Two Roads, Neurodiverged
There is one question I used to dread:
“What are you reading right now?”
It seemed simple enough to answer, but when I would confess to friends that “I’m not a good reader,” they’d laugh in disbelief. There I was, a grown-ass woman in her mid-thirties with a promising career and a doctorate, trying to convince people I felt like an imposter.
Looking back, it all makes more sense: the abandoned books, the piles of unfinished projects, the incessant bubbling of ideas that never quite made their way to the surface.
I’ve spent years advocating for awareness and destigmatization in mental health, helping others navigate their diagnoses and educating on new treatment options, but it wasn’t until the birth of my first child that I sought help myself. I spilled my guts to my doctor, fully prepared for a diagnosis of something postpartum, though I was well aware I have struggled my entire life. It all came to a head when the exhaustion, scattered thoughts, and constant sense of underperformance became too much to bear. My doctor diagnosed me with something that was not necessarily on my radar because I thought I did not check all the boxes:
ADHD.
I was stunned. I wasn’t the hyperactive kid bouncing in her seat failing tests and missing assignments. I was the quiet, daydreaming girl staring out the window, doodling in notebooks, terrified of getting in trouble and too anxious to raise my hand to go to the bathroom or participate in any activities. I did well in school, even earned the “gifted” label, and pushed myself hard enough to reach the finish line of a PhD, fueled by caffeine and something to prove.
My doctor told me something that changed my life: “It doesn’t have to be that hard.”
She explained that many women with ADHD not diagnosed until adulthood. We hide our symptoms under perfectionism, anxiety, and depression. Between 2020 and 2022 alone, the number of women diagnosed between ages 30 and 49 doubled. I was part of the swell that pushed that wave.
When I began treatment, the stimulant didn’t make me wired; it calmed me. For the first time, the relentless, critical commentary was quieted somewhat. It’s still there, but it has been dulled enough that I could focus better, finish tasks, and even sit through a movie without feeling the pull of a dozen distractions. It was relief and grief all at once: relief for the clarity, grief for the childhood I’d lost to struggle.
Reading was always the hardest for me. I would pick up a book, read the same page ten times, and remember none of it. I avoided book clubs, terrified of being “found out.” The books I bought with the best intentions gathered dust on my nightstand. I could only read under pressure, chasing deadlines until I burned out. It made me an efficient researcher, but an anxious reader, reserving reading only for work and not for pleasure.
I carried that shame into my writing life. I convinced myself I couldn’t be a real writer if I wasn’t well-read. If I did not know what the others were saying, I was not qualified enough to tell my story. Then something shifted.
After several major life events, I decided life was too short to be ruled by self-doubt. I joined a writing class with a friend called “Extraordinary Ordinary Stories” held in the Women’s Club of Red Bank. Every week we read short excerpts and wrote to a prompt, then read aloud to the group. I was terrified when I first arrived that I did not belong there. I was worried the other writers at the table would be able to see through me and know that I did not have the experience to hold my own. To my delight, the group could not be more welcoming. Writing in reaction to the same prompt and having the same time as others leveled the playing field in a fun and unexpected way. Everyone shared their insecurities, and we all supported each other in overcoming them.
Project Write Now and Book Inc. has changed everything for me. I participated in other online courses but this was different: it felt like a community. They did not care that I hadn’t read the latest literary masterpiece. They recommended short stories they thought I would enjoy and even mentioned audiobooks that would keep my attention. They reminded me that listening to books counted and that there was no secret club for “real readers.” They encouraged me to wander bookstores and libraries, to admire covers and voices without pressure. They told me I belonged.
With their support, I finally finished something big: my first full-length novel, LIMINAL. I took it through Book Revision Lab and Book Submission Bootcamp, learning from other writers who carried their own quirks, fears, and messy drafts. For the first time, I felt like I was part of something that didn’t require me to hide how my brain worked.
My neurodivergence is something I live with and embrace now. I am still very distracted. I still start too many projects and take on more than I can chew. My brain still leaps and connects dots no one else sees. But now, I am more able to accept it. ADHD, my lifelong frenemy, might have made me a restless reader, but it also made me a fiercely original thinker.
If my journey sounds familiar to you, with or without a diagnosis, here are some things that you may want to try if you’re feeling “stuck”:
Listen to audiobooks or podcasts to reignite your love of storytelling
Join a community of writers that shares their work and normalizes the struggles we all share (it may take a while to find the right one, but it’s out there)
Visit book stores and libraries and don’t be scared of feeling like you should not be there. Peep the book covers, flip through the pages, skip to the ending- it turns out, no one is watching (or judging)
Get an app like StoryGraph that allows you to track your reading/listening progress. It is incredibly satisfying and empowering to see progress tracked in graphs, minutes, and percentages- whatever works best for you. They also have giveaways and make recommendations for your next read
Do the little things and remember tiny wins add up. A few minutes here and there, on a commute, in between meetings, or anywhere in between, all add up to something that will eventually be yours, and yours alone. Don’t let your day job deter you
Follow what interests you, whether it be fiction or non, and don’t be afraid to try something new. Creativity isn’t neat and perfect. We all don’t have the same tastes, and there is no secret list of books that we all must read in order to write. The mess is where the magic happens
Everyone has to pave their own way, and your journey will look different from mine. Some paths are more straightforward, and others are winding. Some are paved, and others are rocky offshoots that take us down paths we did not know existed. It turns out, stories don’t care which path you took to get there, or if you will consume it with your eyes or listen with your ears. Stories just want to be told.