The Contradiction of the "Capable" Brain
- A Broad Perspective
- 33 minutes ago
- 9 min read
For most of my life, I never considered that my brain might work differently. And why would I?
I just assumed I was complicated.
Or too much.
Or born with too much caffeine in my cup?
I could organize a major event, manage a blended family of eight children, commute between cities, attend college, lead organizations, renovate a house, coach people, volunteer, and somehow keep all the moving pieces in the air.
Yet, I could also stare at something simple that needed doing, like laundry or calling my mother, and put it off for days.
The contradiction never made sense to me. How could someone who is capable of handling so much struggle with something so small?
At 51, after months of researching AuDHD, taking assessments, reflecting on childhood memories, and reviewing decades of life experiences, I finally found a framework that explains what I have spent a lifetime trying to understand.
Not who I am.
But how I operate.
What is AuDHD?
(And Why So Many Women Are Finding It at 40+)
If you’ve never heard the term AuDHD, you aren't alone. It is a newer, colloquial term used to describe the co-existence of autism (ASD) and ADHD in the same brain.
For decades, the medical community mistakenly believed you could only have one or the other. But for those of us living it, it feels like an internal tug-of-war.
The ADHD side of my brain craves constant novelty, dopamine, stimulation, and change; it’s the engine that allowed me to manage eight kids, run foundations, and travel the world.
Meanwhile, the autistic side of my brain quietly craves deep predictability, strict routines, and literal communication and can easily get sensory overload from fabrics, food textures, or social environments.
When you have both, you are constantly trying to balance a brain that is simultaneously bored by routine but paralyzed by a lack of it.
⪢ The Lost Generation of Neurodivergent Women
Why am I only figuring this out at 51? Because women my age are part of a "lost generation" when it comes to neurodivergence.
Forty years ago, ADHD and autism assessments were designed almost exclusively around young boys, specifically, boys who couldn't sit still in class.
Girls present entirely differently. We learn to mask from a very young age. Because we are highly conditioned by society to be social, accommodating, and organized, we internalize our struggles.
We don’t disrupt the classroom; instead, we study human behavior like an anthropologist just to fit in.
We don't look "hyperactive"; we look like overachievers. We become the women who can do absolutely everything, running ourselves ragged because our coping mechanism is to work twice as hard to maintain the illusion of ease.
But as we age, two major shifts happen that bring late-diagnosed AuDHD to the surface:
● The Hormonal Shift (Menopause & Aging): Estrogen heavily supports dopamine production. As estrogen drops during perimenopause and menopause, our lifelong coping mechanisms and "masks" naturally begin to crack.
The executive functioning struggles we used to successfully white-knuckle through suddenly become unmanageable.
● The Structural Shift: When major life transitions hit, like the empty nest, retirement, or switching to full-time travel, the external structures that kept our ADHD brains on track disappear.
Without a rigid schedule dictating our day, we hit a wall.
Finding out you are AuDHD in midlife isn't about looking for an excuse or a pity party. In the context of women’s health, pro-aging, and conscious living, it is the ultimate act of self-care.
It gives you the map to stop trying to "fix" your character and instead start supporting your actual nervous system.
The Woman Who Could Do Everything
Years ago, my life was a whirlwind of complexity. I was raising a blended family of eight children while studying funeral services at Humber College.
I was commuting between Ottawa and Toronto, renovating a house, serving as president of a professional social club, and founding a cheerleading organization.
I was managing pets, handling heavy family logistics, maintaining friendships, and still carving out date nights and personal time.
I was super busy. But I was also super happy and thriving.
Looking back, I realize the sheer volume of activity wasn't exhausting for me because it was feeding me.
I was learning, growing, solving problems, and needed. My brain was getting constant stimulation, complexity, purpose, and movement.
When the Structure Disappears
Then, life changed. The responsibilities shifted, the schedules vanished, and the community obligations faded. For the first time in my adult life, I only had to take care of me (and Leon).
Most people assume that fewer responsibilities automatically mean less stress.
For me, it wasn’t that simple.
Without external structure, packed schedules, and the immediate accountability of being needed, I found it a struggle at times just to wash my hair.
I justified it away: "Who cares? I’m in the middle of a rice field in Thailand; nobody is looking." And while it was a relief to break away from societal pressures, the lack of momentum paralyzed me.
I would think about texting someone for days but never send the actual message. It impacted my long-distance relationships. I procrastinated on basic administration despite genuinely wanting to do it.
When we first started our YouTube channel and travel blog, the hyper-focus was easy because it was new and exciting. But as it grew and the routine set in, I lost the drive.
Without social accountability, business partners, or a team to brainstorm with, getting things done, like writing my books, became a mountain.
I could plan complex international travel, but I couldn't manage self-generated structure.
I Never Struggled With Complexity
People often think executive functioning challenges look like incompetence. That has never been my experience.
During my divorce, I represented myself in court against my ex-husband and his high-powered attorney, literally the top family lawyer in our area.
At one point, they filed a case against me because I refused to sign travel documents allowing my children to visit a country on a federal "do not travel" list at the time.
I was shocked, but I self-studied, found supporting case law, built my arguments, and won.
Later, when fighting for financial assets and child support, his lawyer argued that my success in representing myself proved I was capable of earning a much higher income than reported.
I remember thinking how ridiculous that was. I wasn't winning because I had legal training. I was winning because I had no choice. This was my family.
When I am curious, or when something matters deeply, I become relentless. I learn systems. I identify patterns. I absorb information until I understand it inside out.
The issue was never capability. It was context.
The Little Clues Were Always There
When I began looking back through this new lens, the clues were everywhere. Some were subtle; others were glaring:
● Certain food textures, like scrambled eggs, were impossible to eat.
● Clothing tags and itchy fabrics drove me absolutely crazy as a child (and still do).
● If I see a tag flipped out on someone's shirt, or a cupboard door left open, I have an uncontrollable urge to fix it.
● I coped through constant physical stimming—twirling my hair, biting my nails, playing with pen caps or hair elastics, and tapping my feet.
● I struggled to fit in with girls. Boys were easier to figure out. Girls seemed to operate on a hidden social script that everyone else was handed at birth except me.
I remember standing in front of a mirror as a child, after moving schools yet again, singing a little song to myself that nobody liked me.
At the time, I thought something was fundamentally wrong with me. (In my 20s, I finally learned to love that little girl and stopped that negative mirror talk, and seriously, please don't ever speak negatively to yourself in the mirror; that sh*t is powerful).
Because girls were rarely diagnosed forty years ago, I didn't have a map. So, I learned people instead. I studied social environments like an anthropologist.
I watched, adapted, and refined the skill of reading people so well that everyone assumed social connection came naturally to me.
Looking Back: What the Mask Was Really Hiding
As I trace these threads through my life, I realize that my desire to understand myself through writing has always been there.
Over a decade ago, on May 31, 2013, I sat down while raising my family and wrote a poem on my original blog, Writings of a Mrs, titled The Mask.
At the time, I was processing the heavy emotional layers of relationships, identity, and standard expectations.
Looking back at these words today, through the lens of late-diagnosed AuDHD and a life spent unconsciously masking, the verses take on a completely new, profound meaning:
Back then, I knew what it felt like to return to a reflection and feel a disconnect between the version of me presented to the world and the woman sitting underneath. I thought the mask was just a shield against circumstances.
Now I see it was an extraordinary survival mechanism. I was a neurodivergent woman navigating a world built for a completely different operating system, using every ounce of my energy to keep the mask perfectly in place so no one would see the strain.
The beauty of conscious aging and deep self-awareness is that we finally get to put the mask back on the shelf—not out of defeat, but out of total liberation.
🎨 Creative Reflection:
Putting Down Your Own Mask
Every era of our lives leaves clues about who we are and how we adapt. If you are navigating your own transition right now, whether you are questioning your identity, stepping into midlife, or realizing your brain operates differently, I invite you to use this short writing prompt to check in with your own reflection.
Take 10 minutes with a notebook and answer these three questions honestly:
1. What is the current "mask" you wear out of habit or safety? (e.g., the overachiever, the person who has it all together, the quiet observer, the accommodates-everyone pleaser).
2. When you step away from that role and look in the mirror, what part of your authentic self feels left behind?
3. What is one small way you can support your actual nervous system or boundaries today, without needing to perform for anyone else?
From Adaptation to Authenticity
For a long time, I wondered if constantly adapting meant I didn't know who I truly was. I no longer believe that.
I have profound self-awareness. I can sit in the back fields of Thailand picking rice with an elderly woman and be completely comfortable, just as easily as I can sit in a corporate boardroom.
The environment changes, but my curiosity and humanity remain. I don’t connect with status; I connect with people.
The biggest realization of this framework wasn’t just a label. It was understanding that the things I judged myself for were never character flaws; they were just differences in how my brain operates.
The same brain that struggles to text back or handle daily administration is the exact same brain that built organizations, raised eight children, fought legal battles, coached over 2,000 people across 6,000 sessions, and traveled the world full-time as a digital nomad across 45 countries.
The strengths and the weaknesses come from the exact same place.
At 51, I am done trying to "fix" myself. I am stopping the standard of measuring myself against a world that wasn't designed for me.
I am learning how to thrive in this chapter, too, building systems that support how my brain naturally works, rather than fighting against it.
We are all constantly navigating change, and sometimes, the biggest transition is learning how to finally be on your own side.
📖 Introducing: becoming
The Human Transition Project
People often ask what qualifies someone to write about identity, adaptation, reinvention, grief, purpose, belonging, and what it truly means to be human.
The honest answer is that I have spent my entire life living inside those questions. Long before I became a coach, a funeral director, a death doula, a writer, or a full-time traveler, I was fascinated by people.
Not just what they do, but why they do it.
Why one person breaks while another bends.
Why some experiences destroy us, while others become the very things that shape us.
Every single chapter of my life has been preparing me to create becoming: The Human Transition Project.
● As a child and young woman, I was trying to understand how people worked and where I fit.
● As a mother, I was learning love, sacrifice, responsibility, and resilience.
● Working in funeral services and as a death doula, I was forced to sit with grief, mortality, regret, and the stories we tell ourselves about a life well-lived.
● Five years of full-time travel across 45 countries taught me that while cultures change, human beings are remarkably similar beneath the surface.
● And coaching over 2,000 people taught me that almost everyone is carrying a version of the exact same question: "Who am I now?"
Because life keeps changing the answer.
We become parents, partners, leaders, caregivers, empty nesters, survivors, and travelers.
We become strangers to ourselves for a while, and then we have to slowly learn how to know ourselves again.
Identity isn’t something we find; it is something we continually create through adaptation.
The question is not whether life will change you; it will.
The question is whether you will choose to participate consciously in that process.
becoming: The Human Transition Project is an exploration of the process every human being is engaged in, whether they realize it or not.
Because we are all perpetually becoming.
If This Resonated With You
If parts of this story felt familiar, remember that this article reflects my personal experience and self-reflection. Everyone's journey is different.
If you think you may be neurodivergent, consider speaking with a qualified healthcare professional who can help guide you through an appropriate assessment.
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