began to change in ways I couldn’t explain.
I was still functioning—on the surface. I was parenting, working, socialising, getting things done. But inside, I was unravelling.
I couldn’t focus, even on tasks I used to manage with ease. My brain wasn’t just hyperactive, it was foggy.
Executive dysfunction became a daily struggle. My usual coping strategies stopped working. The pressure to perform, especially at work, collided with a sense of meaninglessness, and the result was a kind of mental paralysis. I remember moments when I felt like I wanted to drop dead on the spot—just to escape the crushing anxiety of not being able to start, not being able to move, not being able to be. It wasn’t laziness or lack of motivation. It was complete shutdown.
I became highly sensitive to smells and noise—alarms, hand dryers, even loud conversations brought me into panic mode. Eye contact felt overwhelming, almost like a violation of my private space. I started to avoid people, something I’d never done before. I’d always been a social person, someone who thrived on meaningful one-on-one connection.
Now, I felt like I was losing myself.
Around that time, we began exploring whether my child might be neurodivergent. In researching ADHD (and later Giftedness), I started to see myself in the descriptions. I thought: Could this be me, too?
Looking back, I had always struggled with an hyperactive mind and attention—especially when reading academic or technical material. I realised I didn’t read like most people: I scanned pages, rather than reading word by word. This worked brilliantly for fiction, where I could build a world through imagination. But with technical or academic texts, every word mattered. There was no room for imagination, and I found them draining.
At school and university I could never just tune into the class, no matter how much effort I put in—my mind always wondered away. And on one-to-one conversation it wasn’t always that different.
These were traits I had masked or worked around for years. But now they were unmanageable—because I was carrying more than any one person should.
I had recently gone through a late miscarriage.
I was trying to leave a marriage, heal from coercive control, and navigate the distressing process of family court.
At the same time, I was turning up to a high-responsibility job every day, while trying to support my child through her own trauma, her extreme sensory challenges and emotional dysregulation linked to her suspected neurodivergence — all without adequate support.
I was also contending with toxic dynamics at work, feeling deeply alone, misunderstood, and excluded in a space where I was already stretched to my limits.
My nervous system never had a chance to feel safe.
And, not surprisingly, it was at work where everything showed the most.
As a senior leader, I was constantly criticised for not paying attention or being fully engaged in conversations. People assumed I wasn’t interested in what my peers had to say — that I was aloof or disengaged. But the truth was, I was trying as hard as I could to be present. I wanted to connect, to contribute — especially because I already felt like I didn’t belong. I was the only woman in the room, and I didn’t want to prove them right — that, as a woman, I somehow wasn’t cut out for the job.
But here’s the truth: as a woman, a neurodivergent woman, I was not only capable of doing the job — I was excelling in areas my peers struggled with. That wasn’t seen or acknowledged at the time — not by them, and not even by me. It took a long time, and a lot of unlearning, to meet the real me — and to recognise that I was never the problem in that room.
Initially, I thought I had ADHD which was confirmed during a diagnosis (together with Giftedness). But that’s not the only diagnosis I received, and that shocked me to my core: autism. It wasn’t something I ever considered for myself. The diagnosis didn’t come from standard assessments—those didn’t pick up autism in my case. Instead, the psychologist arrived at the conclusion through our interviews. And although I respect her expertise, I couldn’t shake the feeling that what she was picking up might have been my trauma—not autism.
Another aspect of my experience that took time to understand was the emotional ups and downs. The highs were intense—sometimes euphoric, full of energy and urgency, but also exhausting. The lows felt suffocating. The overwhelm wasn’t just emotional—it became physical. My body would ache with anxiety, and I felt like I was drowning in a storm I couldn’t stop.
At one point, I even wondered: Is this bipolar disorder? But over time, I learned that this too is a part of Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD). The emotional spikes and crashes are often trauma responses—your nervous system trying to manage a backlog of unprocessed fear, grief, and survival patterns.
When Mental Health Symptoms Disguise as Neurodivergence Traits
I’ve experienced trauma twice in my life—once as a teenager, and again more recently. The second time, it brought on intense symptoms that resembled autism and ADHD: sensory overwhelm, dissociation, brain fog, emotional dysregulation, even physical anxiety responses like panic from loud sounds. But I noticed that these symptoms didn’t always match my core traits of neurodivergence. They fluctuated based on my mental health state. That’s when I started to understand the blurry, often confusing overlap between neurodivergence and mental health disorders.
Some examples:
- Executive dysfunction can be a core ADHD trait, but it’s also common in trauma responses.
- Sensory sensitivity is a hallmark of autism, ADHD and giftedness but it’s also seen in hypervigilance caused by PTSD.
- Difficulty with eye contact might be an autistic trait—or a defense mechanism developed after emotional trauma.
And then there’s the confusion between ADHD and OCD.
Because of ADHD, I tend to be distracted when I do things. So sometimes I need to double-check I’ve done them—like whether I’ve turned the oven off or locked the door—simply because I wasn’t fully present when I did them. That kind of checking isn’t compulsion; it’s a coping mechanism for inattention.
But OCD is something else entirely. I’ve experienced it twice in my life—first as a teenager, and then again more recently after trauma. And it wasn’t about forgetfulness; it was a response to trauma.
It began as nightly rituals: placing house shoes in a very specific way, checking out the window from a precise angle, arranging toys until they felt “just right.” If anything felt off, I’d start over. The compulsion wasn’t about memory—it was about fear. I believed that if I didn’t perform these rituals perfectly, something awful would happen to the people I loved. It was as though I could hold disaster at bay by doing everything “right.”
One day, I had a moment of clarity. I realised these rituals weren’t protecting me. They were hurting me. They created more anxiety, not less. So I made a decision: I told myself, “If the worst has to happen, let it happen.” That became my mantra. Every time the urge came, I repeated it—and over time, the OCD loosened its grip.
My Life with CPTSD – Not Always Like They Show in Movies
CPTSD is not what I expected.
I am not bedridden. I don’t have flashbacks or nightmares. I am not disconnected from my life. I am living it—showing up, parenting, working, being active. And yet, sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in anxiety, barely able to exist with it.
I haven’t taken medication — not because I’m against it, but because I am afraid of losing myself in it. I’ve come out of mental health struggles before without it, and I wanted to give myself the best chance at doing it again, on my own terms, taking all the right steps.
Because deep down, I know exactly what I need to do. And I believe I have it in me to come through the other side of complex trauma.
And it’s hard. There have been moments I’ve doubted myself deeply. I’ve almost given up. But I kept going—through therapy, introspection, support from family and friends, and most of all, finding myself through all the noise and learning to trust my instincts again. I’ve learned to challenge intrusive thoughts and accept uncertainty. I’ve learned to surrender control—not in defeat, but in peace.
Three years on, I’m not the same person. I still have sensitivity to noise. Some of the brain fog remains—and that may very well be perimenopause too. But the OCD is gone. The worst of the anxiety is behind me. I’m more myself now than I’ve ever been—not because I returned to who I was, but because I’ve discovered who I truly am underneath all the masking and coping.
And perhaps most importantly, I’ve found my voice. I’ve found purpose.
Writing has been a lifelong passion, but now it’s also my mission—to use my story to help others feel seen, understood, and empowered. If you’re navigating the tangled web of neurodivergence and mental health, know this:
You don’t need to fit neatly into a label. You don’t need to compare yourself to others. Your symptoms, your story, your healing—they’re yours. And they deserve compassion, not perfection.
I may never know where my neurodivergence ends and my trauma begins. And that’s okay. Because I’ve learned that healing isn’t about going back to who you were—it’s about becoming who you really are, unmasked.
When Mental Health Becomes Physical
We often separate physical and mental health as though they’re unrelated — but they’re deeply intertwined.
Trauma doesn’t just live in the mind. It embeds itself into the body, affecting every system in ways we don’t always realise until it becomes impossible to ignore.
Sleep has always been light for me, likely because of neurodivergence, but during the most intense periods of trauma, it became completely dysregulated. I struggled to fall asleep, woke up countless times through the night, and sometimes lay awake for hours — only to drift off just before my alarm went off for work. That exhaustion shaped my days. I was constantly tired, yawning, fighting to stay present. Poor sleep is a well-documented issue in trauma — and it became one of the clearest signals that my brain wasn’t safe.
I’ve also experienced sleep paralysis since my late teens. It was infrequent at first, and usually only happened when I slept on my back or alone. But once I entered an abusive relationship, it happened more often.
For years, though, my daughter saved me from it. She slept beside me, and with her I felt safe and strong — her presence seemed to shield me. But once the CPTSD fully set in, even that comfort couldn’t protect me anymore.
The sleep paralysis escalated dramatically. It no longer mattered what position I was in or who was beside me — it happened every single night. And it wasn’t just unsettling — it was terrifying.
Over time, I trained my brain to catch the early warning signs even in sleep and wake myself before the paralysis could take over. And as I slowly moved through recovery, the sleep paralysis disappeared — even when I sleep on my own or on my back, which I’ve now trained myself to avoid anyway.
Trauma also affected my gut. I developed intense IBS — likely a mix of emotional eating, anxiety, and the overall strain on my nervous system. The pain became constant and life-altering. It wasn’t until I began to heal emotionally and I tried intermittent fasting that the digestive issues started to ease. But healthy eating is not something I’ve mastered yet —it’s a work in progress, and so is IBS.
Then came a wave of physical symptoms that I feared were neurological — vertigo, numbness in my face and fingertips, and debilitating headaches.
I genuinely worried it might be something like brain cancer.
The GP offered little help, and even after seeing private specialists, no one could find a cause. It wasn’t until I went to a maxillofacial physiotherapist that I finally got answers. He quickly recognised that I was clenching my jaw so intensely — likely from stress — that the surrounding muscles had become inflamed, compressing nearby nerves. That explained the facial numbness, the vertigo, and the headaches.
It turned out the issue wasn’t in my brain at all, but in my overworked jaw and neck muscles, especially the sternocleidomastoid. A mouth guard helped relieve the dental pressure and pain, and now regular massage therapy is part of how I manage the tension. It’s not a luxury — it’s a necessity. With an office job and a stress-sensitive body, the tightness always finds a way to return, so I’ve had to learn how to care for it like a chronic condition.
Lastly, one of the strangest and most frustrating symptoms I experienced was bladder urgency.
Even before I became a parent, I noticed that every time I arrived at my front door, I had a sudden, almost panicked need to pee. That started during the abusive relationship, and it only worsened during CPTSD.
I lost the ability to hold it. There was no warning, no signal — just urgency and fear of not making it in time. A pelvic floor physiotherapist eventually explained that my pelvic floor was intact, but the coordination between my sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems was disrupted. The result? My body’s ability to regulate bladder control was compromised by chronic stress.
What I’ve learned is that the body keeps score. When our nervous system is in survival mode for too long, it creates real, physical consequences. And yet, we often dismiss or overlook those signs — chalking them up to stress or lifestyle. But they’re our body’s way of saying: “I’m not okay.”
Listening to those messages — and responding with care — is part of healing too.
Why Neurodivergent People Are at Higher Risk of Poor Mental Health
We talk a lot about inclusion these days, but the lived experience of being neurodivergent in a neurotypical world is still deeply isolating.
According to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, one of the most basic human needs — love and belonging — often goes unmet for neurodivergent people. Not because we aren’t loveable or worthy of connection, but because we’re constantly forced to adapt to environments that aren’t built for us.
We mask. We second-guess everything we say. We wonder if we’re being too much, too loud, too quiet, too intense. That gap between how we feel and how others perceive us becomes a kind of chronic gaslighting. It erodes self-esteem.
It doesn’t help that neurodivergence is still misunderstood. Many people still think ADHD or autism are mental illnesses, not neurological differences. But what is undeniably connected to mental health is the impact of being misunderstood, excluded, or forced to operate in systems that don’t accommodate difference.
If the workplace isn’t safe — emotionally, psychologically — our mental health deteriorates. If we aren’t trusted, respected, or given space to thrive in our own ways, we internalise failure, even when we’re doing our absolute best.
Even sensory overload can become a mental health issue over time. The buzzing lights, the background noise, the expectation to be “on” all day — it wears us down. And when we shut down or seem withdrawn, it’s not because we’re disengaged. It’s because we’re overwhelmed.
Reframing Impostor Syndrome: It’s Not Me, It’s You
People love to throw around the phrase “Impostor Syndrome.” Like it’s a personal failing — like we just need to believe in ourselves a bit more. But here’s the thing: I’ve always held myself to impossible standards. I’m a perfectionist to the core. No matter what I achieve, I rarely feel it’s enough. And I don’t think that came from nowhere.
I grew up surrounded by voices — some subtle, some loud — telling me I wasn’t enough. People who didn’t understand me, who didn’t embrace my uniqueness. People who should’ve cared, who should’ve protected me, who tried to tear me down instead. Somewhere along the way, I swallowed those voices. Now they live inside me, disguised as my own thoughts.
I don’t judge other people the way I judge myself. I wouldn’t hold anyone to the standards I hold myself to. But I’m learning — slowly, patiently — to be kinder. To accept compliments. To trust the feedback from people who love me and value me. Sometimes I need their eyes to see myself clearly, especially when mine are clouded by old beliefs.
There are days when I feel like a fraud, like I’m just pretending to be functional. But now I can pause and ask myself: Whose voice is that? And more importantly: Is it even true?
Learning to Embrace Adversity Without Fear
Healing is not a straight line. Living with neurodivergence, with CPTSD, with these invisible layers of complexity — it’s exhausting, yes. But it’s also a journey of self-discovery. Of unlearning shame. Of finding ways to come home to myself.
And something I’ve learned through it all is that adversity often brings purpose. These challenging moments are not just obstacles — they’re lessons that build resilience and deepen perspective.
If I hadn’t gone through this pain, I may never have truly found myself. I wouldn’t have peeled back the layers to meet the real me underneath — the person who is not just surviving, but beginning to thrive.
And I’ve also learned this: I am never truly alone. Even across oceans and time zones, my family has always shown up. I’ve never had to face anything entirely by myself. For that, I’m endlessly grateful — because knowing I have their support, no matter what, is one of the greatest sources of strength I carry. And just as they’ve been there for me, I’ll always be there for them.
When we’re on our deathbed, it won’t be the easy times that will define our lives, but the hard ones — the ones that pushed us, changed us, and helped us grow. They give us the clarity to know what truly matters, to be present in the moments that count, and to appreciate them fully. Life will always offer new opportunities — just make sure to keep your eyes open for them.
And if you see yourself in any part of this story — know that you’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’ve just been surviving in a world that wasn’t built for your kind of brilliance. But we’re here. And we’re learning how to thrive anyway.
One day, I hope to write a book about everything I’ve learned — not just about surviving, but about healing, finding peace, and discovering how to truly live. If it helps even one person feel less alone, it will have all been worth it.
But for now, I’ll leave you with this post—and a letter from my future self. I hope it helps you as much as it helped me navigate some impossibly difficult times.
💬 I’d love to hear from you. Have you experienced moments where adversity shaped your sense of self or gave you a new perspective? How do you find your way back to yourself during difficult times?
🎙️ And if this resonated with you, I invite you to watch the latest episode of the Intersecting Voices podcast, where I speak with the incredible Andy Cope. We explore the science of a positive mindset—and how we can apply it to any situation. It’s a deeply human conversation about resilience, healing, and finding light through darkness.
Let’s keep this conversation going — your voice matters.
The Intersectional Hub 
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