30. the many faces of the mind

reflections on ADHD, hyper-empathy + seeing oneself anew

For so long I’ve been living with a secret that’s been eating away at me piece by piece. Each bite has left behind morsels of insidious shame that have clung to my teeth, skin and bones, and made me feel like a shadow of myself—an anomaly, scarred and broken beyond repair.

From the outside looking in—both in life and through the curated, oversimplified lens of the internet—I might seem like someone who has it “together”, yet for years I’ve struggled with the daily tasks of adulthood: managing my life, money and routines, or following through on projects and studies that truly mattered to me. These struggles, in contrast to how effortlessly others seemed to navigate them, began to feel like proof that something was inherently wrong with me. I was someone who dreamed big but felt stuck when it came to taking the steps to get there. I felt like I was not trying hard enough or not disciplined enough, someone who cried too easily and forgets everything, feeling like I was both too much and not enough all at once.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care or wasn’t trying hard enough, or how much effort I poured in, I felt stuck, trapped between my dreams and the impossibility of taking the small steps needed to make them a reality. My impulsivity always felt like it got in the way, as if I were being pulled in ten different directions. Start, stop, move on, start again. My days ended in exhaustion and shame for all the things I hadn’t finished. Living in a system that programs us to measure our worth in efficiency and productivity, I felt like I was drowning in a sea of “shoulds”, too exhausted to untangle what wasn’t working and too ashamed to ask for help.

I have often made the common human oversight of comparing myself to my peers, albeit only from the outside looking in, feeling crushingly left behind while I struggled to keep up with, or even create my to-do list. I had tools others longed for—a supportive network, an audience, and so many creative opportunities—but I couldn’t figure out how to harness them. The disconnect between what I had and what I could do with it felt heavy, embarrassing and deeply isolating. It’s been a shame I’ve carried silently for years, convinced it was a personal failing.

This year, I began to connect the dots as I delved deeper into the world of neurodivergence. Witnessing close friends navigate their unmasking journeys and observing the growing number of people sharing their experiences online, I began to feel seen in a way I had not been able to name before. Gradually the pieces started to fall into place and I realised I had been viewing myself through the wrong lens. With the privilege of access, I pursued a private evaluation—the waitlist for assessments in the UK now stretches for years—and I confirmed my inkling that I have ADHD.

"Attention deficit" is a misleading and inaccurate term. ADHD doesn’t deplete attention, it scatters it unevenly and activates focus only under specific conditions. Learning that my nervous system is interest-driven rather than importance-or priority-driven was a revelation. It has helped me understand how I function: when something sparks my interest, I can dive deeply into it, losing myself completely, or why I’ve struggled to initiate, sustain and complete tasks that feel less engaging, even when they’re essential or time-sensitive. Even though it’s a label I am holding lightly, using it as a way of understanding and not defining, it feels constructive to learn to see myself in a more compassionate and kinder light. Women and girls, from what I’ve learned, often go undiagnosed because hyperactivity doesn’t show up in the same way it does in men. Our hyperactivity usually doesn’t burst outward, it festers inward. An internal hum—an endless whir of thoughts, worries, and what-ifs—is harder to see but no less exhausting.

My sensitivity has often felt like a burden—it still does when I’m not writing enough or finding somewhere else to channel it. In a capitalist world, sensitivity is often dismissed as inconvenient, a challenge to a system built on relentless efficiency and output. As the world grows more and more turbulent and suffering spreads everywhere, I am increasingly overwhelmed. This year has been a testament to that. Whenever I speak to someone, I catch myself looking in their eyes to see if we can see each other's pain. Even with people I love, I have often felt like there is a confusing, isolating chasm that can feel as large as an ocean between us when they do not feel like I do and are somehow not as shaken by life. How could they not feel this pain, my pain, the pain of the world? Do they not see what I see?

Ever since I read Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower I’ve been haunted by it. Often described as prophetic, the book feels disturbingly close to the world we live in today. Published over 30 years ago but set between 2024 and 2027, it depicts a society devastated by climate change, extreme economic inequality, collapsing social systems, and an authoritarian president promising to "make America great again". Octavia Butler never claimed to be a prophet, instead she described her work as a warning rooted in extrapolation—observing early trends she saw at the time and imagining their potential consequences if left unchecked. Parable of the Sower is her cautionary tale about the dangers of humanity severing its connection to nature and ignoring the cascading consequences of environmental destruction. By closely examining issues like climate change, systemic racism and inequality, Butler envisioned futures grounded in reality yet startlingly prescient. Drawing on history, science and human behaviour, her work calls attention to the perils of inaction and humanity’s capacity for resilience, making her vision timeless and profoundly relevant.

There’s a parallel in Parable of the Sower that I didn’t fully grasp at the time but now can’t stop thinking about. The protagonist, Lauren Olamina, experiences hyper-empathy—a condition that makes her feel others’ pain and pleasure as if they were her own. This heightened sensitivity, this way of moving through the world with profound emotional resonance and deep connection to others, feels so much like what we now associate with neurodivergence. In Lauren’s fractured society, her hyper-empathy is seen as a liability, making her vulnerable to harm in a brutal, dystopian world. Yet it’s also her superpower, it shapes her leadership, her relationships and her vision for the future. While others harden themselves to suffering or remain blind to it, Lauren’s sensitivity allows her to see what others cannot: the urgent need for adaptability, connection and shared responsibility. Her capacity to feel deeply propels her to imagine a new way forward when everything is falling apart.

This vision becomes Earthseed, a belief system Lauren develops as a blueprint for survival and transformation. Rooted in the tenet that "God is Change", Earthseed teaches that adaptation, community and mutual care are essential in navigating a chaotic and uncertain world. For Lauren, hyper-empathy isn’t just a burden, it’s the foundation of her leadership. It drives her to build Earthseed, a community rooted in the belief that survival means more than endurance; it’s about planting seeds for a future that is expansive, collective and resilient. Lauren’s story reminds me of the unique roles sensitive and neurodivergent individuals often play in society. Like canaries in the coal mine, we’re attuned to the fractures others might miss, sensing the shifts and dangers that ripple beneath the surface, unnoticed by those less attuned to the subtle tremors of emotion. And like Lauren, we often imagine new ways forward, not in spite of our sensitivity, but because of it. Earthseed’s vision of creating something lasting from the ashes of a broken world feels deeply resonant, not just as a metaphor for survival, but as a point of orientation in times of collapse.

“To shape God,

With wisdom and forethought,

To benefit your world,

Your people,

Your life,

Consider consequences.

Minimize harm.

Ask questions.

Seek answers.

Learn.

Teach.”

— Earthseed: Book of The Living, Parable of the Sower, Chapter 18, by Octavia E. Butler

The growing awareness of neurodivergence feels bigger than an algorithm, it feels part of a broader shift. Maybe Butler saw something we’re only beginning to understand: as the conditions of the world grow more stressful and uncertain, they’re also shaping us, creating more sensitive, neurodivergent beings who react to the pressures of the time. Like Lauren, we sense the cracks in the system and we channel our sensitivity into imagining something new. We are the ones, the artists, writers, fighters, trying to name what’s broken in the hope of creating something better.

After so many years of unkind thoughts, the scars still remain, but I’m starting to touch them with a softer, more loving hand. By sharing them here, I offer them into the light to be witnessed and felt. I am offering them to love. In Māori, kanorau ā-roro beautifully describes neurodivergence as "the many faces of the mind", while takiwātanga refers to autism as "in one's own time and place", reminding me that the mind isn’t a singular, static entity, it’s a mosaic—a collection of facets, each with its own rhythm, way of seeing and contributing to the whole. For me, to have "many faces" means learning to embrace the multiplicity within myself, the shifting currents of thought, feeling and perception that make me who I am. It’s learning to honor every face, even the ones I once tried to hide, as essential parts of my being. These new phrases offer me solace and give me something to hold onto that serve as a guide, reminding me that what I once saw as my secret weaknesses are, in fact, my greatest gifts. If sensitivity allows me to feel the fractures, perhaps it also equips me—and others like me—to imagine new ways forward. If vulnerability has been my burden, maybe it’s also my superpower. The many faces of the mind are no longer something to be feared or suppressed, they are a source of creativity, resilience and vision, they allow me to navigate a complex world with nuance, to feel deeply and to connect authentically. And as I move through this life, I want to live, and lead, in a way that honours them all.