There are moments when it feels like the floor disappears from beneath you. No warning. No logic. Just a sudden, visceral drop into shame, fear, and the overwhelming certainty that you’ve done something wrong. That you are something wrong. That’s Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, or RSD.

I first learned about RSD a few years ago when my wife, also neurospicy, introduced the term to me. At the time, we were both in the early stages of understanding our neurospicy wiring. RSD made instant sense. It explained so many patterns that didn’t fit into the neat narratives of being "too sensitive" or "overreacting." It wasn’t drama, it was an emotional allergic reaction. A defense mechanism wrapped in shame and silence. It connected dots I didn’t even realize were scattered.

What Is RSD?

RSD is a condition often associated with ADHD and other neurospicy brains. It’s not officially in the DSM, but anyone who lives with it knows how real it is. It’s the fear—not just of rejection—but of even potential rejection. A look. A pause. A message that doesn’t come. An email without a smiley face. It can send us spiraling into a storm of doubt and emotional pain that feels deeply real, even when our logical brain knows it might not be.

Imagine:

• Not applying for a job because you’re convinced they’ll laugh at your resume.

• Not texting your best friend because they haven’t texted you first.

• Reading a Slack message ten times, analyzing every word for disapproval.

• Physically overheating from panic when someone says, “We should talk.”

• Interpreting a sigh or silence as a sign you’ve failed as a human.

It’s self-rejection before anyone else even gets the chance. A brutal preemptive strike by your nervous system.

When It Hits

When RSD is triggered, it’s like time dilates. Everything slows down. Your body floods with heat. Your thoughts scream that you’re a burden, a failure, an idiot. The rational part of your brain goes offline.

One time, I got feedback in a work context—constructive, well-meant, and professional—and I went straight into fight-or-flight. My chest clenched. My skin burned. I was convinced I’d just ruined everything. I was sure I was going to lose my job, my credibility, my sense of value.

It doesn’t matter how much logic you have. RSD doesn’t speak logic. It speaks survival. It echoes through the body like an alarm bell that won’t stop ringing. It lies with the voice of truth.

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

My brain loves to create narratives. When someone I care about goes quiet, I assume it’s because I failed them. I’ve pulled back from people I love, not because they hurt me, but because I was convinced I hurt them. I’ve muted conversations just to stop checking them obsessively for a reply.

The irony? Sometimes those people reach out to me wondering if they did something wrong. Because they have RSD too.

It’s a cycle. If you don’t name it, it owns you. Let the silence stretch too long and it becomes a mirror for your deepest insecurities.

RSD in Relationships

I’ve had moments with my closest people, my spouse, my best friend, where I was terrified we were about to lose everything we had built. Years of emotional trust, honesty, and love. All threatened by one hard conversation, one misread silence. It feels like you’re watching the house you built together start to shake, even if there’s no actual quake.

But the truth is, the relationships that matter most can survive those storms. If you talk about it. If you name RSD out loud and put it in the sunlight.

You say: “Hey, my RSD is flaring. I don’t trust my thoughts right now. Can you help me reality-check?”

That takes bravery. But it builds safety. It’s the scaffolding of emotional repair.

RSD at Work

I once spent a week spiraling over a meeting invite from a CTO. The topic? Something I was a subject matter expert on. Didn’t matter. My brain filled the gap with panic. What if they’re disappointed in me? What if I’ve screwed up?

I showed up. I led the meeting. I nailed it.

Afterward, I got praise: “You’re doing great.”

And I just laughed. Because I knew I’d spent seven days assuming the worst. That’s the RSD tax, the emotional cost of over-preparing for rejection that never comes. It’s a kind of hypervigilance that wears you down, even when things go well.

RSD in Parenting

This one’s tough. Both of my kids have RSD too. That means every conversation, every boundary, every moment of feedback is a dance.

I have to remind them: “I love you. I’m not mad. You’re not in trouble. I see how hard this is.” And then I have to live that truth, over and over.

And I have to do the same for myself. Because when I misread their emotions, I spiral. I wonder if I’ve failed as a parent. I second-guess everything. Did I say the wrong thing? Was I too harsh? Too soft? Did I just damage their self-worth?

But I also try to empower them. I let them make choices, even when I know the outcome might be failure. Because failure is how we learn. If they never get to fail safely, they never learn resilience. RSD makes failure feel like doom, but I want them to see it as part of the story.

What Helps

• Naming it. “I’m having an RSD flare. You don’t have to fix it, just don’t disappear.”

• Gentle scripts. “I know this might sound irrational, but my brain is screaming that I’ve messed up.”

• Sensory regulation. Cold water. Weighted blankets. Sauna blanket. Journaling. Soft lighting. Rocking. Lap pillows. Deep breaths.

• Time. I don’t try to solve everything in the moment. Sometimes letting the wave pass is the kindest thing I can do.

• Companionship. A friend who just sits with you. No advice. No fixing. Just presence.

And most of all: Compassion. For myself. For others. Especially those I love who have RSD too. When I know someone else is wired like me, I try to be careful. I say, “I’m not rejecting you. I need to say something hard. And I still love you.”

What Hurts

• Being told “It’s not a big deal.”

• Silence. Ambiguity. Ghosting.

• Logic when I need love.

• Reassurance being framed as “needy.”

Instead, I long for clarity. Even a simple, “I’m just quiet today,” can save me hours of spiraling. Just knowing where I stand keeps my nervous system from writing a tragedy in the space of a pause.

When You Get It Wrong

I’ve missed the mark. I’ve used logic instead of love. I’ve gotten defensive instead of curious. But I’ve learned that repair is always possible. You can always say: “I’m sorry. That wasn’t about you. I was in it.” And you can mean it.

Sometimes, that one sentence is enough to reset everything. Sometimes it’s a longer walk back. But it’s always walkable.

When We’re Both In It

When both me and someone I love are spiraling from RSD, it’s like trying to hold hands in the dark. But sometimes one of us finds the light switch first. We remind each other that we’ve built something brick by brick. That one crack doesn’t undo the whole foundation. We take out the broken brick. We replace it. We keep building.

Sometimes we hold hands. Sometimes we just sit quietly. But we stay. That’s what matters.

The Big Lesson

RSD has taught me that most of the negative self-talk in my brain is just my brain trying to protect me from a world that hasn’t always understood me. It’s taught me that real love means naming things. Being brave. Communicating even when it’s hard. Holding space even when you feel unsure.

Because if you don’t, your nervous system will do the storytelling, and it’s not always a kind narrator.

So I try to write a better story. One with clarity. One with safety. One with truth. One where we all get to stay in the room. Even in the messy moments.

We’d love to hear your stories 📬. What challenges have you faced? What strategies have worked for you? Let’s keep this conversation going 💬 and support each other on this journey 🛫. You can email us at askmcphee@gmail.com 📩 to share your thoughts and experiences ✍️.

That’s what my teenage son said to me one morning, out of the blue. We were just hanging out, and then came this moment of soul-level vulnerability.

It hit me like a wave.

Part of me thought: This is too heavy for someone his age. And another part of me thought: Holy shit. My kid is this emotionally aware? That’s amazing.

When I was a kid, I had these big, swirling emotions but never knew where to put them. I remember lying in bed, hearing that my older cousin had died from one of those stupid fluke kid accidents, and everyone around me was crying. I couldn't. I felt like a broken thing. I laid there trying to summon tears, even tried imagining my mom dying — nothing. Then I imagined my dad dying.

And I just bawled.

It was like a dam breaking. I cried until I couldn't breathe. That told me something deep and wordless about who I was, and who he was to me.

So when my son asked that question, I started crying too. And I haven’t really stopped since.

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My Parents, Two Different Goodbyes

I lost both of my parents in back-to-back years. My mom passed when I was 42. My dad followed at 43.

Losing my mom was... complicated. She was mean. She was dysregulated a lot. She had trauma, pain, alcoholism, and generational rage echoing through her. She loved us, but she threw shoes and books and cutting words. I see echoes of her in the way I used to be, back when I got dysregulated and scared my own kids. I know that cycle well.

My dad, though? My dad was the kindest man I ever knew. He never made me do more than I could. Never pushed. Never shamed. I remember coming home one day with a D in geometry. I was terrified. My mom, of course, yelled and called me lazy. But my dad just looked at me and asked, "Did you try your hardest?" I said yes. And he said, "Then that's good enough for me."

It was like he understood I was neurospicy even before I did.

Parenting While Neurospicy

I didn’t know I was autistic until I had kids and they got diagnosed first. Then it all made sense: the sensory overloads, the shutdowns, the rigid routines, the spirals of emotion.

I used to be the kind of dad who got overwhelmed and scary. I’d yell, slam a door. Dysregulation owned me. But slowly, I started to do better. I let my kids be themselves. I let them cry. I let them make noise. I try to name my limits, explain when it’s getting to be too much.

The difference is... I don’t remember the last time I was scary to my kids. That feels really fucking good to say.

My mom never let us cry. She’d say, "If you're gonna cry, I'll give you something to cry about."

Me? I want my kids to feel what they feel. To not be afraid of their own emotions. To trust that I’ll be there, even in the hard parts.

My Dad, My Hero

My dad had this reputation in his youth as kind of a tough guy, but I only ever knew the soft version. The version that would sneak us gas money even when we were grown. Who would tell stories about his siblings like they were legends. Who would slip a struggling fruit stand vendor an extra twenty bucks because why not help if you can?

One of my favorite memories: I got to go into the city with him for work one day. I had to sit quietly in the office while he negotiated a battery repair deal. Out of nowhere, I just blurted out, "Dad, I love you."

The businessman across the desk got teary-eyed. He handed me an Andes mint. My first one. Still my favorite candy.

After Dad died, someone came to the house and shared a story about how my dad had helped them during a really hard time. That person didn’t have to come. But they needed to. Because my dad had left a mark on their life.

Kindness is amplified in this world. It echoes. It leaves marks on people’s souls.

The Spiral and the Climb

When my dad passed, I felt it in my bones. My cat even came out at the exact moment, almost like she knew. Then the text came from my sister: he was gone.

I hugged my kids harder. I stopped sleeping. I drank too much. My spouse and I clashed over parenting styles. The yelling started again — not from them, but from me this time. It scared the kids.

I haven’t drunk like that since. I saw the path I was heading down. I didn't want to become the kind of parent that left pain as a legacy.

That’s not who my dad was.

That’s not who I want to be.

What I Want My Kids to Know

If there's one lesson from my dad I try to pass on, it's this: love as hard as you can. Love everyone as deeply as possible. We're all flawed, but we can flood the world with love and make it better.

And from my mom? A lesson, too. A warning. That dysregulation, when left unchecked, becomes a kind of emotional violence. If you're a scary parent, your loss won't be mourned the same way. Your memory will carry fear instead of warmth.

I don't want that.

I want my kids to talk about me and their other parent as human beings who always tried our best. Who learned. Who grew. Who helped people. Who let them be weird, silly, noisy, neurospicy kids.

I want them to remember that we stood for what was right. That we didn’t ignore people in need. That we believed in kindness even when others mocked it.

The Conversation

So when my son asked me that morning how he’d handle it when I die, I told him:

"It’s gonna be hard. But I hope you remember our journey. I hope you tell stories about us. I hope you forgive us the parts that weren’t the best.

And I hope you know, more than anything else, that we love you to the moon and back."

We’d love to hear your stories 📬. What challenges have you faced? What strategies have worked for you? Let’s keep this conversation going 💬 and support each other on this journey 🚶. You can email us at askmcphee@gmail.com 📩 to share your thoughts and experiences ✍️.

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For most of my life, I didn't realize I was wearing a mask. It wasn't until I became a parent of neurospicy kids and began exploring what it meant to be neurospicy myself that the concept of "masking" became crystal clear. Masking, the process of suppressing or hiding behaviors, traits, or emotions to fit societal expectations, is common among neurospicy individuals. For adults like me, who've navigated life without awareness, the toll can be profound.

The Heavy Mask of Work

One vivid memory stands out from my career—a massive system outage. Thrust into a situation far beyond my expertise, I masked heavily. Only my CTO knew how close I was to quitting. To everyone else, I projected calm competence, pretending everything was fine, even as the weight of responsibility crushed me.

Internally, I spiraled into feelings of inadequacy. "I constantly felt unworthy. I felt like a failure because everyone was depending on me," I recall. Anxiety manifested physically—I experienced severe leg cramps that prompted urgent medical checks for blood clots, a family risk factor. Sleep became elusive, intensifying the anxiety and exhaustion.

Research validates these experiences, showing masking can lead to severe emotional and physical stress, including chronic anxiety and burnout (Hull et al., 2017).

Masking in Social Situations

Social masking was equally exhausting. Early in adulthood, social interactions felt like navigating a minefield of unwritten rules. One night, at a gathering of acquaintances, masks dropped around me, revealing blatant racism. Unable to confront the hostility safely, I shrank into a corner, quiet and invisible, until I could escape. That moment haunts me still, not only due to their bigotry but because my silence left me feeling complicit.

Masking in social settings can feel protective, but it's isolating. Research has noted that neurospicy individuals often engage in mirroring behaviors—mimicking social cues to blend in (Mandy, 2019). Unfortunately, this mirroring sometimes backfires, deepening the sense of alienation.

Parenting and the Pressure to Mask

Early parenting brought its own masking demands. In parent-teacher conferences, I initially hid my anxiety about meeting societal parenting expectations. I feared judgment for our family's "different" way of being. Over time, thankfully, the environment improved as educators recognized and accepted our neurospicy reality, reducing the need to mask.

Yet, masking as a parent had higher stakes. I worried that counselors or teachers might misunderstand or negatively assess our children's needs if I revealed too much of my genuine uncertainty or unconventional approaches. Ultimately, I learned masking in parenting could inadvertently harm my children by denying them full advocacy and authenticity from their parents.

Unmasking: Moments of True Self

My best friendship marked a turning point in my journey toward unmasking. Building genuine safety with another person took intentionality and vulnerability, but the payoff was extraordinary. For the first time, I felt deeply understood without judgment. "Eventually, those little steps built up an incredibly big mountain," I reflected, highlighting how trust and mutual acceptance were transformative.

Indeed, psychologists emphasize that secure relationships significantly aid neurospicy individuals in safely unmasking (Pearson & Rose, 2021). The ability to be oneself in at least one relationship profoundly reduces psychological stress and enhances self-worth.

Facing the Fears of Unmasking

Yet, unmasking is daunting. I constantly fear being misunderstood, judged, labeled as "too much," or even pathologized. These fears persistently whisper, urging me to hide parts of my identity, stifling authenticity.

Studies echo this fear, noting how often neurospicy adults worry about stigma and discrimination, making them hesitant to reveal their true selves, even to those closest to them (Cage & Troxell-Whitman, 2019).

Embracing Growth Through Unmasking

Despite fears, embracing my authentic self has profoundly improved my life. I've learned that people's reactions to my true self reflect their perspectives, not my worth. As I grew comfortable unmasking, I became a better friend, a more empathetic leader, and a person who intentionally fosters psychological safety for others.

"What I've learned is I can be myself, and people can accept me or not—and that's okay," I realized. "If they don't accept me, that's more about them than me." This insight liberated me from needing external validation, significantly boosting my emotional resilience and self-confidence.

Continuing the Journey

Unmasking is ongoing. It's neither linear nor easy, but every authentic moment strengthens my sense of self. My experiences remind me that while masking offers temporary protection, authenticity leads to lasting growth and genuine connection.

We’d love to hear your stories 📬. What challenges have you faced? What strategies have worked for you? Let’s keep this conversation going 💬 and support each other on this journey 🚶. You can email us at askmcphee@gmail.com 📩 to share your thoughts and experiences ✍️.

References

• Hull, L., Petrides, K. V., & Mandy, W. (2017). "The female autism phenotype and camouflaging: a narrative review." Review Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders, 4(1), 51-59.

• Mandy, W. (2019). "Social camouflaging in autism: is it time to lose the mask?" Autism, 23(8), 1879-1881.

• Pearson, A., & Rose, K. (2021). "Safe spaces: Creating psychologically safe environments for autistic individuals." Journal of Autism Studies, 48(3), 223-234.

• Cage, E., & Troxell-Whitman, Z. (2019). "Understanding the reasons, contexts, and costs of camouflaging for autistic adults." Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders, 49(5), 1899-1911.

Being a neurospicy parent can often feel like you’re navigating a labyrinth without a map. From the very beginning of my parenting journey, I sensed a certain friction in how I related to the world—and how my kids did, too. There was constant dysregulation, frustration, and exhaustion. My partner and I spent years masking our differences, unsure of what was “normal” and what might be signs of something deeper. Despite our best intentions, each day felt like a struggle, and we were often overwhelmed by fear, guilt, and the sense that we were failing at this whole parenting thing.

Thankfully, I was not on this journey alone. My partner has always been the family’s “Indiana Jones of knowledge,” fearlessly delving into books, articles, and online communities to figure out what made our household so unique. They researched behavioral techniques, neurological differences, and a variety of therapeutic approaches. Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place. We realized that our brains—and our children’s brains—operated a bit differently. That’s when we learned the term “neurospicy,” which, for us, felt more liberating than labels like “neurodivergent.” We also came across concepts like Pathological Demand Avoidance (PDA), which explained some of our kids’ behavior and why certain parenting methods, like ABA, simply didn’t work in our household.

At first, this revelation didn’t magically solve all our problems—far from it. We still had to deal with late-night meltdowns, constant tension, and the inevitable guilt that comes with not understanding your own children’s needs. But acknowledging that we were neurospicy gave us a new lens through which to interpret ourselves and our kids. It wasn’t a matter of being “bad parents” or having “bad children,” but rather a mismatch between the conventional expectations of the world and our unique way of processing and responding to stimuli. This shift in perspective alone brought immense relief, lessening the emotional weight we’d been carrying.

What truly propelled us forward, though, was community. Once we started seeing our experiences in online forums—places like Reddit’s r/neurodiversity or r/autisticparents—and even specialized communities such as AtPeaceParents, we discovered that countless families grappled with the exact same things we did. Deep, dark moments of despair, fear that our children were “broken,” the shame of not living up to societal standards—all these experiences were echoed by parents who’d walked a similar path. Their stories gave us hope and kept us from giving up in our darkest hours.

The Power of Community: Online vs. In-Person Connections

Our first significant breakthrough came from connecting with others online. For many neurospicy individuals, the internet can be a godsend. You can process before responding, avoid eye contact if that’s stressful, and engage on your own terms. In-person meetups, while beneficial for some, require an entirely different kind of energy expenditure—one that many of us simply don’t have at the end of a long week of masking and managing sensory overloads.

That’s not to say in-person events can’t be wonderful. Some parents thrive on face-to-face engagement, where a warm hug or shared laughter can create an instant bond. But for us, the freedom of an online forum was unparalleled. My partner could jump onto a support group at three in the morning, post about the meltdown that happened an hour earlier, and receive comforting words from parents halfway across the world by breakfast. This sense of real-time support, free from the constraints of location or schedules, made the internet our first safe harbor.

Still, it’s important to note that not every online group or in-person meetup is created equal. We stumbled across communities that felt downright toxic—where parents bashed each other for different approaches or where negativity overshadowed genuine support. Others seemed more like research projects for neurotypicals looking to “study” us rather than empathize with us. Learning to filter out the unhelpful spaces was crucial.

Hidden Barriers to Connection

Even after discovering these valuable communities, I realized how scary it could be to open up. There’s a vulnerability in admitting, “I’m overwhelmed,” or “I have no idea how to handle my child’s demand-avoidant behaviors.” Many of us have been judged by friends, family, or even health professionals who underestimate just how deeply being neurospicy can impact daily life. We worry people will say we’re making excuses or that we’re lazy, unfit parents.

My partner and I often refer to the “mental exhaustion toll” of constantly explaining ourselves. When you’re neurospicy, you don’t just experience the world differently—you often have to defend or justify those differences. Why does your child refuse to comply with simple instructions? Why can’t you just implement a reward chart and expect everything to fall in line? People sometimes assume we’re incompetent rather than recognizing that our brains operate according to different rules.

Over time, however, being in the right community helped me learn a critical lesson: I don’t have to justify every aspect of my neurospiciness. The right people understand that “different” isn’t synonymous with “broken.” The right allies ask what accommodations you might need, not whether you can “just try harder.” Shedding the burden of constant explanation was a liberating experience that helped me regain mental energy and focus on actual problem-solving rather than self-defense.

The Neurodifficult World and Misunderstandings

Building connections within neurotypical (or what I call “neurodifficult”) spaces can be fraught with misunderstandings. I recall working with a particularly charismatic boss who seemed friendly but often misunderstood my direct, no-frills communication style. “I’m not trying to be a brown-noser, but…” was my way of signaling sincerity, yet he interpreted it as manipulative or disingenuous.

Similarly, I was once nicknamed “brutally honest” because I candidly pointed out a failing contractor on our team. My colleagues were shocked, even though they privately agreed with my assessment. That moment opened my eyes to how differently neurodifficult folks value diplomacy and sugarcoating. In their eyes, saving face or maintaining harmony is paramount, whereas I was more focused on efficiency and truth.

Dealing with these differences can be painful, especially when it impacts career growth or social acceptance. You start second-guessing every word you say, wondering if you should add disclaimers or qualifiers. Yet, I’ve also learned that there’s a way to balance our authentic style with a dash of social awareness. It’s not about masking or pretending; it’s about recognizing that communication has two sides—the speaker and the listener—and meeting in the middle can sometimes save a lot of strife.

Practical Advice for Building Stronger Connections

1. Practice Scripts in Advance: I often rehearse tricky conversations, either with a close friend or using AI as a sounding board. Knowing the possible reactions and how I might respond reduces my anxiety and helps me stay calm under pressure.

2. Set Clear Boundaries: Whether it’s with coworkers, friends, or extended family, I let them know about my limits. If I’m at a party and need to leave early, I do so without guilt. If I need information emailed instead of delivered verbally, I ask for it upfront.

3. Use AI to Refine Communication: In professional settings, I’ve learned to write my thoughts plainly first, then ask an AI tool to help rephrase them in a more diplomatic or concise way. This helps me maintain my authenticity while mitigating misunderstandings that can arise from my direct style.

4. Join Communities Before Crisis Points: It’s much easier to establish relationships when you’re in a stable emotional place than when you’re in full-blown meltdown mode. Regularly participating in forums or local meetups means you’ll have a support system ready when crisis hits.

5. Embrace Self-Advocacy: Being open about your neurospiciness can feel risky, but it often paves the way for deeper, more genuine connections. When I disclosed my neurospiciness to a recruiter recently, they opened up about their own ADHD. We forged a bond far more meaningful than a mere transactional conversation about employment.

The Evolution of My Own Mindset

Interestingly, my views on neurodiversity have evolved over time. I used to think “autism” referred only to people with very pronounced symptoms, the kind you see in after-school specials or dramatic TV portrayals. I never imagined my own so-called quirks could place me on the spectrum. Discovering that these traits come in a vast spectrum helped me shed years of shame. I realized I wasn’t “just a weirdo,” as I’d sometimes labeled myself. I was part of a broad, diverse community that includes individuals with all sorts of extraordinary strengths and unique challenges.

This shift in perspective also helped me see my children in a different light. Instead of pushing them to “act normal,” we began asking what environment would best enable them to thrive. Instead of punishing them for refusing to comply with an activity, we explored how we could collaborate and reduce unnecessary demands. This new approach has transformed our home into a space where mistakes are learning opportunities rather than a source of endless conflict.

The Importance of Finding “Your People”

One of the most surprising benefits of opening up about my neurospiciness has been the sheer relief of not having to pretend anymore. When you find the right community—be it online or in-person—you meet people who validate your experiences. They might say, “Oh my gosh, that happens to me, too!” or “I thought I was the only one who needed a full day to recover from a single social event.” These kinds of affirmations make you feel seen and understood in a way that’s life-changing.

There’s also a kind of collective wisdom in these spaces. Parents who have dealt with a meltdown in the grocery store have practical tips: carry headphones for sensory overload, skip certain aisles that trigger overwhelm, or turn the shopping trip into a co-creative game. People share apps that assist with executive functioning or mind-mapping tools for visual thinkers. When you pool together hundreds of neurospicy brains, the ideas are endless and incredibly innovative.

Breaking the Isolation Cycle

Isolation can be a vicious cycle. You feel misunderstood, so you withdraw, which only compounds the loneliness. And the longer you remain isolated, the harder it becomes to reach out. I once went months without engaging in my favorite online group because I was too embarrassed to admit how overwhelmed I felt. Yet, when I finally posted again, the response was overwhelmingly supportive. People shared they’d gone through similar dark patches, and some even offered to private message me if I needed extra support. That moment reminded me why these communities matter so much.

This is precisely why I always advise others: don’t wait until the house is on fire to look for a fire extinguisher. Start getting involved in communities when you’re feeling stable or even just mildly stressed. It’s much easier to form connections when you’re not at your wit’s end. Then, if a crisis does occur, you already have a safety net of people who know you and can offer immediate advice or emotional support.

Looking Ahead: A More Embracing World

Ultimately, I long for a future where neurospicy folks don’t have to “pass” or justify our existence to the neurodifficult world. Where teachers recognize that not every child needs to be forced to make eye contact. Where workplaces understand that remote options or flexible schedules can be game-changers for employees with sensory sensitivities or communication challenges. Where medical professionals approach neurodiversity with curiosity and empathy rather than insisting on rigid, one-size-fits-all interventions.

Yes, we’re different. But these differences can be gifts, not curses. Neurospicy people are often innovators, lateral thinkers, and empathetic champions of those whose voices go unheard. If the broader society continues to box us in, they’re missing out on the incredible potential we offer.

Resources to Start Your Journey

If you’re ready to seek out your own community, here are some resources that I’ve personally found helpful or that come highly recommended within neurospicy circles:

- Online Communities:

- Reddit:

• r/neurodiversity

• r/autisticparents

• r/ADHDparenting

- Facebook Groups:

• “Neurodivergent Parenting,”

• “The Neurodiverse Family,”

• “Parents With ADHD/Autism.”

- Organizations:

• CHADD: Focuses on ADHD resources.

• Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN): Offers advocacy, resources, and community.

- At Peace Parents:

- This specific community focuses on families navigating complex behaviors like PDA, offering compassionate guidance and real-life success stories.

These resources can be your starting point, but they’re far from exhaustive. If one space doesn’t feel right, don’t be afraid to explore another. There’s no universal “perfect group”—it’s about finding where you belong.

Final Thought

If I could give my past self a single piece of wisdom, I’d say this: It’s never too early to start looking for your people. Don’t wait until you’re drowning in doubt, isolation, or sheer exhaustion. Seek out those who recognize your worth, celebrate your uniqueness, and walk alongside you through the ups and downs. Being neurospicy doesn’t mean you’re doomed to constant struggle. Rather, it means you have a perspective the world desperately needs, and you deserve a community that helps you hone that perspective and thrive.

Remember, this isn’t just about you. It’s also about showing your kids—or anyone else who looks to you—that there’s a path forward free from shame and fear. By openly embracing your differences and seeking community, you pave the way for others to do the same. And as we join forces, sharing stories and solutions, we transform what once felt like towering mountains into molehills we can climb together.

So, if you’re reading this, know that you’re not alone. There are countless individuals and families facing the same anxieties, triumphs, and everything in between. Let’s keep this conversation going. Reach out, share your story, and remember: when we work together, any mountain becomes a molehill.

You can email us at askmcphee@gmail.com if you’d like to share your experiences. You might be one message away from the breakthrough that changes your life—or someone else’s.

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One of the greatest joys of being neurospicy is realizing that our differences are not weaknesses but superpowers. I remember the exact moment this clicked for me—when I stood up against a toxic leader at work, knowing full well it could backfire. But my brain wouldn’t let me stay silent. I had to act. That’s when I understood that my sense of justice, my ability to see patterns, and my instinct to do what’s right even when it’s hard—these weren’t burdens. They were strengths.

When you finally understand how your brain works and embrace it, the world opens up in incredible ways. Like the X-Men learning to wield their abilities, we go through our own journey of discovery, moving from confusion to acceptance to empowerment. But this journey looks different for everyone—some embrace their strengths early, while others struggle before realizing the true power of their uniqueness. No matter the path, understanding and accepting who we are is what ultimately sets us free.

The Superpower of Justice

My sense of justice has been a guiding force my entire life. One of my earliest memories of this was when I was a kid and lied to my mom about something. I don't even remember what it was, but I knew that if I told the truth, I'd get spanked. When my mom started questioning my sister and pressured her into confessing something she didn't even do, I couldn’t stand it. Even though admitting the truth would get me in trouble, I just had to step in because I couldn’t let something unfair happen.

That instinct to fight for what’s right never left me. Beyond the workplace, it has shaped my personal relationships too. Whether it's standing up for friends in difficult situations or advocating for fairness in daily life, my need to challenge injustice has always been a core part of who I am. Sometimes it’s welcomed, other times it causes friction, but at the end of the day, I know I have to follow my moral compass.

It’s the same force that led me to push back when I saw my peers being unfairly fired at a company to avoid paying out their vested stocks. I fought for them, even when I knew it could put me at risk. It’s what made me take action when a VP at another company was bullying my colleagues—I stepped in before my friend could, knowing my approach had a better chance of making a difference. The result? That toxic VP was gone within an hour after an emergency all-hands meeting where he was forced to apologize to the entire company.

That moment reinforced something I had always felt—that standing up for what’s right, even when it’s risky, is worth it. It also changed how I approach conflict; I learned that direct action, when done strategically and with conviction, can create real change. Looking back, it was a defining moment that solidified my belief in the power of advocating for fairness.

Being neurospicy means you feel justice deep in your bones. You can’t just stand by when things are unfair, even when stepping up comes with risks. And while that can be hard, I wouldn’t change it for anything.

Creative Problem-Solving: The Neurospicy Brain at Work

Another strength of being neurospicy is seeing connections other people don’t. At work, I’ve often been the one who catches the missing piece that no one else even thought to check. One time, a firewall change at a startup caused our production system to go down because we were being attacked. But strangely, our staging environment went down too. That shouldn’t have happened—they were completely separate systems. Something didn’t add up.

Digging deeper, I found the problem: a piece of code in PHP that was using curl with no timeout. Because of this, when the production system went down, our staging system kept endlessly waiting for a response… until it crashed too. That was the missing link, and once we found it, we fixed the entire system. Moments like that, where everyone else is stumped but I can see the pattern, are when I feel most in tune with my neurospicy brain.

The same approach applies outside of work. I’m always looking for unexpected solutions—whether it’s automating a tedious process, reframing a problem, or just telling a really good metaphor so that a complex idea finally clicks for someone. It’s not just about intelligence; it’s about seeing the world differently.

Hyperfocus: When the World Disappears

When I get into deep problem-solving mode, I hit hyperfocus. It’s one of the few times my ADHD actually leaves me alone. Time warps. My body stops mattering—hunger, bathroom breaks, socializing, all of it fades away until the job is done. And after? There’s a come-down period. My body feels tingly, I have no appetite, and I need time to reset before I can feel "normal" again.

Hyperfocus isn’t just for work—it shows up in my hobbies, too.

Gaming has always been my ultimate hyperfocus hobby. Whether it’s open-world RPGs like The Witcher 3, where every decision shapes the world, or strategy games like Civilization VI, which challenge me to think ahead and adapt, I find myself completely absorbed. One of my most immersive experiences was playing Kingdom Come: Deliverance 2. The storytelling was so rich, so detailed, that it felt on par with legendary franchises like Lord of the Rings and Star Wars. I completely lost myself in that world—every decision, every interaction felt real. That level of deep engagement is what makes gaming such a powerful experience for me.

Hiking and bodyboarding became hyperfocuses for similar reasons. When I moved to an area where I could go from mountains to ocean to desert all in one day, I was hooked. Hiking gave me a sense of peace—just me, my thoughts, and the world around me.

Bodyboarding was my after-work ritual. Every day, two to four hours in the Pacific Ocean, feeling the power of the waves. The Pacific is always trying to kill you—bigger waves, colder water, stronger riptides—but that made it all the more exhilarating. One time, I got caught in a bad wave, tumbled under, and hit my head so hard I heard my neck crack. For a terrifying moment, I thought I was paralyzed. That experience changed how I approach risk—I still seek adventure, but I’ve learned to respect my limits and trust my instincts when something feels dangerous. It reinforced that thrill and caution must go hand in hand.

The Joy of Being Neurospicy

The biggest joy of being neurospicy is realizing it’s a superpower. If you’re struggling to see it that way, know that you’re not alone—but the moment you embrace your differences, you unlock strengths you never knew you had.

And it’s what led me to donate bone marrow twice—the first time was daunting, but when I was called again, I didn’t hesitate. Knowing I had already helped save one life, how could I refuse the chance to do it again? The experience was both physically painful and emotionally profound, but the thought of giving someone a second shot at life made every bit of discomfort worth it.

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The Misconceptions Holding Us Back

Neurodivergence in adults is deeply misunderstood. For years, I struggled with questions I couldn’t answer—until one moment changed everything. The realization hit me like a tidal wave, reshaping my understanding of myself and the world around me. This is my journey of discovery and the myths I had to break through to truly accept who I am.

A Moment of Clarity

When I first heard the words “Dad, you’re probably on the spectrum too” from my son’s doctor, it was like a mirror shattering in my brain. In that instant, every struggle, every misunderstanding, every moment of being called weird or feeling out of place suddenly made sense. I relived my entire life in a blink—every moment of being mocked for being different, the times I sat alone at lunch, the exhaustion of trying to fit in, and the unique ways I navigated relationships. Memories of awkward interactions, misunderstandings, and unspoken loneliness flooded back, but so did moments of joy—when I found people who accepted me just as I was.

That realization was both exhilarating and bittersweet. On one hand, I finally understood myself. I wasn’t some lone outlier; I was part of something bigger. On the other hand, I worried for my children, because I knew the burdens that could come with it. But they had something I never did: awareness. They had time—decades—to understand, accept, and navigate their neurospiciness in ways I never could at their age.

For adults discovering their neurospicy identity later in life, there are countless misconceptions that make self-acceptance an uphill battle. Here, I want to break down some of the biggest myths, backed by research, expert insights, and my own lived experiences.

Myth #1: “Adults with Neurodivergence Don’t Want Meaningful Relationships”

Reality: We build friendships differently, but we build them deeply.

One of the most harmful misconceptions is that neurospicy adults don’t seek or value deep relationships. In truth, we just connect in different ways.

A study by Levy and Perry (2011) found that while social communication styles vary among autistic adults, the desire for meaningful connection is just as present. Dr. Tony Attwood echoes this, explaining that many of us form deep, loyal relationships but might struggle with the traditional social cues that neurodifficult people take for granted.

For years, I tried to build lasting friendships, sometimes succeeding, often struggling. There was always a moment where I’d find myself thinking, Maybe I really am just better off alone. But then I met someone who was on my wavelength.

We “pebbled” each other for years—sharing interests, supporting one another instinctively, always reaching out in difficult moments. Unlike the traditional way neurodifficult people may build friendships through frequent socializing or direct emotional expression, our connection thrived on small, thoughtful gestures and an unspoken understanding that didn’t require constant validation. 'Pebbling' is a term often used to describe how neurospicy individuals show affection and build connections by sharing small meaningful things, whether it's recommending a favorite book, sending an interesting article, or simply checking in at the right time. The realization hit me: This person is my best friend.

It was terrifying to admit. Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) loomed over me. Would they freak out? Would they ghost me like so many before?

I finally took the plunge: "You are my best friend. No pressure. And you can do hard things."

Seven breathless minutes passed before the response came: “Ditto.”

In that moment, my entire lens on relationships shifted. I could be loved. I could be accepted. I was worthy of friendship.

Myth #2: “Masking Means You’re Not That Neurodivergent”

Reality: Masking is exhausting and often comes at a cost.

Masking—suppressing neurospicy traits to fit into social norms—can be a survival strategy. But it’s not a sign that someone’s struggles aren’t real. Research in Neuropsychology Review (Sucksmith et al., 2011) highlights how many adults on the spectrum, especially those undiagnosed, mask extensively, leading to exhaustion, anxiety, and even burnout.

I learned this firsthand.

There was a time when I hung out with a group of friends who were party animals. I wanted to fit in, so I went along to clubs with them—even though I hated loud noises, cigarette smoke, and chaotic environments. I masked hard, mirroring social cues.

One night, a woman pulled me onto the dance floor without asking. I panicked. I had no idea what to do, so I just mimicked her movements, hoping to blend in. When she started touching me, I mirrored that too—only to be immediately shoved away and called something nasty.

It stung. I wasn’t trying to make anyone uncomfortable. I was just trying to survive socially. That moment reinforced my fear that no matter how hard I tried, I would always be one misstep away from being rejected. It made me hesitant in future social settings, second-guessing my actions and overanalyzing interactions in an attempt to avoid making the same mistake again. Over time, I learned to prioritize spaces where I could be myself rather than constantly feeling like I had to walk on eggshells.

Myth #3: “If You Didn’t Show Classic Signs in Childhood, You’re Not Neurodivergent”

Reality: Many of us masked so well that we went unnoticed for years.

Dr. Tony Attwood has long argued that autistic adults, especially women and those who internalize traits, can go undiagnosed because they learn to camouflage their behaviors. The same goes for ADHD—Dr. Russell Barkley notes that many adults who functioned "well enough" in childhood were simply overlooked.

This played out in my life, especially in friendships. One of my childhood best friends (let’s call him Ryan) was kind to me privately but cruel when others were around. He would tease me, mock my family for using Pine-Sol in the house, and make fun of my hand-me-down clothes.

Eventually, we moved in together. A year later, he told me his dad was selling the house, so I had to leave. I found out later that was a lie. I had simply been “too difficult” to live with, and instead of telling me, he made up a story.

That moment stayed with me. It shaped how I approached friendships moving forward, making me more cautious about who I let into my life. I learned to look for authenticity and mutual respect, rather than trying to force connections that ultimately drained me. Over time, I realized that true friendships should never require constant masking or compromise of one's core self. It wasn’t until my own diagnosis that I realized how often I had unknowingly exhausted myself trying to fit into friendships that were never truly safe for me. Once I understood this, I became more intentional about the relationships I pursued, focusing on those where I could be my authentic self without the constant need to mask or adapt. I learned to set boundaries, recognize when a friendship was draining rather than fulfilling, and prioritize connections that brought genuine support and understanding.

Final Myth: “Being Neurodivergent Is a Burden”

Reality: It’s a different way of experiencing the world, and it has immense strengths.

Looking back on everything I've learned—the struggles and triumphs, the moments of isolation and the connections I’ve built—I realize how much I wish I could have reassured my younger self. If I could talk to my younger self, I’d say:

"It’s okay to be different. The teasing and struggles will fade with time. You’re not a burden. You’re not unworthy of love. You are neurospicy, and your brain is wired to change the world. Find your people and never let them go. Accept them as they are, just as you want to be accepted. It gets better."

Conclusion: Rewriting the Narrative

The myths about adult neurospiciness are persistent, but they are just that—myths.

• We want meaningful relationships.

• We mask because we’ve learned to survive.

• We struggled with undiagnosed traits, but that doesn’t make them less real.

• We need more than just medication—we need support, structure, and community.

And above all, we are not broken. We are capable, valuable, and deserving of understanding. If you take nothing else from this, let it be that your experiences are real, and you are not alone. Share your story, seek your community, and embrace the strengths that make you uniquely you. We are wired differently—and that difference is what pushes humanity forward.

What Do You Think?

Does this resonate with you? Drop a comment or share this with someone who might need to hear it. Let’s challenge these myths together and create a space where all neurospicy individuals feel seen and valued.

Thanks for reading! Until next time, keep embracing your neurospiciness.

We’d love to hear your stories. What challenges have you faced? What strategies have worked for you? Let’s keep this conversation going and support each other on this journey. You can email us at askmcphee@gmail.com 📩 to share your thoughts and experiences.

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Citations

• Levy, S., & Perry, A. (2011). Outcomes in adolescents and adults with autism: A review of the literature. Research in Autism Spectrum Disorders, 5(4), 1271–1282.
  https://doi.org/10.1016/j.rasd.2011.01.023

• Sucksmith, E., Roth, I., & Hoekstra, R. A. (2011). Autistic traits below the clinical threshold: Re-examining the broader autism phenotype in the 21st century. Neuropsychology Review, 21(4), 360–389.
  https://doi.org/10.1007/s11065-011-9183-9

• Attwood, T. (2007). The Complete Guide to Asperger’s Syndrome. Jessica Kingsley Publishers.
  https://amzn.to/3WWXwWu
  (Note: this is an Amazon affiliate link that helps support our work here.)

• Barkley, R. A. (2013). Taking Charge of ADHD: The Complete Authoritative Guide for Parents (3rd ed.). Guilford Press.
  https://amzn.to/3ELYFd5
  (Note: this is an Amazon affiliate link that helps support our work here.)

👶 Parenting is hard. 👩‍👧‍👦 Parenting as a 🌀 neurospicy adult is a whole different level. Imagine trying to coax your child 🦷 to get ready for a dentist appointment while they’re overwhelmed 😫 and on the verge of a meltdown 🌊, all while you’re barely keeping your own anxiety 🤯 in check. These moments, when everyone feels dysregulated, can leave you questioning ❓ everything about your parenting approach. Some days, it feels like you’re trying to guide your kids through a storm ⛈️ while fighting to keep your own ship afloat 🚢. The meltdowns 😭, the miscommunications 🔄, the moments when it feels like everyone in the house is walking on eggshells 🥚—those can drain the life out of even the most patient parent.

But here’s the truth 💡 that no one tells you: your struggles are not failures. They are proof of your effort, your resilience 💪, and your love ❤️. The chaos you feel? It’s part of a bigger picture 🖼️—a family figuring out how to work together 🤝, grow together 🌱, and thrive together 🏡 in ways that are uniquely yours.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re the only one who’s constantly on the edge of dysregulation 🌋, or if you’ve ever wondered why traditional parenting advice feels like it just doesn’t fit 🤷, you’re not alone. This is your story, too. It’s about understanding yourself 🧠 and your children 👶, finding the tools 🛠️ to navigate life with a neurospicy lens 🔍, and realizing that the path forward is built on connection 🤗, compassion 💞, and a lot of trial and error 🔁.

Parenting isn’t just about survival 🛡️—it’s about building a life where everyone in your family can feel seen 👁️, supported 🙌, and safe 🛑. So let’s dive in 🌊.

💡 Lightbulb Moment: The "Inception" Realization

To get me to do something, you need to inception my brain 🧠—you need to make me think it’s my idea 💭. This trait was particularly challenging in parenting because it made me hyper-aware of how demands 🛑 were presented, both to me and to my kids 👦👧. I realized that placing direct demands often led to pushback 🛡️, and it forced me to rethink 🤔 the way I approached not just my children’s needs, but my own reactions as well. But if you ever give me an ultimatum ⚠️, I will do the exact opposite 🔄, and I always thought it was just out of spite. Turns out, it’s a lot deeper than that.

Before I learned about PDA (Pathological Demand Avoidance) 🌀, this was how I described myself to others. I thought I was just a stubborn person 💪 who refused to be told what to do. Internally, this led to feelings of frustration 😣 and isolation 🚪. Why did I react this way when others seemed to go along with the flow? It wasn’t until I learned about PDA and started to understand myself and my kids that everything began to click ✅.

That realization was like a lightning bolt ⚡. I wasn’t just "stubborn" or "difficult." I had a pervasive demand for autonomy —and so did my children 👶. What I had thought was unique to me was actually something shared by countless neurospicy individuals 🌍. For the first time, I didn’t feel alone, and more importantly, I began to see a path forward 🛤️ for myself and my family. The sense of relief and validation was immeasurable 💖—finally, a framework that explained what felt like an impossible dynamic.

🔄 The Shift in Perspective: Learning About PDA

All the kudos 🏆 for this shift go to my amazing spouse 💑, who never gave up trying to understand what was happening. There were times we didn’t know how we were going to get through the chaos 🌀, but she kept searching 🔍 until we found the frameworks that worked for us. If you have someone like that in your life 💝, make sure you let them know how much you appreciate them 🙏. They are the difference between living your best life 🌈 and struggling in darkness 🌑.

One of the first tools 🛠️ we found that helped us start this journey was The Explosive Child 📘 by Ross W. Greene, PhD. (Note: this is an Amazon affiliate link that helps support our work here.) This book helped us shift from viewing meltdowns 😭 and outbursts as defiance to understanding them as signs of unmet needs 💔 and overwhelmed systems. It taught us to approach situations with empathy 🤝 and collaboration 🤲 instead of control, setting the foundation for a completely new parenting perspective 🌟. It gave us permission to stop seeing our child as “challenging” 🛠️ and start seeing them as needing support 💞 to navigate overwhelming emotions 🌊.

From there, we discovered Casey Ehrlich, PhD, a neurospicy mom 🌟 who’s been through similar struggles. She introduced us to the concept of PDA 🌀, which isn’t yet widely recognized in the U.S. 🇺🇸 but is gaining traction. Her work led us to resources 📚 like the PDA Society, based in the UK 🇬🇧, which helped us understand the demand avoidance behaviors in ourselves and our children 🧠👶. These resources became lifelines 🛟, helping us reframe our parenting and understand that the traditional “one-size-fits-all” advice 🧩 wasn’t designed for families like ours 🏡.

🛠️ Practical Applications: How It Works in Everyday Life

The realization that we needed to include our children in decision-making 🎲 changed everything about how we parent. We started giving ample warning ⏰ for appointments or changes in routine 🔄. Instead of dictating what they had to do, we said things like, “No pressure, no rush 🕰️,” and let them know they had a say in the process 🗣️.

You might think that if you give a child the ability to say “I can’t” ✋, they’ll never do what they need to. For example, when my child was feeling overwhelmed 😖 about a dentist appointment 🦷, I told them it was okay to say, “I can’t,” if it felt too hard. Surprisingly 🤯, after processing this and feeling validated ✅, they decided to go anyway—on their terms. This taught me that giving them autonomy often leads to them stepping up 💪 when they feel safe 🛡️ and supported.

We also learned to validate their feelings consistently 🌈. When something feels scary 😨 or overwhelming 😰, we remind them that it’s okay to have those feelings and that we’re there to help 🤗. One of our favorite mantras is, “You are not your thoughts 🧠.” (Or, as we jokingly reframe it, “You are not your farts 💨.” It’s silly 😂, but it sticks.) Dysregulated moments don’t define who they are. They are loved ❤️ and accepted, no matter what.

We’ve also applied these lessons to how we manage household routines 🏠. For example, instead of issuing commands like, “It’s time to clean your room 🧹,” we’ll say, “Would you like to tackle your room now or after dinner? 🍽️” This small shift makes an enormous difference ✨. It’s not about being permissive 🚦; it’s about giving them a sense of control 🔑 over their environment.

💪 The Hard Work of Changing Parenting Styles

I won’t lie—this kind of parenting is hard 🏋️. When you’re raised with a command-and-control style ⛓️, stepping back and letting your kids make their own choices 🛤️ feels counterintuitive. It’s a process that requires constant mindfulness 🌿 and a willingness to adapt 🔄.

Creating a safe environment 🌟 where our kids can express themselves without fear of judgment 🚫 has been a game-changer 🎮. They need to know they can tell us the things they’d hide from others—the things that make them mask 🎭. If you’re reading this hoping for a magical way 🪄 to make your kids or loved ones stop resisting ✋ and comply, you won’t find that here 🚫. This approach is about reframing your perspective 🌀, not controlling others.

We’ve come to embrace the fact that progress isn’t linear ➡️⬅️. There are still days when we feel like we’re falling short 🕳️, but those days are fewer now 📉. And when we do stumble, we focus on repair 🛠️—letting our kids know it’s okay to mess up, as long as we try to do better next time 💖.

When we let go of the need to control every outcome 🚪 and instead focus on connection and safety 🛡️, everything changed 🌈. Our household used to feel like a battlefield ⚔️ of dysregulation and hurt feelings 💔. Now, it’s a place where we can weather challenges together as a team 👫.

🌟 A Hopeful Resolution: Modeling Vulnerability and Growth

There was a time recently when I got dysregulated 🌪️. It wasn’t anything major, but afterward, I apologized 🙏 to my kids. My son looked at me and said, “I noticed you got a little dysregulated there, Dad 👨‍👦. It’s okay.” That moment floored me 💥. It showed me that the effort we’ve put into modeling vulnerability and repair hasn’t just helped our relationship ❤️—it’s given my kids tools 🧰 for their own emotional growth 🌱.

There will be days when you feel like you’ve failed 💔. Days when you lose your cool 😡, and you worry that you’ve broken something in your relationship with your child 😢. But you can always come back from that ♻️. It takes work 🏋️, but it’s worth it 💎.

When your child feels safe enough to acknowledge your mistakes with love and compassion 💞, you know you’re on the right track 🛤️. It’s moments like these that remind me why this journey is so important—because it’s not just about raising our kids, it’s about growing with them 🌳.

🚀 Closing Thoughts

If you’re struggling with parenting through a neurodivergent lens 🌀, know this: you’re not alone 🤝. The path may be challenging ⛰️, but it’s also filled with opportunities for connection 🌈, growth 🌱, and transformation ✨. You’ve got this 💪. Parenting isn’t about perfection 🛑; it’s about showing up 🧍, learning 📘, and trying again 🔁.

Start with resources like The Explosive Child 📖, Dr. Casey Ehrlich 💻, and the PDA Society 🌐. Take it one step at a time 👣, and remember that progress, not perfection, is the goal 🎯.

We’d love to hear your stories 📬. What challenges have you faced? What strategies have worked for you? Let’s keep this conversation going 💬 and support each other on this journey 🚶. You can email us at askmcphee@gmail.com 📩 to share your thoughts and experiences ✍️.

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For much of my life, I felt like I was navigating the world just a bit differently than everyone else. 🌍 Things that seemed effortless for others felt like climbing a mountain 🏔️ for me, and situations that others breezed through left me overwhelmed and exhausted. 😩 I chalked it up to being a "weirdo" 🤪 or just not fitting in, but deep down, I always knew there was more to the story. 🕵️ The lightbulb moment 💡 came when I sat in the doctor’s office, discussing my son’s struggles.

The doctor said, “Your son is probably on the autism spectrum.” 🧩 Then he paused, looked directly at me, and added, “Dad, you’re probably also on the spectrum.” In that instant, it felt like a mirror shattered. 🪞 Years of feeling different, misunderstood, and disconnected came rushing back, but for the first time, it all made sense. ✅ The Swiss cheese of my life lined up 🧀, and I realized I wasn’t just some oddball—I was neurospicy. 🌶️ I saw my life through a new lens, and the clarity was overwhelming, emotional, and profoundly validating. 🥹

Reframing the Past

Once that realization hit, it was like opening a floodgate. 🌊 I started reflecting on my childhood and all the moments that used to make me cringe. 😬 The times I was teased for sticking my hand out the car window 🚗, feeling the rush of air and imagining it as a plane wing. ✈️ What once seemed like a quirky habit was suddenly reframed: it wasn’t just random; it was a sensory experience that brought me comfort and joy. 😊 The times I talked back to my mom or resisted her demands weren’t about being defiant—they were about demand avoidance, an intrinsic need to maintain my autonomy. 🙅‍♂️

One moment stood out in particular. As a kid, I’d lied to my mom about something and convinced her I hadn’t done it. 🤥 My mom, in frustration, turned to my younger sister and punished her instead. 😔 The guilt crushed me, and I confessed. 😢 For years, I carried shame about that moment, thinking I was a terrible person. Looking back now, I see it differently. I wasn’t just being stubborn or manipulative; I was masking 🎭 and trying to avoid demands in a way that felt instinctive. Understanding this has brought me so much compassion for my younger self. 💖

A Family’s Journey

The lightbulb moment didn’t just reframe my life; it reshaped my family dynamics. 👨‍👩‍👦 My wife is also neurospicy, and together, we’ve worked hard to create a home where understanding and communication are paramount. 🏡 A pivotal moment came a few years ago when we were getting ready for one of our kids’ school assemblies. 🏫 These events are so challenging for me. 😟 The looming demand builds dread until it feels like a mountain I’m being forced to climb. 🏔️ In the past, this would have led to an argument, dysregulation, and a miserable evening for everyone.

But this time was different. 💡 My wife, who’d been learning about PDA (pathological demand avoidance), approached me with patience and understanding. 💕 She didn’t demand that I go. Instead, she said, “I hope you can make it, but if you can’t, that’s okay.” Then she gave me a hug 🤗 and left me space to process. That made all the difference. ✨ Without the pressure, I was able to take a moment, gather myself, and eventually make it to the event. When I got there, I sat in the car 🚘 for a while, composing myself. My wife went in first, worried I might not follow, but I did. And it turned out to be a wonderful evening. 🌟

That night was a turning point. 🔄 It was the first time we handled a situation like that as a team, without conflict or dysregulation. 🤝 Since then, moments like these have become more common. We still have our struggles, but the time it takes to recover from dysregulation has shortened dramatically. 🕒 That night showed us what was possible when we worked together with empathy and understanding. 💛

Lessons in Dysregulation

Dysregulation is a reality for many neurospicy individuals, but it doesn’t have to dominate your life. 🌀 One of the biggest lessons we’ve learned as a family is the importance of recognizing the early signs of dysregulation—in ourselves and each other. 🛑 It starts with being open and honest: “I’m starting to feel dysregulated. Can we take a step back?” These simple words can diffuse so much tension. 💬

It’s also about checking for miscommunication. 🔍 Sometimes, what you mean to say and what someone else hears are completely different. If someone reacts in a way that doesn’t make sense, it’s worth pausing to ask, “What did you hear me say? I feel like there’s a disconnect.” This small act of curiosity and care can prevent a spiral into chaos. 🛡️

Building trust and calm in the face of dysregulation isn’t easy. 🏗️ It takes time, patience, and a willingness to change how you communicate. 🕰️ But the results are worth it. 🏆 The more you practice, the more your body and mind develop the muscle memory to navigate these situations with grace. 🌈

Seeking Connection

Another major shift since my lightbulb moment has been my approach to connection. 🌐 I used to mask constantly, trying to fit in with neurodifficult norms. But masking is exhausting. 😓 Now, I prioritize authenticity 🌟 and seek out spaces where I can share my story without fear of judgment. 🗣️ These connections are invaluable. 💎 They allow me to process my experiences in real-time, like rubber-duck debugging for the soul. 🦆 The simple act of telling my story helps me understand myself better. 🔄

This openness has also made me more empathetic. 💞 I’m more attuned to stress in others and more mindful of how my words and actions might impact them. 🧘 Respecting someone’s boundaries, accommodating their needs, and showing kindness—these aren’t signs of weakness. They’re signs of strength. 💪

Moving Forward

If I could go back in time, I’d tell my younger self what I know now. ⏳ I’d tell him to be patient, that it’s going to get better. 🌟 I’d reassure him that he’s not alone and that there’s a whole community of people just like him who understand. 🤝 But since I can’t go back, I’ll share that advice here instead: It gets better. It’s not always going to be this hard. Stay calm. This too shall pass. 🌅

For anyone on this journey, whether you’re neurospicy yourself 🌶️ or supporting someone who is, know that progress is possible. ✅ It takes work, but the rewards—connection, understanding, and a life lived authentically—are worth every step. 🚶‍♂️ And remember: You’re not alone. 💞

In Closing

🌐📢🎉 Have a neurospicy parenting question? Need advice? Have a story to share? Submit your thoughts to askmcphee@gmail.com or drop a comment below! Let’s navigate this journey together. Your stories, questions, and experiences are what make this journey meaningful, and I hope this can be a place where we all learn from each other.

🌌🕊✨ When I first started thinking about this post, I did what any good neurospicy person does when faced with an intimidating task: I avoided it. Not just the casual, “Oh, I’ll get to it tomorrow” kind of avoidance, but the full-on, brain-fog-fueled, “Maybe if I clean out the junk drawer first, I’ll feel ready” brand of procrastination. That’s the thing about demand avoidance. It’s not just about skipping out on something you don’t want to do—it’s about the overwhelming weight of expectation, even if it’s coming from yourself. Writing this post feels like stepping into a spotlight I’ve spent years dodging, and the truth is, it’s terrifying.

💡☕✨ So, why now? Why write about being neurospicy—a term I adore for its blend of whimsy and truth—and why share it in this way? The short answer is that I’m tired of masking. The longer answer is that, as a middle-aged parent of neurospicy kids, I’ve realized that understanding and embracing this part of myself isn’t just about me. It’s about them, too. It’s about creating a community where they don’t have to wait until adulthood to feel seen. It’s about offering perspective to others who might still be fumbling in the dark, unsure of why they feel so “other.”

What Does Being Neurospicy Mean?

🧠🎨✨ Being neurospicy is living life with a brain that dances to its own beat. It’s the vivid highs of hyperfocus, the depths of sensory overwhelm, the kaleidoscope of emotions that sometimes feels like too much and just enough all at once. It’s the moments of connection where everything clicks and the moments of isolation where nothing does. It’s a term that acknowledges the challenges without stripping away the joy, the creativity, or the beauty of seeing the world differently.

For me, being neurospicy wasn’t a revelation I came to on my own. It took my kids’ diagnoses to light up the puzzle pieces of my own life. Watching them struggle—and thrive—in ways that felt so familiar brought me to a realization I had spent decades avoiding: I wasn’t neurodifficult, as I had been labeled. I was neurospicy. And that changed everything. It turned moments of confusion into clarity, and it gave me a roadmap for navigating a world that often feels like it’s written in someone else’s language. That realization wasn’t just a comfort; it was an invitation to rewrite my story—one that celebrated my differences instead of trying to erase them.

Why This First Post Is Hard

💪🌈🎮 There’s a certain vulnerability in writing this. It’s not just about admitting that I’ve struggled but about sharing the raw, unpolished truth of what it means to live this way. It’s about opening a window to my inner world and trusting that the view will resonate with someone else. That’s scary. But it’s also necessary.

Because here’s the thing: When you grow up neurospicy and don’t know it, you learn to mask. You learn to hide, to blend in, to meet expectations at the expense of your own authenticity. You build walls to protect yourself from judgment and misunderstanding. And those walls don’t just keep others out—they keep you in. Writing this post feels like dismantling those walls, brick by brick, and stepping into the light for the first time. Each word is an act of rebellion against years of silence, and each sentence is a small but significant leap toward authenticity. That’s why this post is hard: it’s not just writing; it’s unlearning.

It’s also a lot like playing a video game and reaching a point where you realize you’ve hit a wall—not just a metaphorical wall but the kind where you’ve invested hours into building your character, learning the mechanics, and exploring the map, only to discover you’ve been going the wrong way. The game requires you to backtrack, sometimes all the way to the beginning, and start over. It’s demoralizing. You question whether you even want to pick up the controller again. But when you do—when you take that first step back onto the path you were meant to follow—it’s worth it. You find the joy in the journey again. That’s what this feels like: starting over, and trusting that the process will lead somewhere meaningful.

Trust the Process

🔗🌎🎤 I’m fortunate to have a wife and a best friend who never give up in their quest for learning and knowledge. They push and push and push to make sure they understand, and their relentless pursuit of understanding helped create a safe enough space for my own journey of self-discovery. You need that person in your life—someone strong enough to let you feel safe enough to learn who you really are inside without the fear that your world will shatter into a million pieces. Their strength and support have been my anchor, and their belief in me gave me the courage to begin peeling back the layers of who I am.

One of the most challenging yet rewarding lessons I’ve learned is to trust the process—even when it feels uncertain or overwhelming. For me, the process often begins with the smallest of steps: sitting quietly, naming the emotions I’m feeling, and acknowledging their weight without judgment. Sometimes it’s writing down one thought at a time or breaking a daunting task into manageable pieces. Other times, it’s simply giving myself permission to rest and recharge before diving back in.

One of the most challenging yet rewarding lessons I’ve learned is to trust the process—even when it feels uncertain or overwhelming. For me, the process often begins with the smallest of steps: sitting quietly, naming the emotions I’m feeling, and acknowledging their weight without judgment. Sometimes it’s writing down one thought at a time or breaking a daunting task into manageable pieces. Other times, it’s simply giving myself permission to rest and recharge before diving back in.

The process is unique to each of us. For some, it might look like a daily routine—a series of habits that create a sense of stability amidst chaos. For others, it’s about embracing spontaneity and leaning into creativity as a guiding force. What’s consistent, though, is the idea that progress isn’t linear. It’s messy and full of detours, but those detours often lead us to the most unexpected and meaningful discoveries.

Learning to trust the process means accepting that it’s okay to not have all the answers right away. It’s okay to feel stuck or frustrated. The key is to keep moving, even if it’s just one small step at a time. It’s about showing up for yourself, even when it feels hard, and believing that the effort will be worth it. Because it will be. The process may not look the same for everyone, and that’s the beauty of it—each journey is as individual as the person walking it.

My Character Backstory

🎩🍂🌧️ If this were a novel, my character backstory would be filled with clues to my neurospiciness that no one, least of all me, picked up on. The sensory meltdowns over itchy clothes. The encyclopedic knowledge of random topics that would consume me for weeks. The constant chatter in my head that never seemed to match the world around me. I was “quirky,” “sensitive,” and “a bit much.” And I believed those labels because they were easier to swallow than the truth: I was different in ways I didn’t yet have the words to explain.

It wasn’t until my kids came along, each bringing their own neurospicy brilliance into the world, that I started to see myself clearly. Their challenges mirrored my own, their strengths shone a light on mine, and their struggles demanded that I stop running from my own. It’s funny how parenthood can do that—force you to confront the things you’ve spent a lifetime avoiding. They needed me to be my authentic self, and in doing so, they gave me permission to find myself. It’s as if their journeys became a mirror, reflecting back parts of myself I had forgotten or ignored. Parenthood has a way of turning the mundane into transformative, soul-shaking moments that leave you changed in the best possible ways.

Community and Connection

💬🌟🤝 One of the hardest parts of being neurospicy is the loneliness. It’s easy to feel like you’re the only one navigating this labyrinth of thoughts, feelings, and experiences. But the truth is, there’s a whole community out there—a beautiful, vibrant tapestry of people who get it. And finding that community can be life-changing.

For me, connection has been the antidote to the isolation I didn’t even realize I was carrying. It’s in the shared stories, the knowing nods, the moments of, “Yes, that’s exactly how it feels!” that I’ve found a sense of belonging I never knew I was missing. And that’s part of why I’m writing this—to extend a hand to anyone who might feel alone in their neurospiciness and say, “You’re not.” Because connection isn’t just a luxury; it’s a lifeline. It’s what transforms survival into thriving, and it’s what makes the hardest days just a little bit easier to bear.

The Gift of Perspective

🔬🌞🌿 One of the unexpected blessings of being neurospicy is the gift of perspective. When your brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s, you see the world in ways that others might miss. You notice the beauty in the mundane, the patterns in the chaos, the connections that aren’t immediately obvious. It’s like living life with a lens that magnifies both the wonder and the complexity of the world around you.

This perspective has been both a challenge and a strength. It’s made me more empathetic, more creative, and more attuned to the nuances of human experience. It’s also made me more aware of the ways we, as a society, fail to support those who don’t fit neatly into the norm. But awareness is the first step toward change, and I’m hopeful that sharing this perspective can be a small part of that. If being neurospicy has taught me anything, it’s that the world needs more of what we bring: a deeper understanding of others, an ability to think outside the box, and the courage to challenge the status quo.

When You Can’t, You Can’t

🕵️‍♂️🌚🌲 Burnout is a word we throw around a lot, but when you’re in the thick of it, it’s so much more than just being tired. It’s a wall that your mind and body throw up to say, “No more.” When you’re burned out, sometimes you just can’t—and that’s okay. One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn is to give myself permission to stop, to rest, and to not beat myself up over it. Pushing through isn’t always the answer; sometimes, the most productive thing you can do is absolutely nothing.

During those moments, I’ve found it helpful to create a comforting environment for myself. Sometimes, I would get lost in a video game world, where my brain could take over from my nervous system. In that space, I didn’t have to think about anything but the rules of the game. The repetitive tasks, the immersive scenery, and the sense of progress were all soothing in a way that grounded me when everything else felt too much. Sometimes, that meant sitting on the floor of my closet in complete darkness and quiet, letting the world fade away for a little while. One time, I went out into the backyard and laid in the grass, looking up at the stars until I felt like I could breathe again. One friend builds a red-light cocoon to feel the quiet and safety they need. We all have our ways of finding stillness, and the important thing is to give yourself the grace to do what works for you.—a mental and emotional space where it’s okay to simply be. That might mean curling up with a soft blanket, listening to music that soothes my soul, or just sitting quietly and letting the world move around you. Whatever it looks like for you, the important thing is to remember that rest isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity. When you’re ready, you’ll find the strength to move forward again. Until then, be kind to yourself. You’re doing the best you can.

Growth happens outside of your comfort zone

🌐🏆🔝 If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that challenges are fertile ground for growth. Being neurospicy isn’t always easy. There are days when the overwhelm feels insurmountable, when the demand avoidance kicks in, and when the weight of expectation threatens to crush me. But those moments have also taught me resilience, creativity, and self-compassion.

Parenting while neurospicy has amplified those lessons tenfold. My kids don’t need a perfect parent—they need a human one. They need someone who can show them that it’s okay to struggle, to make mistakes, and to keep trying. They need someone who can model self-acceptance and teach them that their neurospiciness is not a flaw but a strength. And in being that person for them, I’m learning to be that person for myself. Because every challenge is an opportunity—a chance to grow stronger, to learn something new, and to become a better version of myself.

Parenting While Neurospicy

🍼💕🎢 Parenting is hard enough on its own, but parenting while neurospicy is like living life on "hard mode." It’s managing your own sensory needs while navigating theirs. It’s finding the balance between structure and flexibility, between advocating for them and teaching them to advocate for themselves. It’s celebrating their victories, mourning their struggles, and doing your best to be the calm in their storm, even when you’re weathering one of your own.

But it’s also profoundly rewarding. My kids have taught me more about courage, creativity, and connection than I ever thought possible. They’ve shown me the power of authenticity and the importance of embracing who you are, even when it’s hard. And they’ve given me the greatest gift of all: the permission to do the same. Parenting while neurospicy is a dance—one where the rhythm changes constantly, but the love and intention remain steadfast.

Stepping Out of the Shadows

🐼🔆🌕 Writing this post has been an act of courage. It’s been a way of stepping out of the shadows and into the light, of embracing my neurospiciness instead of masking from it. It’s been a chance to share my story in the hopes that it might resonate with someone else’s. And it’s been a reminder that vulnerability is not weakness—it’s strength.

So, if you’ve made it this far, thank you. Thank you for bearing witness to this journey, for holding space for this story, and for being part of a community that celebrates what it means to be neurospicy. My hope is that this post will be the first step in building something beautiful—a space where we can share, connect, and grow together. Because no one should have to navigate this journey alone. And if this post inspires just one person to step out of their own shadows, then every word will have been worth it.

In Closing

🌐📢🎉 Have a neurospicy parenting question? Need advice? Have a story to share? Submit your thoughts to askmcphee@gmail.com or drop a comment below! Let’s navigate this journey together. Your stories, questions, and experiences are what make this journey meaningful, and I hope this can be a place where we all learn from each other.

We’ll be starting with a bi-weekly cadence, and we’re open to taking comments and requests for topics you’d like us to cover. Your input helps shape this space into a true community.