"I Never Really Wanted to Understand My Brain” – Living Loudly with ADHD & Dyslexia

“A couple of days ago, I was sitting in my apartment, dishes in the sink, laptop open but untouched and I suddenly remembered:
I had to finish a pitch deck.
It was important.
I told myself, “Just go write the damn thing down, get it done with already.”

I stood up, determined.
But as I passed the hallway, I noticed the laundry basket spilling over. So I started folding a few clothes. Then I remembered one of the kids had left their water bottle in my bag. I went to the bag, pulled out the bottle… and saw a coffee sample I’d forgotten to send out. So I grabbed my phone to email the person. Then I realized I hadn’t replied to a grant application. I opened the laptop again — but somehow ended up reorganizing all my desktop folders.

That’s when it hit me: I hadn’t even opened the pitch deck file.

I took a breath, walked into the kitchen to get water.
And there, by pure accident, iTunes started playing a song I’d never heard before — something soft, nostalgic, haunting in the best way.

I paused.
I listened.
And without realizing it, I started scribbling.

Not the pitch deck.
Something else.
Something that mattered.

I jotted down loose ideas. Fragments of future projects.
Thoughts about the agro-forestry workshop I want to lead with women farmers.
Notes to myself about what wholeness could look like.
A reminder to rest.
A quote for the blog.
A sketch of the product label I’ve been dreaming up.
It all poured out of me like a soft release.

The pitch deck? Still untouched.

But for a moment, I wasn’t overwhelmed or behind — I was in alignment.
Rooted. Creative. Awake.

What It's Like for Me, as an African Woman

Now add another layer: being a Black African woman in this world.

ADHD and dyslexia are still taboo in many of our communities. Misunderstood. Untreated. Unnamed.
The “lazy girl,” the “distracted one,” the “talks-too-much,” the “never-finishes-anything” —
we grow up with shame before we even know what it’s called.

We are expected to carry tradition, motherhood, work, and societal grace,
all while masking.
But masking burns us alive.

I’m writing this for the ones like me:
– The woman who talks fast because her brain is moving faster than her mouth.
– The mother who forgets appointments but can tell you ten brilliant story ideas she dreamed last night.
– The girl who failed standardized tests but who sees patterns and possibilities no one else notices.

We deserve better than invisibility.
We deserve better than burnout.

Why Traditional Productivity Doesn’t Work for Minds Like Mine

I’ve tried every system — planners, time blocks, to-do lists.
They all work.
Until they don’t.

Because none of them account for the invisible weight I carry:
– The way my brain floods with ideas just as I’m supposed to switch to invoices.
– The way grief sneaks in while I’m answering emails.
– The way my child’s voice cracks mid-sentence, and suddenly my priorities change.
– The way executive function collapses after pushing too hard, too long, for too little recognition.

Traditional productivity demands linear motion, clean boundaries, predictable energy.

But my life isn’t linear.
My mind isn’t clean-cut.
And my energy is often borrowed from tomorrow’s reserves.

I live in loops. Spirals.
High bursts and quiet crashes.
Some days I am lightning.
Other days, I am fog.

Yet the world rewards consistency more than brilliance.
It praises 9-to-5 compliance more than 3am soul work.
And it rarely leaves room for the complexity of being neurodivergent, grieving, parenting, and building a future all at once.

A Love Letter to Women Like Me

To the women building businesses between school runs,
writing dreams in the cracks between grief and grocery lists —
to the ones masking their overwhelm while showing up in meetings with a smile…

You are not broken.
You are not behind.
You are not too much.

You are living in a system that was never made for your rhythm —
but still, you create.

You mother.
You write.
You build.
You burn.
You rise again.

You are a living manifesto of unreasonable hope and unapologetic becoming.

We don’t need fixing.
We need space.
We need truth.
We need each other.

And we will write ourselves into freedom.
One unfinished pitch deck, one scribbled napkin idea, one deep breath at a time.