I Can Build Worlds, But Some Days I Can't Decide What to Eat

The beautiful, exhausting contradictions of living with an AuDHD brain.

Jessica Choate RN

My AuDHD brain is something else.

Currently, I have five courses, a book, and an app that I'm all creating simultaneously.

Not just thinking about creating.

Actually creating.

I can spend hours researching, writing, developing systems, connecting ideas, and bringing entire concepts to life.

I can build something from absolutely nothing but a thought that crossed my mind while I was supposed to be doing something else.

I can become so consumed by an idea that hours disappear.

I forget the time.

I forget to eat.

I forget to drink water.

Sometimes I forget I even have a body.

But ask me what I want for dinner?

Suddenly, my brain has absolutely nothing to offer.

Not one single thought.

I can conceptualize an entire business, develop an app, write a book, and have five different creative projects unfolding in my mind simultaneously.

But deciding whether I want a sandwich or leftovers can feel like an impossible task.

And if you've never experienced that kind of contradiction, I can understand how ridiculous it probably sounds.

Because honestly?

Sometimes it feels ridiculous to me, too.

I Can Hyperfocus for Hours, But I Can't Always Make Myself Shower

This one is particularly frustrating.

I can sit at my computer for eight hours, completely immersed in something I'm passionate about.

Learning.

Creating.

Writing.

Researching.

Connecting dots that seemingly have nothing to do with one another.

My brain feels alive.

Everything makes sense.

I don't have to force myself to concentrate. If anything, I have to force myself to stop.

But then there's the shower.

Something that should be relatively simple.

Get undressed. Turn on the water. Wash. Get out. Get dressed.

Except my brain doesn't always experience it that way.

Sometimes the thought of being wet afterward is so unbelievably uncomfortable that I cannot bring myself to do it.

I know I need to shower.

I want to be clean.

I'm aware of how simple the task appears.

And still, I struggle to initiate it.

It's not because I don't care about hygiene.

It's not because I don't know how.

And it's certainly not because I lack discipline.

It's because the same brain that can voluntarily spend hours solving complicated problems can become completely overwhelmed by the sensory experience of an ordinary task.

And the internal dialogue that follows?

Seriously?

You can do all of these other things, but you can't even take a damn shower?

For years, I interpreted those moments as personal failures.

I thought I was lazy.

Inconsistent.

Undisciplined.

Maybe even a little broken.

Because how could someone be so capable and so incapable at the same time?

I'm beginning to understand that those two experiences aren't mutually exclusive.

My capacity to do something complicated doesn't automatically give me the capacity to do something simple.

Not when my nervous system experiences those tasks entirely differently.

I Can Manage Everyone Else's Needs While Completely Missing My Own

This might be the contradiction that has affected my life the most.

I'm a nurse.

I'm a mother of seven.

I've spent much of my life caring for other people.

I can anticipate needs.

I can recognize when someone is uncomfortable.

I can notice subtle changes in another person's behavior.

I can manage appointments, medications, responsibilities, emotional crises, and the endless moving pieces that come with caring for an entire household.

I've spent years being the person who figures it out.

The person who remembers.

The person who holds everything together.

But ask me what I need?

Sometimes I genuinely don't know.

I can recognize that someone else is hungry before they tell me.

Meanwhile, I might not realize I haven't eaten until I'm shaky, irritable, or completely depleted.

I can make sure everyone else has what they need for the day while forgetting to drink a single glass of water.

I can recognize signs of distress in the people around me while missing the signals coming from my own body.

And sometimes, by the time I recognize that I'm overstimulated, exhausted, or overwhelmed, I've already pushed myself far beyond my limits.

There's a word for part of this: interoception.

Our ability to recognize and interpret internal bodily signals.

Hunger.

Thirst.

Fatigue.

Physical discomfort.

The need to use the bathroom.

Even emotional states.

And for me, those signals don't always arrive in a way that's easy to recognize.

Sometimes my body whispers for hours, and I don't hear it until it's screaming.

But there is another layer to this.

Because I haven't just struggled to recognize my needs.

I've spent much of my life learning to prioritize everyone else's.

And sometimes it's difficult to separate the AuDHD from the trauma, the years of masking, and the identity I've built around being useful.

Is my difficulty recognizing my needs related to neurodivergence?

Is it because I spent so many years putting myself last?

Is it because my nervous system learned to focus on the people around me before checking in with myself?

Probably some combination.

And I'm learning that I don't have to untangle every thread before I can begin taking better care of myself.

I Know So Much, But Don't Ask Me Where I Learned It

This one makes me laugh.

I can have an entire conversation about psychology, neuroscience, trauma, attachment, philosophy, spirituality, or the human body.

I can connect concepts from completely different fields.

I can recognize patterns and explain complicated ideas in ways that make sense to other people.

Sometimes information just comes pouring out of me.

But then someone asks a very reasonable question.

Where did you learn that?

And suddenly I'm standing there like...

I have absolutely no idea.

Did I read it in a book?

Was it something I learned in nursing school?

Did I hear it in a podcast?

Was it part of a research rabbit hole I fell into at two in the morning?

Was it something I learned through personal experience and later connected with something I read?

I genuinely couldn't tell you without going back and looking.

It's like my brain has this enormous collection of information, but the filing system is completely chaotic.

I can often retrieve the concept.

I can connect it to ten other concepts.

I might even be able to explain how it relates to human behavior.

But the original source?

Good luck.

Which, of course, means I still have to verify information when accuracy matters.

But the way my mind gathers and connects knowledge fascinates me.

I don't always learn in a straight line.

I follow curiosity.

One question leads to another.

One subject opens the door to five more.

Suddenly, something I learned years ago connects with something I discovered yesterday.

And an entirely new idea is born.

It's part of what I love most about my brain.

I don't always think in steps. Sometimes I think in constellations.

The difficulty comes when someone expects me to explain every star in the order I discovered it.

I Can Understand Something Deeply, But Struggle to Explain It in the Moment

Sometimes I know exactly what I mean.

I can feel the entire concept in my mind.

It's there.

Complete.

Connected.

Perfectly understandable to me.

But translating it into spoken language?

That's another story.

My thoughts don't always arrive in a neat, socially acceptable order.

Sometimes I start in the middle.

Sometimes I jump ahead because I've already made three connections internally.

Sometimes I need to pause to find the right words.

Sometimes I lose the thought entirely because I'm trying so hard to communicate it correctly.

And then I become aware of myself being aware of myself.

Am I making enough eye contact?

Am I talking too much?

Did I explain that clearly?

Am I taking too long?

Does my expression look strange?

Did I completely lose the point I was trying to make?

And suddenly, what began as a natural conversation has become an entire performance.

One I've spent much of my life practicing.

Which brings me to another contradiction.

I Can Be Extremely Social, But Need Days to Recover From Being Perceived

For years, I didn't fully understand how much energy I was spending simply existing around other people.

Not necessarily because I disliked socializing.

I actually enjoy meaningful connection.

I love deep conversations.

I love understanding people.

I love the moments when someone feels safe enough to share the parts of themselves they normally keep hidden.

But the amount of internal processing happening during those interactions can be exhausting.

Reading expressions.

Monitoring my own.

Trying to interpret tone.

Managing eye contact.

Filtering sensory information.

Keeping track of the conversation.

Making sure I respond appropriately.

Trying not to interrupt.

Trying not to appear distracted when my mind is already making connections three subjects ahead.

And then trying to look like I'm not thinking about any of those things.

It's a lot.

Sometimes I can spend a day functioning beautifully around other people, only to come home and feel like my entire nervous system has shut down.

I don't want to talk.

I don't want anyone touching me.

I don't want another question.

I don't want to make another decision.

I just want silence.

And sometimes it takes me days to feel like myself again.

For a long time, I called that resting.

But recently I've started wondering how much of that time was actually spent recovering from performing.

Recovering from trying to appear more organized, more socially fluent, less sensitive, and less overwhelmed than I really felt.

That's part of why I've started documenting what it looks like to unmask.

To allow myself to pause.

To let my eyes wander.

To move my body naturally.

To speak without rehearsing every sentence.

To exist without constantly managing how my existence might be perceived.

And it's uncomfortable.

Because when you've spent your entire life performing a version of yourself that other people understand, you don't always know who you are without the performance.

I Can Handle a Crisis, But Ordinary Life Can Overwhelm Me

There is something almost comical about this.

I have spent years working in nursing environments where complex decisions, emergencies, and other people's needs demand immediate attention.

In those moments, there is often a clear priority.

Something needs to happen.

Someone needs help.

There is a problem in front of me, and I know where to direct my attention.

But give me an ordinary day without a clear structure?

A dozen small decisions?

Laundry.

Food.

Messages.

Appointments.

Cleaning.

Getting dressed.

Figuring out what needs to happen first.

And sometimes I feel completely paralyzed.

Not because any single task is particularly difficult.

But because there are so many of them.

Each one requires initiation.

Decisions.

Transitions.

And energy.

I can look at everything that needs to be done and somehow struggle to begin any of it.

Then I feel guilty for not starting.

Then the guilt makes everything feel heavier.

Then I become overwhelmed by how far behind I am.

And suddenly I've spent more energy thinking about doing the things than it would have taken to actually do some of them.

Except knowing that doesn't magically make my body move.

That's the part people don't always understand.

They assume that if you know what needs to be done, you should simply be able to do it.

But knowing and initiating are not the same neurological process.

I don't have a shortage of awareness. Sometimes I struggle with access to action.

And no amount of shaming myself has ever made that experience easier.

I Can Have a Thousand Ideas and No Idea What I Actually Want

My mind is rarely empty.

There is almost always something happening.

Something I'm curious about.

Something I want to create.

Something I'm researching.

Some new connection I've made.

Some project that suddenly feels incredibly important.

It's not unusual for me to have multiple things unfolding simultaneously because each one feels genuinely exciting.

And sometimes that creative energy is extraordinary.

But there is a cost.

Because while my brain is busy creating entire worlds, the smaller questions of everyday life can become almost impossible to answer.

What do I want to eat?

What should I wear?

Do I want to go somewhere?

Am I actually tired?

Am I overstimulated?

Am I enjoying this?

What do I need right now?

These questions should be simple.

But sometimes I can answer a question about human behavior with incredible depth and still stare blankly when someone asks what I want.

And I've started wondering how much of my life I've spent knowing what everyone else needed while remaining disconnected from myself.

Because being highly capable isn't the same as being connected to your own needs.

Being knowledgeable isn't the same as being regulated.

And being productive isn't necessarily the same as being well.

Those have been difficult distinctions for me to learn.

The Part Nobody Sees

People often see the things I create.

The knowledge I share.

The projects I take on.

The children I care for.

The responsibilities I manage.

They see someone who is capable.

Driven.

Creative.

Resourceful.

Someone who can seemingly figure out just about anything.

And those things are true.

But they're not the whole truth.

What they don't always see is how much effort it can take to complete the simplest daily tasks.

They don't see the paralysis.

The sensory overwhelm.

The forgotten meals.

The hours disappearing into hyperfocus.

The exhaustion after socializing.

The frustration of knowing exactly what needs to be done but struggling to initiate it.

They don't see how often I have to negotiate with my own brain just to move through an ordinary day.

And for a long time, I didn't want anyone to see those things.

Because I was ashamed of the contradictions.

I thought if people knew how much I struggled with basic things, they might question my ability to do the complicated ones.

So I masked.

I compensated.

I pushed harder.

I became exceptionally good at managing what people could see while privately struggling with what they couldn't.

And the more capable I appeared, the less permission I felt I had to struggle.

Because how do you explain that you're overwhelmed when everyone thinks you're the person who can handle everything?

How do you ask for help with something small when you've spent your life accomplishing things other people consider difficult?

How do you admit that you haven't eaten, showered, or recognized your own exhaustion when you've just spent an entire day creating something extraordinary?

You don't.

At least, I didn't.

I just kept going.

Until I couldn't.

I'm Learning That My Worth Isn't Measured by My Productivity

This might be one of the hardest lessons of all.

For so much of my life, I've measured my worth by what I could do.

What I could create.

What I could accomplish.

How much I could manage.

How much I could give.

How useful I could be to the people around me.

And when I was functioning at full capacity, I felt valuable.

But when I couldn't make myself do something simple?

When I was exhausted?

When I needed quiet?

When my brain refused to cooperate?

I felt like I was failing.

I've spent years trying to force myself into a version of functioning that doesn't always fit the way my brain works.

And I'm beginning to question why I ever believed that was the goal.

Why should I measure myself against a standard that doesn't account for how differently I experience the world?

Why should my ability to complete a household task determine whether I'm disciplined or worthy?

Why should I feel ashamed of needing accommodations for things other people do effortlessly?

And why have I spent so much time celebrating what my brain can produce while ignoring what my body needs to sustain it?

I'm learning that my creativity deserves support.

My sensory needs deserve respect.

My exhaustion deserves acknowledgment.

And the parts of me that struggle deserve just as much compassion as the parts of me that excel.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life being admired for what I can accomplish while quietly abandoning myself to accomplish it.

I want to build a life that has room for the woman doing the building.

Maybe I'm Not a Contradiction That Needs to Be Fixed

Maybe I'm simply a person whose brain experiences different things with different levels of difficulty.

Maybe I can be brilliant at creating something and still need help with ordinary routines.

Maybe I can have an extraordinary capacity for compassion and still struggle to understand my own emotions.

Maybe I can be knowledgeable and still lose my words.

Maybe I can love meaningful connection and still need days of solitude afterward.

Maybe I can be ambitious and exhausted.

Creative and overwhelmed.

Independent and in need of support.

All at once.

I'm not sharing this because I believe every AuDHD person experiences the world the same way.

I'm sharing it because I know what it's like to spend years believing that your struggles somehow cancel out your strengths.

And I know what it's like to be told you're too capable to be struggling as much as you are.

But both can be true.

I can have five courses, a book, and an app in development.

I can write for hours.

I can learn endlessly.

I can recognize patterns, connect ideas, and create things I'm genuinely proud of.

And some days, I still cannot decide what to eat.

Some days, getting in the shower feels harder than developing an entire concept from scratch.

Some days, I have to remind myself that I am a human being with a body, not just a mind full of ideas and a list of responsibilities.

And I'm finally learning not to hate myself for that.

Because I don't want to spend another lifetime trying to become someone whose brain works differently.

I want to understand the brain I have.

To work with it.

To support it.

To stop punishing myself for the ways it doesn't fit into someone else's definition of normal.

And maybe, just maybe, I can begin giving myself the same patience I've spent my entire life giving everyone else.

My AuDHD brain can build entire worlds.

I'm just learning how to make sure there's a safe, comfortable place for me to live inside them, too.

And if you've ever been capable of extraordinary things while privately struggling with ordinary ones, I'd love to know:

What's one contradiction about your brain that you wish other people understood?

You might be surprised how many of us are living with the same invisible struggles.

— Jessica Choate, RN

The Unmasked Journal | Plant Medicine Healing