I was twelve years old when the new millennium arrived.

I can still remember celebrating New Year’s Eve at my aunt’s house. We wore those plastic black and gold Y2K hats, had streamers and confetti everywhere, and watched fireworks as we counted down to a new year and a new century.

At the time, it felt like we were stepping into the future. Everyone was talking about the new millennium and what it would bring. But there was also a lot of hysteria because of Y2K and the uncertainty around how computers would handle the change from 1999 to 2000.

As a kid, I didn’t fully understand what that meant. I just knew everyone was talking about it, and it felt like we were living through a huge moment in history.

Funny enough, around that same time, my soccer team was called the Y2K Soccer Bugs.

I can remember naming the team so vividly. All the girls were gathered on the field, sitting in a circle, trying to come up with cool names. At the time, Y2K was obviously all the rage, so it felt like the perfect choice.

Looking back now, I think it’s funny how fitting that name was. It became a little snapshot of that time in my life.

The early 2000s had a certain feeling.

Things felt slower. There was less pressure to always be connected. There were no phones to constantly check, no feeling like we had to document every part of our lives for likes or attention.

We were just living.

Of course, every generation feels nostalgic about certain parts of their childhood. But I can’t help but feel like I grew up in such a special time.

The 90s and early 2000s were truly an amazing era to grow up in. So many of my favorite moments happened during that time.There were the places we went, the things we watched, the music we listened to, and the simple routines that somehow became some of my favorite parts of growing up.

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Ask any millennial, and they’ll probably tell you how special Blockbuster was.

To me, it will always be a staple of my childhood, and I honestly miss it dearly. I’m a little sad that younger generations will never get to experience the magic of walking into a video store and picking out your movie lineup for a Saturday night.

The bright blue and yellow walls.

The shelves lined with movies tucked behind their front covers.

Finding the perfect movie snacks to go with your night.

There was just something classic about it that’s hard to describe.

I remember my dad and I always going to Blockbuster when I was younger.

One memory that stands out was going there first thing in the morning to buy Titanic when it came out on VHS (two videos, specifically).

I was so excited to own it. I remember walking into the store, knowing exactly what I was there for, and feeling like I had to get it before everyone else did.

For some reason, that day has always stayed with me.

Maybe it was because Titanic was such a huge movie at the time. Maybe it was because I was so excited to have my own copy. Or maybe it was just one of those simple childhood moments that somehow sticks with you.

Even though Titanic came out before the early 2000s, Blockbuster continued to be such a huge part of my childhood throughout those years.

I can still remember the smell of the store. Walking around with my big bucket of popcorn. Looking at all the movies. Then going home with pizza for dinner and watching what was, at the time, my favorite movie.

Any other Leo fans out there?

It’s funny how something as simple as going to a video store can become something you carry with you for years.

Of course, it wasn’t just the places we went that made the early 2000s special.

It was also what we came home to.

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After a long day at school, one of my favorite things to do was come home, grab a snack, and turn on MTV.

There were actual music videos back then, and TRL was one of my favorite shows.

I remember watching it every day, waiting to see what the number one video would be. I was always rooting for my boy bands — and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

NSYNC all the way.

I also remember watching shows like Making the Video, The Real World, and Fanatic, just to name a few. Honestly, MTV was pretty much on my television every single day.

And every year, one of my favorite traditions was watching the MTV Video Music Awards.

For some reason, I always got so excited for it.

I remember picking up In-N-Out, bringing it home, and settling in to watch the show. It became a little tradition for me.

The performances, the outfits, the surprise moments, seeing who won Video of the Year — it all felt like such a big event.

Back then, it felt like everyone was watching together.

It wasn’t just another show on TV. It was something to look forward to.

Even now, whenever I think about the VMAs, I immediately think about sitting down with my In-N-Out and being genuinely excited for the night ahead.

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The music of the early 2000s was unmatched.

My favorite band came straight out of that era — Linkin Park.

After watching one of their music videos, Crawling specifically, I felt seen for the first time in my life.

Every word.

Every lyric.

I felt it deeply.

I remember the day I bought their first album, Hybrid Theory. It was at Tower Records, a well-known and beloved music store at the time.

I went there specifically to buy that album, and the second I got into the car with my parents, I put it on.

Crawling came on, and I belted it out for the very first time.

And honestly, I still do that to this day.

Maybe it’s an autistic thing, but I listen to Linkin Park on repeat and never seem to get tired of it.

It’s my comfort music.

It brings me back to a time during my teenage years when I was really struggling to figure out who I was and where I fit in.

Their music made me feel understood.

Like someone else out there felt the same things I was feeling.

Of course, I loved plenty of other artists too, but Linkin Park will always be different.

They will always feel like a little piece of me.

And I think that’s what made music from that time so special.

It wasn’t just something playing in the background. It was something people connected over.

You talked about your favorite bands with your friends. You waited for a new music video to premiere. You burned CDs for someone you liked. You listened to the radio hoping your favorite song would come on.

Music felt like a shared experience.

It brought people together in a way that I don’t always see now.

And just like music, the internet felt completely different back then.

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I honestly miss the internet before it became what it is today.

AIM.

Away messages.

Signing online and hoping a certain person was on.

MySpace profiles.

Picking the perfect song for your page.

Customizing everything to make it feel like you.

We were online, but it somehow felt less consuming.

There wasn’t as much pressure.

You weren’t constantly comparing your life to everyone else’s.

You could log off and actually be done for the day.

Jokingly, my AIM screen name was hopalongnikki. My friends had nicknamed me that because I had an incident with frequent leg cramps, but that’s a whole other story.

But AIM was a way for me to stay connected with friends when I wasn’t actually hanging out with them.

It felt exciting to see someone sign on. To get a message. To have those little conversations throughout the day.

Sometimes we were talking about something important. Sometimes we were just saying random things because we could.

But there was something special about it.

It was a simpler way of staying connected.

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The mall used to be an event.

You didn’t even have to buy anything.

You just went.

I remember spending hours there with friends, walking around without much of a plan, stopping into every store just because we could.

Bath & Body Works was always a must.

And of course, there was Love Spell.

If you grew up in the early 2000s, you probably know exactly what I’m talking about. That fragrance was everywhere. I swear every girl either owned it or wanted it.

I also remember going into Abercrombie & Fitch because it was the trendy place to shop at the time.

The music was always blaring, the stores were ridiculously dark, and everyone wanted one of their graphic tees or hoodies.

Looking back now, we can see that Abercrombie wasn’t exactly a place that made everyone feel included. But at the time, everyone wanted to shop there.

I also loved stopping at the food court with friends and grabbing something to eat.

We would sit there for hours talking, gossiping, people watching, and then get up and browse more stores just because we could.

And remember actually trying clothes on?

Walking into fitting rooms with armfuls of clothes and showing your friends what you picked out.

There was something fun about making a whole day out of it.

Shopping online is convenient, but it just isn’t the same.

The mall wasn’t only about shopping.

It was somewhere to go, somewhere to spend time, and somewhere to just be with your friends.

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One thing I really miss is taking pictures and not seeing them immediately.

You took the picture and hoped for the best.

Then you waited.

Sometimes the pictures came out blurry.

Sometimes someone blinked.

Sometimes half the picture was cut off.

But somehow, that made them even more special.

There was less pressure to make everything look perfect.

You were simply capturing a moment.

I still have photo albums filled with concerts, sleepovers, birthday parties, family vacations, and pictures with friends.

There is just something different about holding a photograph in your hands.

Nowadays, everything is on our phones or computers.

It’s convenient, but it doesn’t feel quite as magical.

I love being able to pull out an old photo album and instantly be transported back to that moment.

Looking at those pictures reminds me of a time when we weren’t trying to capture the perfect photo.

We were just trying to capture the moment.

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I also have to mention that the early 2000s brought me some of my very best friends.

Somehow, we’ve managed to stay close all these years later.

We have so many stories, inside jokes, and things that still make us laugh.

Summer felt endless back then.

And honestly, being with my friends was one of the biggest highlights of those years.

I remember going to “our” park and sitting at what we called the Wisdom Tree.

We would stay there for hours during the day, and sometimes even at night, just talking, playing games, running around, and eating popsicles on hot summer days.

So much of our childhood happened there.

Looking back, it seems so simple.

We weren’t doing anything extraordinary.

We were just hanging out, laughing, and enjoying being together.

Being outside gave us a chance to be creative. We made up games, found ways to entertain ourselves, and didn’t need much more than good friends and a place to go.

I remember summer nights feeling magical.

Fourth of July celebrations.

Fireworks.

Long days that felt like they would never end.

We didn’t realize it at the time, but we were creating the stories we would talk about years later.

We were just living life.

And maybe that’s what made those summers so special.

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I miss:

Magazines.

Getting excited over a new CD.

Decorating school binders and notebooks.

Movie rental nights.

Handwritten notes from friends.

Burning CDs and carefully choosing which songs to put on them.

Printing out song lyrics from the internet.

When Friday nights felt exciting because you had plans to rent a movie or go somewhere.

I miss having things to look forward to.

Because that’s really what I miss most about the early 2000s.

The feeling.

The excitement over little things.

The slower pace.

The fact that we didn’t know we were making memories while we were living them.

Looking back, I don’t necessarily miss being younger.

I miss the feeling that came with that time.

The excitement of a Friday night movie rental.

A favorite song coming on the radio.

A trip to the mall with friends.

A summer evening that seemed to last forever.

At the time, those moments felt ordinary.

Now, they feel like little pieces of home.

And maybe that’s why nostalgia hits so hard.

Because sometimes we aren’t missing the past itself.

We’re missing the feeling that came with it.

The comfort.

The excitement.

The simplicity.

The version of ourselves who experienced it.

Maybe we didn’t realize it then, but those ordinary moments were some of the ones we would hold onto the most.

And that’s what I love about nostalgia.

It reminds us that even the simplest parts of life can leave a lasting mark.

What is one thing from your childhood or the early years of your life that instantly brings you back to a specific moment or feeling?

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”— A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Listen to the podcast episode here:

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Life can feel overwhelming sometimes.

That’s why I created this newsletter—a space for honest stories, gentle encouragement, and reminders that growth doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

If that sounds like something you need, I’d love to have you join me.

One thoughtful email each week for just $2.99/month. 

The post A Love Letter to the Early 2000s: The Little Things I Still Miss first appeared on Embrace The Unseen.

I’ve often thought about what shapes us into the people we become.

There are some parts of us that seem to be there from the very beginning. Being sensitive, creative, curious, or drawn to quiet moments. Feeling things deeply or noticing little details that other people overlook.

These qualities can feel like pieces of who we are at our core.

When I was younger, I used to be so creative with storytelling. I would sit through class, thinking up ideas and grabbing inspiration from my daydreams to build worlds where I felt like I fit.

My attention span in class, along with the anxiety I felt every time I was in one, gave me the opportunity to wander off a bit—while still trying to stay focused, of course.

I remember one story in particular. It was about a young girl who was lost in a labyrinth of light and shadow, trying to find her way through the scary uncertainty she felt.

I was only eight years old when I created that story, and honestly, looking back on it now, the significance behind it is kind of astonishing.

That story was me.

A girl who felt too soft, too quiet, too sensitive for this world. A girl trying her best to fight through anxiety and fear.

And yes, she found her way back.

I think that’s the point.

No matter how lost we feel, we somehow end up finding our way back to ourselves.

But then life happens.

We experience heartbreak and loss. We form friendships that change us. We fall in love, become caregivers, move to new places, start over, face disappointment, and experience moments of joy we never expected.

And each of those experiences leaves its mark.

I don’t think our experiences necessarily turn us into completely different people. I think they shape how the parts of us that already exist begin to grow.

I think sensitive people often become compassionate because they know what pain feels like.

Creative people may turn to art or writing because it’s one of the only ways they know how to make sense of difficult things.

And people who naturally crave quiet may learn to appreciate solitude even more after periods of burnout or overwhelm.

The person we are underneath is still there.

Life just has a way of bringing different parts of us forward.

Looking back, I can see how this happened for me too.

There was a period in my life where I experienced a deep, heavy depression.

Every day felt like something new to criticize about myself. I picked apart my every move, every thought, every word. I carried so much shame and guilt because I felt like I wasn’t being a “productive” member of society.

I stayed in bed most days, just focusing on everything I thought was wrong with me.

I was so deep in it that I would consider it rock bottom.

I couldn’t do it anymore.

I made the tough decision to seek help.

And I say tough because when you’re feeling that low, your energy is few and far between. Even taking the first step can feel impossible.

When I was finally diagnosed with ADHD and autism, after years of only being treated for depression and generalized anxiety, I felt this huge wave of relief.

It was finally having an explanation for things I had questioned about myself for years.

It gave me a completely different perspective on who I was.

It felt like finally being introduced to the real me.

A heaviness I had carried for years started to lift.

It gave me back my writing.

It sparked new interests while also bringing me back to old ones.

And most importantly, it taught me how to be kinder to myself.

At the same time, life can also make us hide certain parts of ourselves.

We become quieter after being hurt. More cautious after disappointment. Less trusting after loss.

Sometimes we spend years trying to find ourselves again.

There were times during my teenage years when I’d look in the mirror and hardly recognize the person staring back at me.

Going through different chapters of my life has always been difficult for me. It takes me a long time to adjust to change.

And with time comes all the different stages of life—childhood, young adulthood, adulthood, and everything that follows.

I’ve realized recently that I’ve often felt at least a decade behind everyone else.

When I was a teenager, I grieved leaving childhood.

More responsibilities and pressure came with each passing year, and it felt like everyone else knew how to handle it better than I did.

But I tend to grieve every chapter of my life because once it’s over, it’s over.

There’s no going back and changing the mistakes you made, the things you wish you had done differently, or the version of yourself that held back because of fear and anxiety.

For a long time, I felt disconnected from myself during each new phase.

Like I was an outsider looking in.

And looking back, I think part of the reason those transitions felt so difficult was because I didn’t necessarily like myself yet.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to believe that we are both the clay and the sculptor.

There are pieces of us that seem to exist from the beginning, but our experiences help shape those pieces into something new.

Life molds us.

It softens some edges. Strengthens others. And sometimes it reveals parts of ourselves that we didn’t fully understand before.

I think resilience was always within me, but difficult seasons brought it to the surface.

I think compassion was always there too, but caregiving and loss deepened it.

And creativity was always part of who I was, but healing gave it a voice again.

Over time, I started recognizing just how empathetic and resilient I really am.

I feel things so deeply that sometimes it hurts.

I take other people’s emotions to heart and absorb their feelings. If they’re sad, I feel that too. If they’re happy, I naturally match that energy.

I’ve always been very in tune with other people’s emotions.

For a long time, I saw that sensitivity as a weakness.

Now I see it differently.

It’s a gift.

The same qualities that once made me feel like I didn’t fit in are some of the qualities that make me who I am.

My sensitivity allows me to care deeply.

My creativity allows me to tell stories.

And my experiences have taught me compassion, resilience, and a deeper understanding of myself.

We are constantly becoming.

Not because we are abandoning who we once were, but because we are learning more about ourselves through the experiences we live.

I don’t think the answer is whether we’re shaped more by our personalities or by our experiences.

I think we need both.

We are the person we’ve always been, and we are the person life is continually helping us become.

And I think that’s one of the most beautiful parts of being human.

We are both the clay and the sculptor.

Have your experiences changed who you are, or have they simply revealed parts of yourself that were already there?

“Life is a process of becoming.” — Carl Rogers

Listen to the podcast episode here:

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Life can feel overwhelming sometimes.

That’s why I created this newsletter—a space for honest stories, gentle encouragement, and reminders that growth doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

If that sounds like something you need, I’d love to have you join me.

One thoughtful email each week for just $2.99/month. 

Embrace the Unseen:Honoring the Quiet, Sensitive, and Misunderstood Parts of Who You Are is a deeply personal memoir about feeling invisible, finding your voice, and learning to become yourself without fear. Through honest reflection and lived experience, it explores the slow process of healing, self-acceptance, and stepping out of silence. Woven throughout are comfort recipes that reflect moments of grounding, care, and emotional nourishment.  It also includes journal prompts, self-care ideas, tips, checklists, and extra added bonuses.

The post How Life Shapes the Person We Become first appeared on Embrace The Unseen.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to embrace a slower lifestyle.

I used to get overwhelmed by all of the things that I thought I needed to do in order to live a successful life. I thought that I had to have it all figured out—career, relationships, financial stability.

But the truth is, I don’t.

And I’m learning that’s okay.

I don’t want to be so hard on myself anymore for not being where I thought I’d be in life. It’s too draining emotionally and mentally to always be doubting yourself and your abilities.

Instead of letting my mind control me, I want to start letting more positive energy flow through me.

This season of life is offering me an opportunity to see the beauty in the ordinary. An opportunity to live life at my own pace.

And deep down, that’s what I think I’ve always wanted all along.

Here are some of the things I want more of.

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I want mornings where I don’t wake up and feel like the day is already ruined.

More often than not, I’ll wake up and one small thing will spark some sort of emotion out of me. Usually, it’s irritation or frustration about something.

I want to change the attitude of my mornings.

Start slowly.

No immediate scrolling on my phone.

Enjoying my cup of coffee on the patio.

Getting some sunshine before it gets too hot.

Jokingly, I hear sunshine is supposed to give you energy.

I just want more time to wake up gently instead of immediately feeling behind.

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Picking up fresh flowers at the grocery store to liven up my living space.

Reading all of the books that I haven’t touched and finding new ones to escape into.

Summer sunsets.

My favorite meal after a long day.

Songs that instantly feel like comfort.

I’ve learned that happiness is truly hidden in the ordinary things, and I want to notice those moments more often.

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I want more conversations that go beyond small talk.

I want more people I can fully be myself around.

More moments of feeling understood.

I think all of us have ups and downs in friendships and relationships.

But for me, I learned the hard way who is and who isn’t a stronghold in my life.

I’ve lost friends and partners whom I’ll most likely never speak to again.

And the strange part of it all is that I lost these friendships and relationships because I was just being myself.

With that comes a lot of heartache, grief, and feelings that you’re the problem.

And those feelings don’t just disappear no matter how much time has passed.

Those moments of losing people made me feel like everything I thought about myself was true.

I’m not smart.

I’m not likable.

I’m boring.

The list goes on.

When someone you cared for and adored tells you those things about yourself that you already secretly fear, it does damage.

So, I want to embrace the people in my life who chose to stick around and let me be myself free of judgment.

Friendships and relationships are very important to me, and I don’t want to waste my time on people who don’t see me and accept me for who I am.

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I have a tight-knit friend circle.

I actually met most of them in middle school, and we’ve maintained close relationships to this day.

I’m so lucky and forever grateful to have friends in my life who love and support me.

All of us are actually going to Romania for our friend’s wedding.

This will be our first time out of the country together, and I can’t tell you how excited I am to make new memories that I just know will last a lifetime.

Whenever I’m with them, I’m happy just being in their presence.

Sure, my mind wanders, and I can get into an overthinking funk, but they truly see me and appreciate me for who I am.

And that means more than they probably realize.

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For most of my life, I’ve never really felt comfortable in my own skin.

I always had low self-esteem and a lack of confidence.

I was really hard on myself because I couldn’t do things as easily as others could. And that struggle made me feel weak.

The truth is, I spent my whole life confused about who I really am.

But once I was diagnosed, things started to make sense and fall into place for me.

I gained a new perspective and a new understanding of myself.

It gave me hope, purpose, and answers.

I don’t want to constantly judge myself like I used to.

I don’t want to feel disconnected from myself or appease others by becoming someone different.

I just want to be comfortable with who I am.

And I’m slowly getting there.

My confidence has grown.

My self-esteem is getting higher.

I’m getting there, little by little.

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I think it’s easy to focus on how far we still have to go.

The goals we haven’t reached yet.

The things we still want to change.

But lately, I’ve been trying to remind myself to look back, too.

I’ve survived things I once thought would break me.

I’ve learned so much about myself.

And I’ve grown in ways that I never, ever expected.

There are versions of me from years ago who would be very proud of the person I am today.

And I want to celebrate that more often.

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Perhaps more than anything, I want to be kinder to myself.

I want to stop expecting myself to function like everyone else.

I want to stop measuring my worth by productivity.

I want to stop feeling like I’m somehow behind.

I want to give myself the same understanding and compassion that I so easily offer other people.

I think this season of life is more about returning to myself and making room for the things that matter.

About creating a life that feels softer, slower, and more aligned with who I truly am.

What is one thing you want more of in this season of your life?

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”
— Often attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson

Listen to the podcast episode here:

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Life can feel overwhelming sometimes.

That’s why I created this newsletter—a space for honest stories, gentle encouragement, and reminders that growth doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

If that sounds like something you need, I’d love to have you join me.

One thoughtful email each week for just $2.99/month. 

The Comfort Project offers permission to listen inward, honor changing needs, and embrace small moments of calm without guilt or pressure. Through reflective essays, nurturing practices, and practical tools, readers are guided to discover what comfort truly looks like for them—whether through food, routines, sensory grounding, cozy spaces, connection, or rest.

The post Things I Want More of in This Season of Life first appeared on Embrace The Unseen.

I’ve always been a lifelong learner.

The problem was never learning.

It was school.

Or more specifically, the environment that came with it.

I actually enjoyed parts of school growing up. I liked reading, researching, learning new things, and discovering subjects that interested me. But I never really meshed well in a traditional classroom setting.

School was always a distraction for me. There were too many people talking all at once while I was trying to pay attention to the teacher. The bright fluorescent lighting and small desk space made me anxious every day.

Looking back now, I realize I was simply overstimulated.

There was the constant anticipation anxiety day in and day out, trying to focus while everything around me felt loud and distracting.

But when I was home, in my own safe space, everything changed.

I could learn in a way that worked with how my brain processes information. There were no outside distractions for me to grab onto. No noises. No bright lights.

It was much more conducive for me to work in that setting.

I’ve always learned best when I’m on my own or if I have one-on-one time with a teacher.

Although, if I’m being honest, that rarely happened because I refused to ask for help most of the time.

I never wanted to be a burden.

For a long time, I thought I was one.

So, I stayed quiet and hidden away as much as possible.

When it comes to learning a subject I’m not interested in, it can be rather unbearable to get through.

For me, math was always my enemy.

We didn’t like each other very much.

I remember constant meltdowns over trying to solve an equation. Nights spent with my dad until the wee hours of the morning trying to understand why x had to equal anything.

It was so infuriating and frustrating not being able to understand any of it.

I was so hard on myself.

It took more energy than I thought to finally finish math for good.

Once I got to college, after taking a remedial algebra course, I hit a sweet spot—math theories.

All we were required to do was read, research, and write essays, which happened to be my favorite way of showing my interest and understanding of something.

And once that course was done, I was more than happy to hang my math cap up and never look at it again.

And I haven’t since.

But when it comes to areas of interest—history, science, art, and literature—those were where I truly shined.

I remember taking an art history class in high school, and it revealed my deep passion for history in general.

I also took another art history course in college, and that really opened my eyes to newfound passions and interests.

I became rather obsessed with Renaissance art.

I practically lived it and breathed it for a good while, studying and learning anything I could outside of the classroom.

I’d read through the required text and then take it into my own hands to continue the learning journey.

Researching online.

Ordering new books.

Writing in my notebooks every word spoken by the teacher.

When I’m hooked on something, I’m really hyperfocused on it.

And when I mean I want to know more, I want to know every little detail.

I don’t just want to learn the basics. I want to know everything.

And let me tell you, the first day I breathed in that European air, my heart felt full.

I got to see nearly everything I had spent years studying.

The Colosseum.

Stonehenge.

The Roman Baths.

The Duomo.

Museums filled with the art I had adored for years.

It was surreal.

These places and works of art that had only existed in textbooks and documentaries were suddenly standing right in front of me.

I wasn’t just learning history anymore.

I was standing in it.

It only increased my desire to learn more and broaden my horizons.

So yes, I’ve always been a lifelong learner.

And I think I always will be.

Because the truth is, no one has it all figured out.

There is always something new to learn—in school, in social settings, in life, and especially about ourselves.

Lately, I’ve been learning a lot about myself too.

My diagnosis of ADHD and my self-discovery journey with Autism have completely changed the relationship I have with myself.

I finally understand why certain things have always felt harder for me.

Why I become overstimulated so easily.

Why transitions can feel so difficult.

Why I need different kinds of rest.

And honestly, I don’t think that kind of learning ever really ends.

Every day, we learn something new about ourselves.

Sometimes it’s something small, like realizing we need more quiet time, more alone time, or that we actually enjoy spending more time outdoors.

Sometimes it’s something much bigger—a new passion, a boundary, or a deeper understanding of who we are.

I think having a good relationship with yourself is one of the most important things in life.

And part of building that relationship is staying curious about yourself.

Paying attention.

Asking questions.

Allowing yourself to change.

Learning what brings you peace, what gives you energy, and what makes you feel most like you.

Because some of the most meaningful things I’ve ever learned haven’t come from a classroom or a textbook.

They’ve come from understanding myself a little better.

And I hope I never stop learning.

Are you a lifelong learner?

“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.” — Mahatma Gandhi

Listen to the podcast episode here:

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Life can feel overwhelming sometimes.

That’s why I created this newsletter—a space for honest stories, gentle encouragement, and reminders that growth doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

If that sounds like something you need, I’d love to have you join me.

One thoughtful email each week for just $2.99/month. 

The post The Problem Was Never Learning first appeared on Embrace The Unseen.

Looking back, my life didn’t suddenly make sense overnight. It was more like finding the missing pieces to a puzzle I’d been trying to solve for years.

It’s hard to admit, but for most of my life, I’ve felt like I was just bad at being a person. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s true.

I was always trying to figure out why life looked so different compared to everyone else. I didn’t see other people struggle the way I did. They didn’t seem to be constantly second-guessing themselves, frightened to speak, or trying to figure out how to fit in. They seemed to know how to move through life in a way that I never quite understood.

There was one time in third grade when I was invited to a birthday sleepover. She was a classmate of mine, but she wasn’t someone I would call a friend. We rarely spoke. But all the girls in the class were going, and I didn’t want to be left out.

So, I went.

I remember feeling uncomfortable in the environment. The house smelled strongly like cats. It was small. There were way too many girls there that I was unfamiliar with. I just remember feeling so overwhelmed, thinking to myself, “How am I going to get through the whole night?”

This was a long time ago, so my memory is a little fuzzy, but I remember playing pin the tail on the donkey. Everyone was making fun of me because I was far off target and couldn’t find the right spot. I could hear their laughs, their quiet yet loud side conversations, and my anxiety building bit by bit the longer I stood there with my eyes covered, trying to pin the dang tail.

Afterward, when the humiliation was over, I called my mom to come pick me up. I was so overwhelmed and uncomfortable that I needed to leave. I saw no other choice.

The girls were making fun of me because I was going home, and I couldn’t handle the rejection. It just felt like it wouldn’t end.

That was one of the only times I experienced bullying, but that moment stayed with me. It taught me to keep quiet, isolate myself, and stay away from people who I thought would make me a target.

Looking back now, I realize just how sensitive I was—not only to environmental changes but also to social situations. I was always incredibly sensitive and so in tune with my feelings that it became a big part of how I saw myself.

I was extremely quiet in social settings. I felt awkward with my gestures, my facial expressions, and even the way I interacted with people. I never felt like I naturally knew what to say or how to act.

I truly thought my sensitivity made me become less… me.

I thought it was something I needed to fix.

I became really good at blaming myself.

When I started to wonder if I might be autistic in my 30s, I thought I would finally feel clarity. Instead, I found myself constantly second-guessing myself.

Did I really have autism?

I have ADHD, but does that mean I’m also on the autism spectrum?

What if I was wrong?

I didn’t want to take away from anyone else’s experiences with neurodivergence. I didn’t want to claim something that wasn’t mine or minimize someone else’s experience.

But the more research I did, and the more I learned about autism in women, the more things started to make sense.

I was learning more about autism because of my godson, who was diagnosed when he was three. I wanted to know more about it and how I could help him if he needed me for anything—support, care, or love.

But the more I read about it, the more the traits of autism stood out to me and made me think, “Gee, that’s describing me to a tee.”

Then I started looking more into the relationship and overlap between ADHD and autism. I also dug into what autism really looks like in girls and women.

That’s where everything started changing for me. It was a realization and a moment of confirmation.

I realized autism was a part of my story.

But with that clarity came something I didn’t expect: grief.

Not because I was autistic.

But because I realized how many years I had spent believing something was fundamentally wrong with me.

I grieved the person I thought I was supposed to be. The person I was constantly trying to become. The version of myself who wouldn’t overthink everything, who could walk into a room and feel comfortable, and who didn’t need so much time to recover.

Looking back now, I see someone who was trying incredibly hard to make sense of a world that didn’t always make much sense to her.

The realization wasn’t one big moment where everything suddenly clicked. It was dozens of little memories that suddenly looked different through a new lens.

Things I had dismissed. Things I thought were just personality traits. Things I thought everyone experienced.

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Before making a phone call, I would play the conversation over in my head. I’d think about what I wanted to say, imagine how the other person might respond, and come up with answers before the conversation even started. Sometimes I would rehearse a simple voicemail multiple times before finally calling.

I honestly thought everyone did this.

There was one phone interview where I acted like I knew everything about jewelry and fashion. I think it was for an office assistant position, but during the call, the interviewer asked me several questions about fashion and beauty—something I wasn’t very interested in or knowledgeable about.

She asked what designers and brands I knew. I could only blurt out one answer.

Then silence.

Nothing else came to mind.

It was awkward, tense, and embarrassing. I walked away from that conversation knowing I had messed up and replayed it over and over in my head.

I had rehearsed the essentials: tell us about yourself, what did you do in your last job, what are your strengths, and what are your weaknesses. I wasn’t prepared for a question that came out of nowhere.

So, I froze.

Afterward, I replayed the entire conversation, wondering what I could have said differently.

I didn’t realize I wasn’t just preparing for a conversation.

I was trying to prepare for every possible outcome.

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I have always loved spending time with people I care about. And I have a fear of missing out, so I’ve usually been right there, ready to go. But with that excitement also comes a lot of energy spent.

I have always felt like my brain works overtime when it comes to socializing.

I’m constantly thinking: Am I saying the right thing? Am I being awkward? Am I talking too much? Am I fitting in?

Because of the fear of missing out and the rejection sensitivity I experience, I push through events without hesitation. But afterward, my body and mind are completely exhausted.

This happens almost every time I go out, whether it’s all day or only 20 minutes. I become overwhelmed and completely drained of energy.

I thought everyone felt this way.

I thought socializing was just something everyone had to recover from.

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Bright lights bothered me. Crowded stores made me want to leave almost as soon as I walked in. Certain fabrics felt unbearable against my skin. Strong smells would linger with me long after everyone else seemed to forget about them.

Anytime I go shopping for new clothes in person, I get overwhelmed. The bright lighting in fitting rooms, which already makes you feel like you look so unflattering, doesn’t help. The different scents of perfume filling the air, the constant bombardment of salespeople trying to talk to you, and the different fabrics to try on that always make me overheated all add up quickly.

It all becomes too much.

I feel overwhelmed, anxious, and overstimulated so quickly that I sometimes become nauseated.

I honestly can’t shop for hours on end. I’m more of the see it, like it, buy it, and go home immediately to decompress kind of person.

For years, I thought I was just being too sensitive.

I didn’t realize my brain was processing everything around me all at once.

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One of the hardest things to recognize wasn’t what I did.

It was what I hid.

I learned how to smile when I was overwhelmed, how to make eye contact even when it didn’t feel natural, how to laugh because everyone else was laughing, and how to push through situations that left me completely drained.

The hardest part about masking is that I didn’t know I was doing it.

I thought I was just trying to be polite.

I thought everyone was constantly monitoring themselves and adjusting themselves.

I got so good at masking that I fooled myself, too.

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I never really knew how much I relied on routines for comfort and safety. Perhaps it’s because I never saw my routine as a typical routine.

I didn’t have a set schedule or a calendar filled with things to do. I had a routine of my own.

Wake up. Eat breakfast. Go to school or work. Come home. Do homework, activities, or housework. Cook dinner. Eat. Relax and unwind.

Nothing was timed or overly structured. It was just a normal day that most people would probably consider typical.

But outside interruptions to my routine were overwhelming. I couldn’t handle unexpected changes.

Unfamiliar food during a weeknight dinner.

People unexpectedly coming over.

Plans changing.

They might have seemed like small things, but they changed the course of what I expected, and I didn’t always handle them well.

I like knowing what to expect. I like having a plan. I like familiar things.

It brings me more comfort and grounding than I ever realized.

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When I find something that lights me up, I don’t just casually enjoy it.

I dive in completely.

I want to know everything.

I want to research it, talk about it, and understand every detail.

People who really know me know how much passion I hold for my interests.

One of my biggest interests has always been sports. I love everything about them—the game, the camaraderie, and the competition. Having that feeling of representing your country, your state, or your city has always been meaningful to me.

I take so much pride in the city I live in, and I support all of our sports teams.

But my biggest passion is baseball.

More specifically, Los Angeles Dodgers baseball.

You’ll probably never see me as vocal about anything else. This is an interest I can talk nonstop about.

I’ll tell you about every player on the team. I’ll tell you about Kirk Gibson’s legendary walk-off home run during the 1988 World Series. I listened to the great Vin Scully and absorbed every word he said about the game.

So, if I find another Dodgers fan, I get excited because I finally have someone to share that passion with.

And when I’m talking about baseball, I don’t have the same hesitation I have in other conversations.

I don’t have to search for the right words.

I don’t have to wonder if I’m saying too much.

I can just be myself.

For years, I worried that I was too obsessed or that I cared too much about things other people moved on from.

Now I see those interests as some of the places where I feel most like myself.

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The biggest thing I didn’t realize wasn’t one specific trait.

It was how much of my life had been shaped by believing I needed to change.

I spent years trying to become someone who wasn’t overwhelmed so easily. Someone who could keep up. Someone who didn’t need as much quiet. Someone who seemed effortless.

But no matter how hard I tried, I always ended up feeling like I was falling short.

Learning I was autistic didn’t suddenly make life easy.

I still get overwhelmed. I still need quiet. And I still have days when my brain feels like it’s processing everything all at once.

But the difference is that I no longer see those things as personal failures. I see them as part of how my brain works.

And that has changed the way I speak to myself.

Instead of asking, “What’s wrong with me?”

I find myself asking, “What do I need?”

It seems like such a small shift.

But for me, it has changed everything.

For most of my life, I thought I needed to become someone else. But now, I’m learning that I was never bad at being a person.

I was simply trying to understand myself.

And finally understanding myself has been one of the most freeing experiences of my life.

Have you ever looked back at parts of yourself and realized they made more sense than you originally thought?

“The greatest thing in life is to discover who you are.”— Michael Crichton

Listen to the podcast episode here:

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Life can feel overwhelming sometimes.

That’s why I created this newsletter—a space for honest stories, gentle encouragement, and reminders that growth doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

If that sounds like something you need, I’d love to have you join me.

One thoughtful email each week for just $2.99/month. 

Embrace the Unseen:Honoring the Quiet, Sensitive, and Misunderstood Parts of Who You Are is a deeply personal memoir about feeling invisible, finding your voice, and learning to become yourself without fear. Through honest reflection and lived experience, it explores the slow process of healing, self-acceptance, and stepping out of silence. Woven throughout are comfort recipes that reflect moments of grounding, care, and emotional nourishment.  It also includes journal prompts, self-care ideas, tips, checklists, and extra added bonuses.

The post The Things I Thought Were Just Me Were Actually Autism first appeared on Embrace The Unseen.

Now, I’ve always been a very sensitive person. The smallest things can trigger an overwhelming amount of emotional pain. And I mean pain. It’s internal, but it can show outwardly too. Sometimes, it’s clearly written all over my face. Other times, it isn’t obvious at all. I’m just swallowing it all until I have a safe space to let my feelings out.

A text message that goes unanswered for a few hours can convince me that I did something wrong. That they’re upset with me in some way. That they don’t like me anymore. A little bit of criticism will replay in my mind for days—sometimes even weeks. If someone feels distant, my brain automatically fills in the blanks with the worst possible explanation.

I’ve always known that my reactions felt bigger than the situation itself, but I just couldn’t stop them from happening.

It’s been a little over a year since I learned about Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria, or RSD, and the moment I read about it, I nearly cried because it explained me to a tee. It was like looking up the term in the dictionary and seeing my face. Everything suddenly made so much sense.

I want you to know that if you’ve ever felt devastated by even the smallest hint of rejection, you are not alone. I’m right there with you.

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Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD) is a term used to describe an intense emotional response to real or perceived rejection, criticism, or failure. While it isn’t an official medical diagnosis, it’s something many people with ADHD—and some autistic people—say they experience.

The key word is perceived.

Sometimes the rejection is real. Other times, there isn’t any rejection at all. Your brain simply interprets a situation that way.

My brain is constantly in motion. I’m overthinking past conversations, present circumstances, and even scenarios that haven’t happened. What I imagine feels completely real, even when it couldn’t be further from the truth.

That’s the problem. Even when there isn’t rejection, my brain can convince me there is.

I had a situation where someone didn’t text me back after I’d spilled out my feelings about something. I felt so incredibly hurt by the lack of response. So I kept texting, desperately looking for some kind of reassurance that I hadn’t messed everything up.

Hours had passed, and her response was that she’d fallen asleep, but she also told me she couldn’t respond to my words until she had time to process them. She told me that I lashed out at her with the texts I’d sent. She didn’t acknowledge what I’d expressed. It was something deeply personal and incredibly difficult for me to open up about.

In that moment, it felt like complete rejection.

From my perspective, the conversation shifted away from what I’d shared and became about how my messages affected her. I never felt like my feelings were acknowledged.

Words were eventually exchanged between the two of us, and we are no longer friends. That hurt the most because it reaffirmed every fear I already had—that I wasn’t important, that I wasn’t supported, and that I wasn’t loved.

It made me think there was something deeply wrong with me. My mind immediately went to, I’m always the problem. No one is ever going to genuinely like me for who I am.

Opening up and being vulnerable has never come easily to me. And when I’m met with rejection or harsh criticism, it truly feels like a knife to the chest. So when the rejection feels real—or actually is—it shatters me into pieces.

Looking back now, I can see this wasn’t just about losing a friendship. It was about how intensely my brain experienced that rejection.

For someone experiencing RSD, these moments can feel far more painful than they might for someone else. What seems small on the outside can feel overwhelming on the inside.

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Everyone experiences RSD differently, but some common experiences include:

For me, it feels like my mind fills in the blanks before I have all the facts. Instead of assuming the best, I immediately assume I’ve done something wrong. Even when I can logically recognize that it probably isn’t true, the emotional response still feels incredibly real.

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People with ADHD often spend years receiving more criticism than their peers.

They may be told they’re lazy, forgetful, careless, dramatic, too loud, too quiet, or simply “not trying hard enough.”

Over time, those experiences can shape how someone sees themselves.

After hearing those messages enough, your brain can become hyperaware of any sign that rejection might be happening again.

That’s one reason why criticism—even when it’s meant to be helpful—can feel so deeply painful.

There was one time in college when I received some rather harsh criticism. I was meeting with my guidance counselor in the journalism department (my major). I didn’t set up the meeting; it was mandatory.

I had been struggling with one class in particular: investigative journalism. It’s a subject I would generally be interested in if the professor didn’t require us to get up in front of the class each time to report on our findings.

For me, there was so much anxiety built up around that. I had an incredibly difficult time speaking in front of people, let alone speaking in general. It had all become too much for me, and I dropped the class because I was convinced I’d be judged by both the students and the professor.

I’d thought about it so much that I convinced myself of the humiliation I would face. So, I took what I thought was the “cowardly” way out.

But during the meeting with my counselor, she didn’t offer any helpful advice. She didn’t help me where I needed to be helped. Instead, she asked, “Why are you even studying journalism?” and “You don’t seem to try as hard as others.”

Those words completely broke me. I cried afterward. It made me question my capabilities. It made me question my writing. And it made me think that I clearly wasn’t good enough.

I even considered changing my entire life trajectory because of those words. It hurt me to my core, and since then, I’ve never fully recovered. I still think about that situation every once in a while, and it makes me doubt myself all over again.

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RSD can influence nearly every part of life.

You might hesitate to apply for a new job because you’re afraid of hearing “no.”

You might avoid sharing your creative work because you’re worried people won’t like it.

And you may apologize constantly, even when you’ve done nothing wrong.

Sometimes, it becomes easier to stay small than risk feeling rejected.

That can keep us from experiences we genuinely want.

I’ve missed out on so many opportunities because of my RSD.

There have been career opportunities I could’ve pursued had I only shown up for the interview.

More times than I’d like to admit, I’ve canceled interviews at the last minute because of the anxiety and fear I’d built up in my head. I start out thinking, Okay, you’ve got this. But when the moment arrives, I convince myself I won’t get the job anyway.

I’m too quiet. Not capable enough.

So I back out before I even give myself the chance.

There was one dream job I desperately wanted. It was for a gastronomic tourism PR firm. At the time, all I wanted was to help restaurants and food brands tell their stories. It felt like the perfect fit.

I drove to the interview and forced myself out of the car, shaking with nerves. The anxiety was so overwhelming that I felt like I might pass out. I stumbled through the interview, and by the time it ended, I was convinced I hadn’t gotten the job.

Whether that feeling was accurate or not, I walked away believing I wasn’t good enough.

I never heard back, and that silence reinforced every insecurity I already had. I wasn’t outgoing enough. Maybe I just didn’t have the personality for the career I wanted.

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I’m still learning how to navigate RSD. I don’t think it’s something that ever fully goes away. It’s something that stays with you, but you can learn how to navigate it by slowing down and asking yourself questions like, “Do I actually know this is true?”

And more often than not, the answer is no.

I’m trying to become more aware of the stories I automatically create when I’m feeling anxious. Just because my brain tells me someone is upset with me doesn’t mean they actually are.

It’s not about never feeling hurt. It’s about remembering that my feelings are real, even if the conclusions my anxious brain jumps to aren’t always accurate.

Understanding RSD has helped me become a little gentler with myself. And that’s something I’ve needed my whole life.

I still have moments where I assume I’ve done something wrong or replay conversations in my head. I don’t think those thoughts will disappear overnight. But now I recognize them for what they are instead of immediately believing they’re true.

“Have you ever experienced a moment where rejection felt bigger than the situation itself?”

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” — William Shakespeare

Listen to the podcast episode here:

Photo by Roman Zorge on Pexels.com

Life can feel overwhelming sometimes.

That’s why I created this newsletter—a space for honest stories, gentle encouragement, and reminders that growth doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

If that sounds like something you need, I’d love to have you join me.

One thoughtful email each week for just $2.99/month. 

The Sting of Rejection: Understanding RSD in Neurodivergent Lives offers a compassionate look at Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria and its impact on ADHD and autistic individuals. Through gentle insights and relatable guidance, this ebook helps readers understand their emotional depth, set healthy boundaries, and begin healing from the fear of rejection.

The post How RSD Affects Daily Life: Overcoming Emotional Pain first appeared on Embrace The Unseen.

I feel like when people hear the words autism or ADHD, they have a very specific picture in their mind.

Autism is sometimes viewed as someone who is quiet, extremely routine-oriented, or socially disconnected.

ADHD is often reduced to being distracted, energetic, or unable to sit still.

But living with both—often called AuDHD—is much more complicated than those stereotypes suggest.

Of course, AuDHD looks different for everyone. This is simply what it has looked like in my own life.

It can look like needing structure but struggling to maintain it. Wanting connection but feeling exhausted after socializing. Being deeply passionate about something one day and completely overwhelmed by it the next.

It can look like a contradiction.

And for a long time, I thought those contradictions meant something was wrong with me.

Growing up, I observed others excelling in areas where I felt like I was failing.

During school, I’d see others raise their hands, speak with confidence, and socialize effortlessly.

For me, I was the quiet one, twirling my hair or doodling in my notebook, just trying to ease the discomfort I always felt.

Any time I walked through the door to class, I’d watch the clock tick minute by minute, desperately waiting for it to be over.

It’s not that I didn’t want to learn. I loved learning. I enjoyed solo projects, essays, and even pop quizzes.

But once I got into the classroom, I was dealing with sensory overload.

The sound of people laughing and talking while the teacher was speaking made it almost impossible for me to focus. The bright lights made me anxious and sweaty. There were multiple perfumes filling the air.

I just couldn’t concentrate on anything.

I’d sit there restless, moving my legs and trying to readjust every couple of minutes.

I just felt pulled in two different directions.

One side of me was frozen in fear, constantly worried about being called on.

The other side was restless, unfocused, and struggling to stay interested in areas that bored me.

Everyone else seemed to enjoy themselves, while I was miserable every moment.

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One of the hardest parts of AuDHD is that so much of it happens internally.

From the outside, I may look calm. I may seem like I’m listening, participating, or going through my day normally.

But inside, my brain can feel like there are twenty tabs open at once.

I’m constantly thinking about conversations I’ve had. Things I forgot to do. Things I need to remember. Random ideas. Future plans. Something embarrassing that happened years ago. Blurting into songs at random moments. A question I suddenly need to know the answer to.

It can feel like my brain never fully shuts off.

My mind always feels overloaded.

No matter how hard I try to turn it off, the spiral of thoughts continues.

I remember a time when I was just lying in bed, lights off, trying to fall asleep.

I had a few social gatherings days before, and I was trying to recharge my energy.

But I kept overthinking each situation.

All of the conversations I had.

The things I said.

The things I did.

It all resurfaced and became my focus for the rest of the night.

I was restless. Tossing and turning. Completely mortified that I had once again embarrassed myself by saying something stupid or acting like I was too much.

I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

That night became one where I needed more rest from my mind than from the social situations themselves.

There are so many moments where a thought pops into my head, and I suddenly feel so humiliated by myself.

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One of the interesting parts of AuDHD is the constant push and pull between needing routine and craving something new.

The autistic side of me finds comfort in knowing what to expect, and routines help me feel grounded. They reduce the number of decisions I have to make. They create a sense of safety.

But ADHD can make that routine feel really boring after a while.

Suddenly, I want change.

I want to start something new.

I get excited about a new idea, project, hobby, or system.

And sometimes the routine that was helping me becomes the very thing I avoid.

There was a time when I was trying really hard to keep busy.

I had a friend who practically lived with me because he stayed over nearly every night.

He was the opposite of me—bubbly, energetic, and outgoing.

I was quiet, introverted, and enjoyed silence.

I think our personalities meshed really well because we were opposites.

But regardless, he helped keep me motivated to stick to a routine.

We would go to work, go straight to the gym, cook dinner, and chat the night away.

It left me feeling exhausted, but I kept going because I was trying to keep up with his pace.

To me, the gym was the worst part of it all.

Spending the day at work and going straight there was mental and physical overload. That’s usually the time when I need to rest.

Every time we went, I was miserable.

Even though I felt better afterward—like I had accomplished something—I still dreaded going back the next day.

Our routine became tiring.

It became too busy for me.

And jokingly, I only lasted a month.

That’s how routines, especially strict ones, often failed me.

I could never seem to follow through on anything I set out to do because I’d grow tired of it or lose the motivation to keep going.

For years, I saw this as inconsistency.

But now, I understand it’s simply part of how my brain works.

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One of the biggest misunderstandings about ADHD is that people assume difficulty starting something means you don’t care.

But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

There are moments when I know exactly what I need to do.

The desire is there.

The frustration is there.

But sometimes, the bridge between knowing and doing feels impossible to cross.

That’s executive dysfunction.

It’s your brain struggling with the process of starting, organizing, prioritizing, or completing tasks.

For me, one task that always feels impossible to deal with is making and receiving phone calls.

It has always caused me a great deal of anxiety.

I get so nervous having to speak because it takes me longer than most people to process and understand the words being spoken.

Questions are hard to answer because I don’t know how to respond right away.

This often leads me to agreeing with everything just to appease the other person.

I don’t like awkward silence, so I try to fill the gaps by talking, even though I’m overthinking the entire conversation while I’m doing it.

Hearing my own voice sets me off course.

I lose my train of thought.

I just feel like I lack communication skills.

I’m never confident on the phone, and I do absolutely everything in my power to avoid them.

I had a job in public relations, and that required a lot of talking, a lot of “selling,” and I just couldn’t do it.

I think my boss could see my distress, so she let me off the hook a lot of the time because of it.

And for that, I’m forever grateful.

Talking on the phone isn’t just overwhelming internally—it also causes physical symptoms.

Nervous shaking.

Heart racing.

Nausea.

Headaches.

Essentially, a panic attack.

I don’t think speaking on the phone is something I’ll ever feel completely comfortable with.

It seems so natural and easy for others.

It makes me feel like I’m incapable.

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AuDHD can also mean experiencing the world differently.

Things that might seem small to someone else can build up quickly.

Bright lights.

Loud environments.

Unexpected changes.

Multiple conversations happening at once.

Too many decisions.

When they pile up, it can feel like my brain has reached its limit.

For me, one example is traveling.

More often than not, my experience is overwhelming.

The airports frustrate me the most.

Every single time I’m there, I get overheated, frustrated, and irritated.

Waiting in line through security.

Going through security.

Waiting for the flight.

It’s all so overwhelming.

I had one experience where I had one of my worst meltdowns.

I was arriving back home from a trip to Portland, and I couldn’t find the exit out of the airport.

LAX is always doing construction, so the signs were very misleading.

I hate asking for help, but I got to a point where I was so frustrated and overwhelmed that I had to ask.

The person directed me down a long hallway that looked like it wasn’t the right way.

I yelled at him.

I told him he was misleading me.

I was crying hysterically, screaming down the halls in pure rage.

Turns out, it was the right direction.

He was following me, probably because I was causing a scene.

Once I got out, I realized I had lost my reading glasses.

And that did it for me.

The whole experience was horrible.

Afterward, I felt so ashamed, so humiliated, and so hard on myself for acting the way I did.

But looking back, I realize it wasn’t just frustration.

It was everything building up until I reached my limit.

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One of the things I actually love about my brain is the ability to become deeply interested in something.

When something captures my attention, I can disappear into it.

For me, it can look like writing, blogging, cooking, learning, and researching.

Hours can pass without me realizing it.

Hyperfocus is a beautiful thing because it allows me to be deeply creative and passionate.

But it also comes with challenges.

Sometimes I forget to eat.

Sometimes I forget to take breaks.

And sometimes, I look up and realize much more time has passed than I expected.

I’ve been completely taken hostage by blogging.

I’m so dedicated, motivated, and passionate about it that it consumes me.

I spend hours, sometimes even all day, writing, creating, and researching until I become completely lost in it.

It’s really hard to pull me away.

And anytime I am, I get frustrated beyond belief.

Honestly, I’m surprised it hasn’t dissipated yet.

I typically grow tired of things rather quickly, but this one appears to be here to stay.

It’s become my passion.

My interest.

My hobby.

But it has taken me away from people, other pleasures, and other interests.

And for that, I feel guilty.

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I love the people in my life.

I enjoy conversations, memories, and spending time with others.

But socializing often requires more energy than people realize.

The thing is, I’m not just having a conversation.

I’m processing sounds, reading facial expressions, thinking about what to say, when to say it, trying not to interrupt, managing sensory input, and keeping track of everything happening around me.

So even when I have a wonderful time, I need quiet afterward because my brain has been working hard to keep up.

After any social occasion, I need rest.

It could be a long day, or it could even be a twenty-minute conversation—I’ll still need time to recharge.

I thrive during my alone time.

I genuinely enjoy the peacefulness it brings because I don’t have to mask or try so hard.

For me, there’s nothing better than getting into comfy clothes, watching something familiar, and just disconnecting from the world.

To be honest, socializing drains me beyond belief.

The more I learn about my AuDHD brain, the more I realize I wasn’t failing or falling behind—I was simply trying to navigate a world that wasn’t always designed for the way I experience it.

What is something you once saw as a flaw that you now understand differently?

“You are not a problem to be solved.”

Listen to the podcast episode:

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Life can feel overwhelming sometimes.

That’s why I created this newsletter—a space for honest stories, gentle encouragement, and reminders that growth doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

If that sounds like something you need, I’d love to have you join me.

One thoughtful email each week for just $2.99/month. 

Explore the hidden cost of always “being fine.” Learn to stop performing wellness, honor your limits, and reclaim your energy and peace.

The post What AuDHD Looks Like in My Everyday Life first appeared on Embrace The Unseen.

Personally, I’ve always considered myself a picky eater. I remember refusing certain foods that found their way onto my plate night after night. Things like broccoli, pork chops, or fatty bacon.

I think when people think about picky eating, they imagine a child who refuses vegetables or only wants chicken nuggets.

For me, I had my safe foods. My comfort foods. Dishes that I knew exactly what to expect from.

I learned early on that I was sensitive to textures, smells, and tastes. But as I’ve grown older, my taste buds have expanded and I’m more open to trying new foods. Even with that, I still go back to the meals that make me feel comforted and safe.

I knew that autistic people can sometimes experience food aversions and sensory differences around eating, but I didn’t know there was a condition called ARFID (Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder).

I’ve personally never experienced this condition, but my godson has. And he has taught me that ARFID is so much more than what it sounds like.

I’m still learning about ARFID. I asked his mother, my best friend, the other day what it really looks like for him. She lives in Michigan, so I only get to visit about twice a year, but when I do go out there, I try to stay as long as possible to spend time with them.

I’ve noticed his distaste for most foods. Even ones that most kids love.

He won’t touch anything with cheese (mac and cheese, pizza, grilled cheese)—all out the window. He doesn’t like sandwiches unless they’re peanut butter. His favorite safe comfort food is Chicken McNuggets. He can go to town on those. Also, give him some French fries and he’s a happy camper.

His mom told me that any type of chicken tender she gives him has to be similar in size, shape, texture, and flavor. Jokingly, she told me she gave him those dinosaur nuggets once, and he refused them because they looked different.

One memory that really sticks with me happened when we took a little day trip to Frankenmuth, Michigan. It’s such a cute little German town, and they have the largest Christmas store I’ve ever seen. The best part is that it’s open all year round.

After walking around for a while, the three of us—my godson, my best friend, and I—decided to go out to eat. We went to one of the local eateries, a place known for their fried chicken.

We sat down in a nice booth and ordered our meals. Naturally, my friend ordered chicken tenders for her son.

When the food arrived, he took one bite and spit it out.

It wasn’t what he was used to.

The chicken looked different, tasted different, and had a different texture. He also could’ve been extremely overwhelmed by the restaurant itself. There were different smells, sounds, and a lot happening around him.

So instead of focusing on the fact that he wasn’t eating, I just started playing Hangman with him.

I remember feeling bad that he didn’t eat, but I also understood why.

Before I knew what ARFID was, I probably would’ve assumed he would eventually “grow out of it.” I didn’t understand that eating could genuinely feel overwhelming.

ARFID is an eating disorder where a person eats a very limited range or amount of food. It can be connected to sensory sensitivities, fear of negative consequences like choking, vomiting, or getting sick after eating, or simply having little interest in food.

It isn’t stubbornness. Certain textures, smells, tastes, or even the thought of trying something unfamiliar can cause real distress.

As I’ve learned more about autism and sensory differences, I’ve come to understand how closely food can be tied to feeling safe.

For my godson, having familiar foods is about predictability. It’s knowing what to expect.

And when so much of the world can already feel overwhelming, that predictability matters.

Watching him has changed the way I think about food.

As a kid, I probably would’ve been right there with him. I was drawn to foods that made me feel safe: mashed potatoes, pasta, cheeseburgers. But as an adult, I’ve noticed myself asking, “Why won’t he just try it?”

Now I know the better question is, “What would help him feel safe?”

As he’s getting older, his mom is trying to give him little tastes of something new. Of course, she tells him it’s new because she told me you never want to trick them into eating anything.

Even though he’s more than likely to spit it out, he’s willing to try.

He actually discovered he likes flan. A food I’m not particularly fond of because of its texture, but it made me really happy that he found something new that he enjoys.

I won’t lie, it sometimes breaks my heart to see him eat the same thing every day, always having to be the same brand name. But I understand so much more now, and I’m just happy he has foods that make him feel comfortable.

I’ve learned that you can’t force someone with ARFID to eat something or pressure them into trying new foods. You have to respect their safe foods and celebrate those small steps.

My godson has taught me that food isn’t just about what’s on the plate. Sometimes it’s about comfort. Sometimes it’s about safety. And sometimes it’s about knowing that someone understands you.

I may never fully understand what eating feels like for him, but I can listen, learn, and meet him where he is.

And honestly, if Chicken McNuggets are what make him happy right now, then I hope he enjoys every single one.

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• 1 lb ground chicken or finely minced chicken breast
• 1 tsp salt
• ½ tsp garlic powder
• ½ tsp onion powder
• ½ tsp paprika
• ¼ tsp black pepper
• 1 tbsp cornstarch
• 2 tbsp milk
• 1 egg

• 1 cup flour
• ½ cup cornstarch
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 tsp garlic powder
• 1 tsp onion powder
• ½ tsp paprika
• ½ tsp pepper

• vegetable oil

• In a food processor, blend the ground chicken, salt, seasonings, cornstarch, milk, and egg until the mixture becomes smooth and slightly sticky. (This helps give that soft, uniform texture similar to fast-food nuggets.)
• Scoop small portions and shape them into nugget shapes. You can make them rounded like traditional nuggets or use cookie cutters if making them fun for kids.
• Place them on a lined baking sheet and freeze for about 20–30 minutes. This helps them hold their shape.
• Mix flour, cornstarch, and seasonings in a bowl.
• Lightly coat each nugget, then dip in a little water or milk, and coat again for a crispier crust.
• Frying method: Heat oil to 350°F. Fry nuggets for about 3–4 minutes until golden
• Air fryer method: Spray lightly with oil. Air fry at 400°F for 10–12 minutes, flipping halfway
• Baking Method: Bake at 425°F for 15–18 minutes, flipping halfway
• Serve with dipping sauce

• Copycat Honey Mustard
• 2 tbsp mayo
• 1 tbsp yellow mustard
• 1 tbsp honey
• ½ tsp lemon juice
• Mix and chill.

Comfort Food Spotlight: Why Safe Foods Matter

Sometimes comfort food isn’t about the fanciest ingredients or the most complicated recipe. Sometimes it’s the food that feels familiar. The meal you know exactly what to expect from. And sometimes, a plate of chicken nuggets can mean a whole lot more than people realize.

What is a food that brings you comfort, not because it’s fancy, but because it feels familiar and safe?

“The most important thing we can give each other is not our opinions or advice, but our understanding.” — Stephen R. Covey

Listen to the podcast episode here:

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Life can feel overwhelming sometimes.

That’s why I created this newsletter—a space for honest stories, gentle encouragement, and reminders that growth doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

If that sounds like something you need, I’d love to have you join me.

One thoughtful email each week for just $2.99/month. 

Soul Kitchen is a heartfelt collection of recipes and stories that celebrate the joy, comfort, and connection food brings. From family favorites to indulgent desserts, each dish is paired with memories and reflections that make cooking a soulful experience. Perfect for home cooks of all levels, this cookbook invites you to bring warmth, love, and a little bit of nostalgia to your table.

The post When Picky Eating Is More Than Picky Eating: Understanding ARFID first appeared on Embrace The Unseen.

The last few weeks, I’ve been trying to do little things that make me feel better because I’ve been in a hard headspace. I’ve felt a lack of energy. A lack of motivation. And a heavy guilt for not doing enough. At least, that’s how it feels in my mind.

I always put so much pressure on myself when it comes to improving my life. I know there are things I want to change—my habits, my health, my focus—but when I look at everything all at once, it feels like too much.

And that’s usually when I shut down.

I know those changes would probably make me feel better in the long run, but actually starting them feels like the hardest part.

It happens every single time. I try to create a routine, it doesn’t stick, and then I feel like I failed. Eventually, I just stopped trying because I was tired of constantly starting over.

But lately, something has changed.

Maybe it’s summer. Maybe it’s the longer days or the extra sunshine. Whatever it is, I’ve been feeling a little more inspired to take better care of myself.

Not by completely changing my life overnight.

Not by creating the perfect routine.

Just by paying attention to the little things that make me feel good.

I’ve stopped chasing the perfect version of myself and started focusing more on the simple moments.

The moments that make me feel like me.

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The other day, I went to the beach with some friends. I hadn’t been in nearly two years because summer just seemed to pass me by without making the time to go.

Part of that is because I don’t like going alone. Most of my friends live out of state, so I just kept waiting for someone else to go with me.

And honestly, the thought of going by myself always made me anxious.

But lately, I’ve been thinking… why am I waiting?

The beach has always been my happy place.

It’s where I like to relax, reflect, and slow down.

I love listening to the waves. The smell of the salty ocean air mixed with sunscreen. Watching the sunset slowly disappear beneath the horizon.

It’s funny because it’s one of the few places where I actually enjoy being alone.

Not because I don’t like being around people, but because I want to soak it all in without distractions.

That day reminded me that I don’t have to wait for someone else to enjoy the things I love.

I can just go.

I can pack a book, bring a towel, and spend a peaceful day by the ocean.

And honestly, that sounds like one of the best forms of self-care I can think of this summer.

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One of my best friends came into town, and one of our favorite things to do when we’re together is go to Laguna Beach. So naturally, we went with one of our other friends too.

We spent the day soaking up the sun, laughing over tacos and margaritas, and watching the sunset at the park.

Moments like that remind me how important it is to make time for the people who bring joy into my life.

Spending time with the people I love gives me a feeling that’s hard to explain.

When I’m with them, I feel completely at ease.

They’re the kind of people that I can be fully myself with. I don’t have to pretend to be anything other than who I am.

And that’s something I definitely don’t take for granted.

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Lately, I’ve been in a “taste of summer” mindset.

All I’ve been wanting is fresh summer fruits and vegetables. The kind of things that taste like the season itself.

The other day, I went to the grocery store and picked up a few ripe peaches.

And it immediately made me think of my grandpa.

He used to work in the produce business and was a great salesman. He had a way of getting people excited about fresh, ripened fruit.

He taught me how to pick out the best ones—the ones that were perfectly sweet and ready to eat.

So standing there, picking peaches off the shelf, I felt a little bit of nostalgia.

It almost felt like his presence was guiding me toward which ones to choose.

And let me tell you, that first bite of peach did not disappoint.

It was so juicy, sweet, and a little tart—the perfect combination of everything you want summer to be.

That’s one of the things I love about food. Sometimes it’s not just about what you’re eating.

It’s about the memories attached to it.

I decided to use those peaches to try a new recipe I had been chatting with friends about—a simple fruit and cheese plate with baked peaches, burrata cheese, walnuts, and a balsamic drizzle.

It sounds simple, but it truly brought a smile to my face.

Food always has a way of doing that to me.

I love just getting in the kitchen, putting on some music, and taking my time.

Cooking has always been one of the ways I show myself a little love.

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I think one of the biggest things I’ve been trying to do lately is slow down enough to actually enjoy the season I’m in.

It’s so easy to let time pass without really noticing it.

One minute summer starts, and the next thing you know, it’s already gone.

So lately, I’ve been trying to pay attention to the little things.

Going to the grocery store and taking my time walking through the produce section.

Taking evening walks when the day starts to cool down.

Listening to music while doing things around the house.

Enjoying long hot showers to soothe my muscles.

These things might seem small, but they actually make me feel better.

And lately, I’m trying to stop waiting for the “right” time to enjoy my life.

What are the little things that make you feel more like yourself?

“Slow down and enjoy life. It’s not only the scenery you miss by going too fast—you also miss the sense of where you are going and why.” — Eddie

Listen to the podcast episode here:

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Life can feel overwhelming sometimes.

That’s why I created this newsletter—a space for honest stories, gentle encouragement, and reminders that growth doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

If that sounds like something you need, I’d love to have you join me.

One thoughtful email each week for just $2.99/month. 

The Comfort Project offers permission to listen inward, honor changing needs, and embrace small moments of calm without guilt or pressure. Through reflective essays, nurturing practices, and practical tools, readers are guided to discover what comfort truly looks like for them—whether through food, routines, sensory grounding, cozy spaces, connection, or rest.

The post Summer Self-Care: Small Things That Help You Feel Better first appeared on Embrace The Unseen.

Here’s my advice: put the phone down and pay attention to the world around you.

Growing up as a millennial, I believe we were one of the last generations to truly spend our childhoods playing outside. We were pre-internet and pre-social media, so we knew what it was like to have a childhood filled with fun activities, imagination, and real-life connection.

Generation Z and the generations after them will never really know what life was like before the internet. They don’t know what it’s like to play with the neighborhood kids until the streetlights came on. They don’t know what it’s like to connect with others in a way that feels natural and organic because so much communication now happens through screens.

Social media wasn’t introduced to me until I was a teenager, with MySpace being the first platform. Sure, it was a great way to connect with friends and show others a little side of your personality, but I still went outside and enjoyed the simple joys of being around friends and doing something active.

I think it’s incredibly important for your mental health to step away from social media sometimes because it doesn’t just waste your day, it can also create a negative self-view after constantly seeing influencers and creators parade their “perfect” lives online.

It feels like everyone in this generation is banking on becoming a content creator.

I just feel sorry for this generation and the ones after because of this new age of technology. AI is running more and more of the world around us. Do kids even still write by hand in school? I know they got rid of cursive writing. How are they supposed to create a signature?

The structure is different. The learning methods are different. Communication is different.

I don’t think people call their friends very often anymore. Most communication happens through texts, DMs, and social media.

I certainly don’t mean to criticize younger generations because I do see so much potential in them. I just hope we can still keep some of the old traditions alive.

Life isn’t about staring at a screen.

It’s about sharing lived experiences.

It’s about trying new things. Going on adventures. Making memories. Living in the moment.

Not just dreaming about life, but actually living it.

That’s the advice I would give to someone younger than me.

Go outside.

Breathe in the fresh air.

Pay attention to the little moments and the beauty around you.

Take care of your mental health and nurture it.

Don’t keep feeding it things that make you feel worse.

Life is happening right now.

Don’t miss it while looking at a screen.

What is one simple moment from your childhood or past that you wish you appreciated more?

“Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.”— Robert Brault

Listen to the podcast episode here:

Photo by Roman Zorge on Pexels.com

Life can feel overwhelming sometimes.

That’s why I created this newsletter—a space for honest stories, gentle encouragement, and reminders that growth doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

If that sounds like something you need, I’d love to have you join me.

One thoughtful email each week for just $2.99/month. 

The post What I Wish Younger Generations Knew About Life: My Advice first appeared on Embrace The Unseen.