A personal reflection on growing up misunderstood, discovering neurodivergence, and how finding the right language can transform self-understanding, relationships, and emotional wellbeing.

I set out to draw something simple today and somehow ended up choosing two of the most awkward objects possible. Turns out curves and ellipses are not as innocent as they look.

Being back at university in my thirties is surfacing old patterns—but also new awareness: I’m neurodivergent, and I’m finally beginning to understand myself.

On the same day, I needed an eye mask and headphones just to cope—and later, I spent hours happily talking about something I love.

From the outside, it looked like a calm brunch. Inside, I was slowly slipping into that familiar state of observing myself instead of being present.

What does it mean to be ambitious? For a long time, I thought it meant doing more, faster, better. Lately, I’m starting to wonder if it might mean something quieter. Having commitments that I can honour?

After months of neurodivergent exhaustion, everything felt too loud, too bright, too much. Learning to regulate my nervous system helped me stabilise—but now I’m wondering if there’s more than just coping. What if sensitivity isn’t only something to manage, but something that can bring joy? From small sensory pleasures to the idea of stimming as play, I’m beginning to explore what it could mean to not just survive, but actually enjoy being in this body.

Some people seem to move through the world with ease—put together, composed, and effortlessly “normal.” But what if appearing that way is a full-time job? In this personal reflection, I explore neurodivergent exhaustion, the pressure to mask, and the quiet realization that maybe the goal isn’t to fit in, but to build a life that actually fits.

Becoming local doesn’t happen all at once. It lives in small moments—morning walks, unexpected conversations, and the quiet recognition of familiar names. As someone used to being a foreigner, returning to a place where I both belong and feel new is a strange and tender experience. This is a reflection on growing roots slowly, learning to be seen, and allowing connection to unfold in its own time.

A day of small actions, quiet victories, and learning to pace myself. From errands and tech struggles to moments of rest with tea and a heating pad, today was about showing up for myself even when energy is low. This is a real, unglamorous glimpse into neurodivergent recovery—how little steps, support from loved ones, and practicing patience can help us keep moving forward, one day at a time.

A soft note from a tired, overwhelmed moment—about returning home, losing rhythm, neurodivergent exhaustion and finding small ways back to yourself. Not every day feels good, but there is still something to hold onto.

A grumpy day, a lack of inspiration, and a simple solution: oil pastels and a plate of dumplings. A small reminder that creativity doesn’t have to be serious to be meaningful.

A softer day. A little tired, a little out of sync—but still here. Finding my way back through colour, comfort, and small, steady moments.

A small shift in attention can change everything. What if, instead of focusing on what feels uncertain, we began to notice all the quiet ways we are being carried?

A small collection of moments from a travel day—quiet details that might seem insignificant at first, but reveal the care and collaboration woven into every journey.

Travel days don’t have to mean stress, rushing, and just getting through it. Over time, I’ve learned how to turn them into something softer—small rituals, familiar comforts, and treating myself with a little more care along the way.

There is a version of you that still wants to dance, dress up, and disappear into flow. This is a gentle invitation to let them come out and play again.

I’ve officially time-travelled back to 2010 and started a blog. No algorithm, no endless scrolling, just me, my thoughts, and a slightly rebellious email list. Turns out, slower communication might be exactly what my overstimulated brain has been craving all along.

I didn’t suddenly become more disciplined — I just made it harder to scroll.

This is a small story about books, boredom, and the strange illusion that watching other people live somehow counts as living yourself. Turns out, the way back to focus wasn’t more willpower… it was fewer distractions.

My professor told me most product designers are more like carpenters than painters. Logical. Sensible. Grounded.
Unfortunately, I fear I may be… something else entirely.

This is a short story about ambition, self-doubt, and the slightly inconvenient urge to make strange and wonderful things — even when it would be much easier to just be practical.