I find myself, in these moments of existential crisis, trying to blog for this site. It’s become such a passion of mine, and yet I feel light-years away from understanding these executive functioning concepts on the level I’d like to.
I want to have deep, clearly defined conceptual conversations — but I feel so torn between the parts of my identity that I think of as neurodivergent. I have ADHD. I have autism spectrum disorder. And I keep trying to boil down exactly which part of me contributes what to who I am… but it’s not working. It’s too inexact of a science, trying to distill how each of these neurodevelopmental conditions impacts me.
I go to write a post about budgeting and think to myself: “This must be my ADHD, because the autistic part of myself is so rigid and methodical — surely the random spending impulses can’t come from there.”
But that ASD part of me — the part that has felt so different, to the core — that’s the part carrying the strongest emotional scars. And I know that emotional dysregulation is closer to the core of my impulsive spending.
It’s that deep, inner pain that sometimes prompts me to lurch toward something new and shiny — or is that my ADHD seeking novelty, trying to spring my ASD from its loneliness trap?
What exactly am I? And is this even something that’s relatable to other people?
Right now, I’m typing this from the rug on my dining room floor. The chair leg brushes my right leg. The table is just out of reach — and I’m not sitting at it. That’s me, Jackie: the one with ASD and ADHD, wanting to feel the solid earth beneath me as I type, feverishly, this reflection about what I’m doing with my afternoon (which, if I’m honest, feels more like asking myself what I’m doing with my life).
I’m a writer in the age of information and generative AI. I have neurodevelopmental disorders that are screaming to be recognized — and loved — by me. I built them a planner. And the planner works.
And now I’m finding myself with the capacity to do more than just work and call it a day. I want to create. I want to discover. I want to connect.
So I’m trying to build this website and fill it with my experiences — with the passion that comes from developing the things I didn’t realize I needed until I had them scribbled out in prototypes and low-quality sketches. I’m breathing life into a website focused on topics that no one seems to fully understand. I’m powering through a Kickstarter that six months ago I never imagined I’d be launching.
And I’m wearing my glasses, which are better than nothing, but the world is so much clearer in contacts. The laptop screen is too small, but I don’t have my second screen here.
I want control. I want to have all the answers. And I don’t have them. That bothers me.
But it doesn’t have to. I don’t have to be perfect. I can be good enough. I can pursue what interests me. And as long as I’m reaching even one other person with these experiences, it was worth something. Maybe it was worth everything.
I’ll think about it, and maybe I’ll have a clearer view by tomorrow.
Just kidding. I took a moment to reread this. Then, I reread it three more times. I’m putting too much pressure on myself. I don’t need a fancy SEO strategy or perfect internal linking plan to have a quality site. These are things to aim for, sure — but I don’t have to have them.
For the sake of thinking through my choices and planning in advance (so I don’t have to redo everything later), I’ll go ahead and make a simple SEO keyword list. I’ll try to sprinkle those words in when they make sense, but I’m not going to be militant about it.
This site is for neurodivergent people. I don’t want the pillar pages and cluster pages to have thousands and thousands of words. As people get more interested, they can filter to the specific blog posts. That’s where I can offer the deeper dives. I want this site to teach people something without overwhelming them. I want to be a resource — and I want the resources to be there and downloadable without forcing anyone to create an account or enter their email.
I know what I want, and it’s so different from what’s out there. Why do I feel like I’m in such a rush to create the site pages and blogs? It’s draining the enjoyment from it. I can’t fully enjoy engaging with these thoughts because I feel like I’m raging against commercial competition and technology.
I care — but not so much that I want to compromise the quality of the tools I hope to provide. Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to build an army. I want the cavalry of all EF tools to come raining down right at the moment we need them the most.
This is a long, meandering way to say: I want to use generative AI tools. But I’m struggling to figure out how to use them while still feeling like I have my own authentic voice. And I’m still figuring out what that authentic voice even is.
I’m still figuring out who that voice belongs to. I’m still trying to get to a point where I’m okay with this Swiss cheese–type, hole-y sense of identity as I try to boil down my own strengths, weaknesses, and personality.
This is supposed to be a hobby. But I guess I’m too intense for hobbies. And it’s kind of comforting to know that no matter what part of me that is — it’s 100% me. I’m too intense for hobbies. This site is going to be robust and informative and powerful. Because I’m the one building it.
Why I’m Sharing This
I’m sharing this because I think it’s important to show the messy, human side of building something with heart. If you’ve ever felt caught between perfectionism and passion, or between your neurodivergent wiring and your creative drive — maybe you’ll see yourself in this. Maybe it’ll remind you you’re not alone.
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