Here, you can listen to Danusia reading her piece, or read it below.

Written by Danusia Malina-Derben

A couple of summers ago, I wrote an essay in which I described myself as highly successful. It didn’t occur to me that this would be controversial.

I wasn’t declaring myself the most successful person or claiming superiority over anyone else. I was simply reflecting on what I have built and survived. The phrase sat quite naturally in the piece.

Then the comments arrived.

Some challenged how I could possibly call myself highly successful. One questioned whether I was really the mother of ten children. A handful appeared to have read an entirely different essay from the one I thought I had written.

Before this starts sounding dramatic, I should confess that this wasn’t a public execution. It wasn’t particularly remarkable by internet standards. The majority of readers were generous and supportive. The critical comments were few.

But they floored me. Not immediately.

That’s the thing. In a crisis, I’m excellent.

Years of raising a large family and working in boardrooms equipped me to navigate complexity. Give me ten competing priorities, a looming deadline and a problem to solve and I tend to become calmer, not less.

What I’ve gradually realised, however, is that my emotional processing works to a completely different timetable.

The comments took minutes to write. I carried them for months.

I rolled them around in my head while cooking dinner. I rehearsed responses in my sleep. I found myself returning to them while driving, walking, working and trying not to think about them. The conversation had closed, yet part of me was still inside it.

This is one of the reasons I am suspicious of advice like “grow a thicker skin”.

What if the issue isn’t thin skin? What if the issue is depth? What if some of us simply process experience differently?

As someone who is neurodivergent, I have spent years trying to understand this about myself.

The challenge has never been knowing who I am, it has been deciding how much of myself to translate.

People often talk about authenticity as though it is a simple choice. Be yourself. Speak your truth. Show up authentically.

Lovely idea.

But authenticity becomes more complicated when you are constantly aware of the distance between what you mean and what other people hear.

Every time I publish something, there is a moment afterwards where I want to flee. This is not because I regret what I’ve written but because I become intensely aware of being perceived.

The piece leaves me and starts living inside other people’s minds. They bring their experiences, assumptions, interpretations and histories to it. They meet a version of me that may bear only a passing resemblance to the person who wrote the words.

I often describe how I feel about this as wanting to run behind a metaphorical sofa.

From the outside, it probably sounds ridiculous. The essay is published. Nothing is actually happening.

Inside my body, however, it can feel like stripped-naked-in-public exposure.

The strange thing is that I know how to minimise this. I know how to write in ways that are more easily received: how to soften opinions before sharing them, how to add context and caveats, how to anticipate objections and reassure people before they have even had them.

In short, I know how to translate.

The problem is that translation is expensive.

The older I get, the less willing I am to spend my creative energy reshaping myself into something more digestible. Relatability has become something of a sacred value online, especially for women.

Be approachable. Vulnerable. Flawed. Tell us more.

There is an assumption that connection requires disclosure and that disclosure should be generous, ongoing and visible.

I don’t agree.

I have written elsewhere about what I call compulsory intimacy and my refusal to participate in it. I cannot force myself to reveal parts of my life simply because culture has decided that disclosure is the price of admission.

Nor am I convinced that relatability is the highest creative virtue.

When I think about the women who have expanded my imagination, they are rarely relatable in the conventional sense.

They are singular, contradictory and contain multitudes. They refuse to collapse themselves into a single identity.

Perhaps I am drawn to them because I have spent my own life resisting reduction.

I am a mother of ten children and an ambitious woman. Neither exists in service of the other.

I am deeply sensitive and remarkably resilient. I love solitude and meaningful connection. I am private and public.

Culture often seems to want us to choose a lane. Mother first. Businesswoman second. Creative but not ambitious. Ambitious but not maternal.

I have no interest in participating in that game.

My life is built on coexistence. What cannot be easily categorised is often perceived as less relatable.

For years, I thought this meant I was getting it wrong.

Now I think it simply means I am unwilling to abandon parts of myself in order to make other people comfortable.

That doesn’t mean it never hurts. It does.

The choice has never been between comfort and discomfort.

The choice has been between internal dissonance and external rejection.

I can try to become more acceptable, easily understood. I can translate endlessly until all the rough edges disappear.

Or I can allow some people to misunderstand me.

Increasingly, I choose the latter.

Not because rejection doesn’t sting, but because I have finally realised that self-abandonment has a cost too.

Kristy Forbes writes that freedom is “being able to choose without being coerced by expectation, shame, fear, urgency, politeness, performance, or the need to be seen as good…If only I could tell you how much of my life has been chewed up and spat out by the exhausting process of performing goodness.”

Exactly.

For much of my life, I thought belonging depended on performance. Now I’m more interested in freedom. Part of that freedom has involved developing something that feels like compersion: genuine happiness for people who are more easily received than I am.

People whose communication style fits neatly within cultural expectations, whose warmth translates effortlessly and who seem to move through the world without friction. I no longer see their success as a judgement on mine.

Their path is theirs. Mine is mine.

And while I may never be the most relatable person, I have become increasingly committed to being the most truthful one. At least to myself.

That feels like a trade worth making.

Parents Who Think

An inconvenient mother of ten crowbarring open conversations about identity, power, desire, work, creativity, motherhood and ambition.

By Danusia Malina-Derben

Written by Alfiah Jade Brown

Most people in my family are heavily dyslexic or neurodivergent, so we’ve always had to find our own ways to teach and support each other. My parents, grandparents and I still sometimes carry the shame of feeling “stupid” for not fitting into academic standards.

Growing up, I dreaded classrooms unless it was art, music, or literacy. The weight of those tears was heavy – feeling “stupid” in a world not built for people like me. I failed nearly every exam until university.

I still remember my dyslexia report: reading and spelling age of a ten-year-old – at 21. It was humbling, but it forced me to ask: what are my strengths?

Music was my first love and the first thing I truly understood. Growing up around my dad’s sound system became a study of learning how rhythm and words could move a crowd. Watching him turn everyday phrases into songs showed me that I didn’t need perfect spelling – music and I understood each other.

But the industry was male-dominated and suffocating, and after too many bad experiences, I turned fully to poetry in my twenties, around the same time I was at university.

Teachers had always called me a great storyteller, but my grammar, punctuation and spelling were “horrific,” and honestly, they still are today. My love for poetry didn’t come from praise – I wasn’t even into it at first. Most of what I read was Shakespeare (and I’ve got serious beef with that man).

Meanwhile, the worlds in my head were vivid, loud and colourful, but I couldn’t get them onto paper the way I felt them.

It wasn’t until university, in a racist environment, that I ironically discovered Black literature for the first time – Bell Hooks, Caleb Femi, Frantz Fanon, Debbie Tucker Green, Linton Kwesi Johnson. Their work taught me that writing could be rebellion, not academic approval.

I thought, “F*ck it – I’ll write my own way.” I was surviving a system that wasn’t made for me but still needed to be heard to graduate.

UK rap had always been humming in my ears – Sneakbo, K Koke’s Fire in the Booth, Boy Better Know, Giggs. I was always fascinated, studying the power of rap and the playfulness of language, and it made me question why people would rather listen to a rapper than read a poem.

This became internalised in my writing process as a poet. Rap taught me authenticity, how to write in my own words and to use my voice as I already know it. They actually taught me most of what I know about poetry; I still couldn’t tell you what a stanza is.

It was somewhere in between writing words as a weapon and bulletproof vest that I realised my talent – fuelled by the zeal and never-wondering imagination of a child who wanted to create all their crazy, restricted ideas.

Being forced to listen and visualise the world made me a better reader, a better writer and a stronger advocate for untold stories. That’s when I realised my dyslexia was a strength; a gift that shaped my storytelling.

This deeply shaped my unique process. I stopped focusing on poetry as it appears on the page and started transforming it into the visual worlds I imagine. My poetry explores identity and culture, amplifying overlooked stories and weaving them together with recorded voice notes, music and directed visuals blended with phrases from everyday life.

Dyslexia has taught me that words and reading alone can’t always hold the life of a poem – film, photography, and sound allow it to breathe, move and come alive.

I still carry the perspective of a ten-year-old reader, speller, and writer with me. Unlike school, no one can “correct” my poems; they are my voice, my world, my story.

Even if I don’t hear the clicks, I have found my way and will still be heard.

Hopes and Dreams for the Future: As a Poet and for the Neurodivergent Community

I carry so many hopes for the future of poetry, dreams I work towards every single day. Teaching poetry, especially to young people from marginalised communities, is one of my greatest joys. I want my way of teaching to breathe faith into the child who feels exhausted by society’s standards, to remind them their voice already matters.

As a community arts advocate, I’ve taught more than 400 children in alternative poetry workshops. I pray the seeds I’ve planted in them grow into poems and stories that shape their truths and maybe even change the world. Many of them heal a part of me, and their stories are often woven into mine. I hope they feel a voice – mine or anyone’s – pushing them forward when school/world defines success too narrowly.

As a poet, I want to shift who feels invited into poetry. I dream of widening the class and cultural landscape of the art form -creating work that’s immersive, disruptive and deeply personal through film, exhibitions, sound and whatever else breaks the text. I’m ready to push boundaries and will do it. I’m passionate about keeping that space accessible, welcoming and alive.

Collectively, the poetry world needs to expand. We need more room for marginalised communities, ethnic minorities, women, working-class writers and neurodivergent poets – voices that wouldn’t typically be seen shining in Waterstones. I’m telling you, we’ve got exciting shit to say.

I hope to see more paid opportunities and sustainable paths for poets. We pour so much into our craft performing at open mics, running workshops, building community, yet the chances to break through remain too few. Poets can do far more than simply be published; there is an entire world of poetry waiting to be created. And I want to help make that world bigger, louder, softer where it needs to be – and far more exciting and inclusive.

Follow Alfiah Jade Brown on Instagram: @alfiahjade

Written by May Cadman

When I ran my wedding cake business, I made countless cups of tea and most of them went cold. I’d make a cuppa, take a sip, remember something urgent, answer a message, begin another task, solve a problem, notice the untouched mug an hour later.

And repeat the process.

It wasn’t just that I was busy. My attention was constantly being pulled in different directions. I would move from one task to another, trying to keep everything going at once, and then try to force myself back to what I had originally been doing.

At the time, I thought this was just part of running a business. But what I didn’t realise was how much energy I was using trying to force my focus back once it had already gone.

Now, I’m not saying this is unusual. People with busy lives can relate to cold cups of tea all the time this is not an exclusively neurodivergent experience. But the difference is often in the cost. For some ADHD brains, repeatedly pushing on without pause can tip more quickly into overwhelm, stress, emotional reactivity or mental paralysis.

And I was busy. Truly busy. Running a business brought real pressure: deadlines, clients, deliveries, long days, constant responsibility.

But looking back, I can see something else was happening too.

It was not only that life was busy, my mind was busy. There were always mental tabs open. Things to remember. Problems to solve. Ideas arriving at the same time as practical demands. A constant sense that something needed doing now.

For many people with ADHD, the challenge is not a lack of attention. It can be an excess of it. Too many things pulling at once. Too many thoughts competing for priority. Too much being noticed at the same time.

When that happens, it can become harder to continue, harder to choose, harder to settle, and harder to think clearly.

At the time, I assumed the answer was to push harder. I had no other option - there was work to be done, so you got on with it. If I felt overwhelmed, I sped up. If I felt behind, I tried harder. If I felt tired, I carried on. It worked until it didn’t and I burned out.

What I understand now is that many of those moments were exactly when I needed to pause and reset. The cold tea was never really about the tea. It was about the lack of pause. But I had no language for that then.

I thought slowing down meant losing momentum and I thought rest was something you earned after everything was finished. It turns out the opposite can often be true. That is why breaks are not always a luxury. Sometimes they are part of staying well and functioning well.

Years later, in a much quieter time of my life, I noticed something important.

Even without the pressure of running a company, my brain still sometimes needed a reset. I could be sitting at my desk to work or study, only to find myself drifting. Reading the same paragraph three times. Looking at the news. Checking messages. Feeling cross with myself for not simply being able to concentrate (that self-criticism taking far more energy than the task itself!).

It was then that I began experimenting with something different. Instead of forcing focus once it had gone, I tried pausing. Sometimes it was making a cup of tea and actually drinking it. Sometimes stepping outside. Sometimes folding laundry, walking around the block, or doing something simple for a few minutes.

And yes, when life feels full, a pause can seem like the very thing you do not have time for. Sometimes even making a cup of tea can feel like another task. But often, that is the moment it may help most.

A short pause can help the nervous system settle. It can calm the feeling of overwhelm and create enough space for the next step to become clearer.

There is often something else happening in that pause too: kindness. Stopping for a few minutes can be a quiet way of saying to yourself, ‘I’m listening.’ Instead of meeting struggle with criticism, we meet it with care.

That can feel deeply grounding. We are no longer battling our own mind, but beginning to work with it.

Many ADHD brains work well in shorter bursts, with pauses in between. Productivity does not always come from pushing through. Sometimes it comes from stepping away at the right moment.

Creativity can work like this too. Ideas need energy, but they also need space. A mind that is overloaded can struggle to shape thoughts into something tangible. A mind that has had a moment to breathe can often find its way back to clarity.

These days, my tea breaks are far more intentional. That may sound like a small thing. But often the smallest changes carry the biggest meaning. Back then, the tea went cold - these days, I drink it.

So if your mind feels busy today, try not to judge it too quickly. Pause first. Then return. And if the cup of tea happens to be in the sun, all the better.

www.may-cadman-coaching.com

When I was pregnant with my first child, in 2013, I was working as a copywriter for a film-streaming company called blinkbox. It was Netflix’s biggest competitor, at the time, and it was owned by Tesco. It was the first ‘pay-on-demand’ film company.

I’d commute to Farringdon and spend my days watching films and then writing about them. Or, working on partnerships with brands like Cadburys, Walkers and popcorn companies and create advertising copy to sell both the films and related products.

A few weeks into the pregnancy, the morning sickness began. I’d throw up every single morning and feel sick all day. I’d keep breadsticks by my bed, to eat as soon as I woke up, hoping that would stave off the sickness. It didn’t, really.

One morning, on the commute into work, I was writing copy about chocolate, for Cadburys, and I had to get off the Tube because the thought of chocolate was making me sick. I went into McDonalds, in Kings Cross, and threw up.

I headed home and said I could do the work, but I couldn’t make it into the office. That day, I realised that I didn’t actually need to be in the office at all, I could write copy from home. So, with their permission, that’s what I did through my pregnancy.

(I continued to be sick every day.)

This gave me a taste for working from home. I’d had periods of freelancing, as a writer, from home, but this was different. I didn’t have to hustle for work and I knew what I had to do each day, so I just got on with it, without any distractions.

I felt calmer and more focused. No morning commute to navigate - a sea of frustrated people shoving each other out the way to get on the Tube - no in-person meetings, no small talk. I’d just walk to my kitchen table, open my laptop and get started.

I could do my work without having to navigate all the aspects of office life that I’d actually found quite difficult. I didn’t even know I found it difficult, as I was so ‘good’ at masking. Though, the panic attack I had in the foyer should have been a red flag.

Until now, everything on We Hyperfocus has been free to read and I’ve just invited contributions. But, I’m now going to be writing personal essays about my own neurodivergence, once a month, that will be behind the paywall. Everyone else’s essays will remain free for all. Those who choose to become paid subscribers will be able to access all my essays and will be helping me to keep the platform going. I appreciate your support. Annie x

Read more

As a child I painted on my white melamine bedroom wardrobe doors, a huge canvas waiting to be filled. This wasn’t an act of defiance. It just made sense to me to adorn them with grasses, wildflowers, bees and butterflies, to bring my interpretation of nature in as close to me as I could.

My brother was well known for being the artist in our family. He was genuinely technically gifted. I felt my artistic endeavours got compared to his a lot and I never came out well from that comparison. School more or less agreed with the general consensus and that seemed to be that.

Comparison is one of the most effective ways to quietly close a creative person down. Especially a child who already suspects she doesn’t quite fit.

So I found other surfaces. Wallpaper. Fabric. Anything I could tie-dye. I hand-embroidered a lot, which back then was still considered a suitable skill for a girl to have, even as the actual demand for embroidered tray cloths was already dying out. I wrote too. Writing was the one creative thing people seemed happy to point me towards. The rest I did on my own, mostly.

Nobody gave me permission to create. So I just did it anyway, in the gaps.

I’m almost 52 now. I was diagnosed with ADHD at 47 and autism at 50, late, as so many of us are. And when I look back at that child covering every available surface, I feel a lot of tenderness for her. She wasn’t being difficult. That was just how her brain worked.

After I qualified as a mental health nurse at 21, my first job was in a day hospital in Soho. It was one of the best things that could have happened to me. Art therapy, music therapy, drama therapy, a ceramics studio. I was surrounded by people who took making seriously, and everyone, outpatients and staff were encouraged to join in. It sounds small, but it wasn’t. It was the first time I could create, and support others creativity without any perceived judgement.

I started taking evening classes after that. Silversmithing, more pottery, sewing, life drawing. A decade later I did an art foundation. Twelve years after that, a degree in ceramics, print and textiles. I was 47. The same year I got my ADHD diagnosis, which in hindsight makes complete sense.

I sold ceramics at art fairs, exhibited in galleries and for a while I was completely set on that being the direction. The pressure to make my entire living from making was affecting my creative output, and I was missing my client work.

I’m a psychotherapist and therapeutic coach, and stepping back from that work had left a gap I hadn’t anticipated. Trying to run a ceramics business alongside seeing clients and home educating my two neurodivergent children wasn’t sustainable, and I could feel that burnout was coming if I didn’t make a change. I’ve got better at recognising that feeling.

So the ceramics came back to me, for now. Not for selling. For me, for family, for friends. I have a few boxes of pieces I made a couple of years ago that will find good homes eventually. But once the making stopped needing to earn its place, something in me relaxed about it.

My two main creative loves right now are pottery and Procreate, and they scratch completely different itches.

Procreate I pick up when I want something immediate. A quick doodle that turns into a pattern, the satisfaction of making something in an afternoon. I use it for the artwork on my Instagram carousels and my Substack thumbnails, but honestly it started as play and it still feels that way. My inspiration is almost always from the natural world. Insects, plants, close-up texture, the kind of detail that doesn’t announce itself.

Four years ago I built a wildlife pond in my garden and it’s been genuinely one of the better decisions I’ve made. I spend a lot of time out there just watching. Birds drinking and bathing. The patterns I notice end up in the work.

Pottery is everything Procreate isn’t. Throw, dry, bisque fire, glaze, glaze fire. You spend weeks with something before you find out if it worked. I don’t always have the patience for it, genuinely. But I always love what comes back out of the kiln.

I also knit. And before that there was silversmithing. And sewing. And the pigeon drawings. And I’ve learned to stop treating that as a problem.

For a long time I thought I was supposed to pick one thing and stick to it. That moving on from something meant I’d failed at it, or given up, or couldn’t commit. But that’s not what’s happening. What’s happening is that I hyperfocused, I got what I needed from it, and then it stopped being interesting. That’s not failure. That’s just how some of us work.

The knitting will probably give way to something else at some point. The pottery keeps coming back because it suits something deeper in me. But I’ve stopped giving myself a hard time about following the thread of whatever is actually holding my attention right now. Permission to be in the middle of three things at once, to put something down without it meaning anything about your character, to pick something back up years later. That’s taken me a long time to give myself. It shouldn’t have to take that long.

I think everyone is creative. I just think a lot of people had it taken from them at some point. A comparison. A throwaway comment. A system that decided early which children had it and which ones didn’t.

I was that child. And for decades I thought the verdict was final.

Understanding my neurodivergence changed that. Not because it gave me an excuse, but because it gave me an explanation. The child painting on wardrobe doors wasn’t lacking discipline or focus. She was doing exactly what her brain needed to do.

That’s what I know now. And that knowing is the permission. Not permission from anyone else. Permission from myself, finally, to be exactly the kind of creative person I actually am. Not the one I was compared against. Not the one the system had a category for.

This one.

For The Deep Feelers & Big Hearted People Pleasers

A community for late discovered neurodivergent folk dismantling shame, seeking liberation from the norms & building lives and relationships that work. With a generous sprinkling of joy. Interpersonal Psychotherapist, Coach, Unschooling Parent, Author.

By Alice Bramhill

Pre-order: I Need My Space (But I like you too!) by Alice Bramhill

Instagram: @alice.bramhill

Website: www.alicebramhill.co.uk

If you’d like to support We Hyperfocus - the platform by and for neurodivergent creatives, including a magazine, an Instagram account, a monthly directory of courses for neurodivergent creatives and this Substack - we’d be ever so grateful.

You can support We Hyperfocus…

for £3.50/month or £35/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/subscribe

for £1.75/month or £17.50/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/alittleless

for 88p/month or £8.75/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/everypennycounts

Thank you for reading, and supporting.

Annie x

Firstly, three courses from We Hyperfocus…

1. Becoming the artist

A creative coaching course designed to inspire you, build your confidence and show you how to earn a living from your creative work, without burning out. Stories from other artists; creative business tips; ways to unblock. Read about it here.

2. How to launch a successful online course

This online course is a step-by-step guide for turning your seed of an idea into a fully functioning online course. So if you love the idea of a passive income but don’t know where to start, sign up now. Soon, you could literally be earning while you sleep.

3. How to launch and grow on Substack

You want to write. You need to earn a living. You want to really enjoy your work. It’s time to try Substack. This user-friendly platform makes it easy to experiment with your writing, have fun, build a community and earn £££. This course teaches you how.

Courses by other neurodivergent creatives

Please note: we are not affiliated with any of the following courses or course creators. We don’t receive payment if you choose to sign up. We include anyone who asks to be included.

• For Italian speakers worldwide, two photography courses by Berlin-based Italian artist, photographer, and educator Irene Ferri: Ultra Venice and Plutone.

• Who am I now? A short, clear starting point for neurodivergent women in perimenopause by Sophie Cartledge, founder of Hormones on the blink.

• A mini-course designed Janina Hossbach for neurodivergent and low-energy creatives who are overwhelmed by unfinished projects and decision fatigue.

• There is a point in which we stop looking for the door and start asking what we can access inside of us. How does life want to live itself through you? This course by A house made of breath will help you to explore this.

• NQC (Neuroqueer Creative) offer a wide range of short and long-term courses grounded in neuroqueering practices and facilitated by practitioners from across the NQC community. Read more.

• Would you like people to buy your art without you having to learn how to sell? Magnetic Artist, by John Allsopp, will help with this.

If you’d like to support We Hyperfocus - the platform by and for neurodivergent creatives, including a magazine, an Instagram account, a monthly directory of courses for neurodivergent creatives and this Substack - we’d be ever so grateful.

You can support We Hyperfocus…

for £3.50/month or £35/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/subscribe

for £1.75/month or £17.50/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/alittleless

for 88p/month or £8.75/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/everypennycounts

Thank you for reading, and supporting.

Annie x

The definition of success has alluded me over the years and I’ve often felt the sting of the unsuccessful in a lot of my endeavours. No awards of recognition, no promotions, no big bonus, no big followings or fame and fortune. It has caused a great deal of pain over the years, longing for the success I’ve seen others enjoy. But of late I’ve realised my success doesn’t lie in the big and the glitzy but in the quiet, in the subtle, a place where actually I am most at ease.

When I was five years old, my family and I went to see The Nutcracker Suite ballet. My Mum has told me there was a point in the ballet where a choir began to sing and suddenly, she heard a little voice next to her loudly and confidently begin to join in as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Whilst my memories of this are hazy, I obviously felt moved by the music and compelled to join in. In my rawest form and with the inhibition of early childhood, long before the masking began, it felt natural to sing, regardless of who was around me.

At age seven, I began writing poetry and by my early teens I was putting words to music, which only heightened my creative experience. I’d found myself in creating. It felt wonderful. I spent days in my bedroom writing and recording songs that teased out my inner world. Days would be lost in my bedroom studio set-up and I’d work so hard on perfecting my music, I could literally hear my brain creak. I forgot to eat, I forgot to drink, I was consumed. I had a focus that I couldn’t apply to anything else in my life. I couldn’t start a project and leave it part way through, I had to keep going until it was finished - only then could I disconnect from my creative process and resume the mundane and sometimes traumatic moments of everyday life.

Around this time, I really started to feel different to a lot of my peers. I found it increasingly hard to make sense of the burgeoning social scene that comes with age. The parties, the pubs, the boys. I couldn’t seem to chat to people like my friends could and unfortunately, I discovered the way to be part of the crowd was to drink alcohol, which lessened the unease and made me feel a social butterfly like everyone else, until it didn’t.

But despite my difference, I could communicate through writing and music in a way that I couldn’t seem to with most humans. I had a depth to my feelings that no one understood. I developed crushes on boys that would completely overwhelm me and stop me eating, where others seemed to cope. The intensity of my feelings frightened me as well as others around me and I felt a pressure to rein myself in but I couldn’t let things go. The end result was a beautifully crafted song.

I started to sing some of my music in a band and perform at school concerts. My talent for singing and songwriting was recognised, and people encouraged me to perform. However, when I did perform in front of others, the magic of my creativity seemed to disappear. Anxiety would bubble up in my throat and distort my voice and the natural emotion I emitted in rehearsals was nowhere to be seen, it was somehow lost in my fear of the eyes looking in my direction. Something didn’t align, I had been given this gift of a voice, but I found it so difficult to perform. I was perplexed by the dichotomy of being singer and songwriter but not performer. Despite this, I continued to try and pursue a career in music believing it was the only way to live my creativity.

All I want by Hannah Woodwark…

After school I went to music college for a year, and the plan was to give it my best shot to secure a music career. But my mental health was plummeting further and further and my undiagnosed neurodivergence was causing me to feel a trauma from the world around me.

Whilst music continued to be my way of processing my feelings, I still struggled with the performing, the networking, the promoting aspects that come hand-in-hand with trying to secure a music career. I remember people saying, ‘if I had your voice, I would be famous right now’ or ‘I can’t believe that voice came out of you’. It was like my singing voice didn’t fit my body.

I recorded music and performed my own material to dark dingy smoke-filled pubs that hid the empty seats. I fell into admin jobs, perfunctory roles that paid the bills but offered little opportunity to create. I struggled with the nuances and complex conversations typical of the business world and I found the open plan busy offices draining and would drink my way through the afterwork socialising.

I was lonely, unhappy, at odds with myself. And whilst others collected friendships like stamps, I seemed to lose them. Whilst others progressed in their careers, my creative career stalled, and my mental health took a nose-dive. There were hospital admissions due to drinking too much, Men taking advantage of me in vulnerable states, alcohol support groups and a lot of therapy. I writhed in my utter confusion over why I felt so irrevocably different to everyone else, why I simply couldn’t navigate the world in the same way as others. But no matter how dark life got I always had my music and my words; they were my medicine.

This would be the point in the story where something changed, some kind of fortune favouring the down and out, but in truth there was no Hollywood style turnaround and for years, I felt that I had failed. I felt a deep sadness that my words and music didn’t take me to the places I’d always dreamed of, they remained small. I longed for a bubble of fame and fortune that would protect me from the world I couldn’t make sense of. People would accept my ‘weirdness’ because I would be great at what I did, my music and success would distract from the fact I didn’t fit in.

But I’m not a bestseller, a Grammy award winning songwriter. I’m not selling out shows or singing with full orchestras in beautiful dresses like I had always dreamed. If this were an article in a national newspaper or magazine this would be the point where the page would tell of the rawness of my childhood talent being propelled into sparkly fame and life changing success but instead, I have stumbled my way to 44 and only now am I beginning to understand myself and how my creative energy and my neurodivergence co-exist.

When you don’t know yourself it’s impossibly hard to find what you need. I often wished that my creativity didn’t lie in music but in quieter, less visible pursuits like art or pottery, selling my wares on a small Etsy page. I’d be able to create without the performance, without the eyes on me. My dreams of noisy fame and fortune have begun to dissipate as I have realised that what I really need is to quietly create.

In this realisation, there is a Hollywood rags to riches kind of vibe. For me, the turning point really was meeting my husband who it turns out is also neurodivergent. We connected in our quiet otherness. The next turning point was going on to have our children. I stopped working when I became a mother and I felt instant relief that I could spent my days quietly mothering rather than trying to navigate busy offices and social whirls. But I still felt that difference, finding the mum groups and school gates uncomfortable places to be and I was definitely feeling the lack of creativity in my life.

And then the moment of real clarity came when my then six-year-old son went into burnout and could no longer attend mainstream school. In my caring for him I discovered both his neurodivergence and also my own. I understood why socialising was so hard and uncomfortable, I understood why I could never progress from the ranks of admin into a more senior role, I understood why I could create but couldn’t perform and network. And this is where my success lies. Not in being onstage, in a boardroom, nor in fame and fortune - my success finally came in the quieter life I’ve always needed, my success, my Oscar winning moment is living without the mask.

Cue rapturous applause and a thank you speech to my mum and dad, my husband and children. The recognition may only lie in my head, but I am proud. My success is in my mothering, in listening to my children’s needs and fiercely protecting them. My success lies in the compassion I have for my husband. My success lies in the awareness of my own needs and a compassion for myself. My success lies in creating in smaller, quieter ways.

Slip Away by Hannah Woodwark…

During my son’s burnout, I hung around the social media pages of other mothers navigating the same rocky road as I was and it was then that I stumbled across the work of . She offered a workshop for mothers who were stuck at home with a child, too traumatised to go out. It was so lovely to be amongst women navigating the same path as me. A frightening one, a lonely one, a very different one to most. I soon realised that Annie was a writer and saw that she offered writing coaching, and I wondered if that might be good for me, that it might provide me with a route to creating again.

I still longed to make music, but words definitely gave me a creative outlet, too. Annie introduced me to Substack and a new world opened up. Writing on Substack allowed me a place to quietly create, there were eyes on my work but not on me. I get the satisfaction of knowing my work is out in the world with minimal pressure to promote, network or perform.

One day I’d like to get back to writing music, I would love to find others to perform it, to take it to places I couldn’t myself. But for now, I like to let the music of others move me, to linger on my lips, to sing into the bubbles of the daily washing up. To put a rhythm into my body when I stomp down a canal-side path listening to my favourite tunes. To occasionally have a jam at my keyboard. Music is a backdrop to my daily living, much like being in a musical.

And my creative story has led me to understand that for me, creativity isn’t just a career, it’s a necessity, it’s oxygen. I need it to survive. It’s a place to direct my intense neurodivergent feelings. It’s a place where I’ve met other neurodivergent souls. When I don’t have the opportunity to create, I now know my mental health suffers. Had I realised all those years ago that to incorporate creativity quietly into my life, much like you would a vitamin, I think my life would have been healthier.

My creativity hasn’t taken me where I thought it would take me - and of course, to be paid, to make an income from creating would be the dream. But monetary reward doesn’t define my creativity: the living it, the doing it does.

Doing Life Differently

The journey to authentic living.

By Hannah Woodwark

If you’d like to support We Hyperfocus - the platform by and for neurodivergent creatives, including a magazine, an Instagram account, a monthly directory of courses for neurodivergent creatives and this Substack - we’d be ever so grateful.

You can support We Hyperfocus…

for £3.50/month or £35/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/subscribe

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for 88p/month or £8.75/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/everypennycounts

Thank you for reading, and supporting.

Annie x

For years, it felt like my brain was working against me. I was detached from it, burdened by it. A constant, exhausting feeling that I was never quite in sync with myself.

My neurodivergence felt like an unwanted plus-one - the sibling your parents insisted on bringing along to your childhood endeavours, if you will - that was somehow turning even the simplest plans into hard work.

There was just too much. Too many thoughts. Too many feelings. There was never enough space for everything that was bursting inside of me.

I didn’t know what to do with it all. Where to put it.

Until I put it all down. I gave it somewhere to be, and I started to see my AuDHD as less of a burden, and more as a blessing. The chaos turned into passion. Emotions turned into writing that people felt seen in.

I saw how powerful my AuDHD was; not something working against me, but something I could work with.

Something that, in its own way, was making me a better writer.

Focus, but make it hyper

As a child, my parents would often be told that I was extremely bright, until I wasn’t. And then I just wanted to daydream or talk. “If we could just get her to focus…” they would say. And then we would get home, and I couldn’t be torn away from writing whatever novel I was writing at the time.

When I’m focused, I’m focused. It’s just that sometimes I don’t have a choice on what it’s on. And, unfortunately for my childhood academic grades, it was never maths.

This laser focus has only strengthened with age. And when given something really juicy to focus on, my AuDHD thrives. Therefore, so does my writing. I simply cannot think of anything else until I’ve put it into words.

2,000-word article done in one sitting? No problem.

Bladder is about to burst from holding it for the past four hours at my desk? Don’t care.

My autism gave me a deadline for this article, and my ADHD is going to get me there.

The words pour out of me, translating parts of myself that I deemed unintelligible. Connecting with people I didn’t think understood. Every project is a passion project. Every article is from the heart. Every word is crafted with the very focus that my childhood teachers could only wish I had.

I had it, more than most. I just didn’t know how to use it.

Thoughts a plenty

There is never quiet in my brain. I don’t know how people aren’t bombarded by their own thoughts every second of every day. I recently found out that some people don’t have internal monologues… I do not relate to this.

My internal monologues have internal monologues. It’s a neurodivergent Zoom call in there, but everyone has awful wifi and no social cues.

However, this means I always have something to write about, because I always have something I’m thinking about. I can’t imagine a time when I will run out of article ideas. Everything is material if you’re AuDHD enough.

It’s almost frustrating that the ideas don’t turn off. A big part of my nighttime routine is finally feeling like I’m about to fall asleep, and then thinking of an idea I have to write down… and the cycle continues a good three or four times.

Sometimes I have so many ideas that they start to overlap. They jump over one another in a scrambling chaos. Sometimes I open my notes app to see lines upon lines of new ones… all without any context or the end of their sentences. I’m sure some of them were extraordinary ideas. We’ll just never know.

They are, without fail, creative. Very outside the box. Sometimes so outside the box they’re borderline unusable. Occasionally outside my abilities entirely. But always creative.

An ocean of emotion

I’ve always felt as though I was too much. That I felt too much. I could never understand how people weren’t cracking under the weight of everything they were feeling.

Turns out some people’s nervous systems don’t react the same way to being held at gunpoint as they do to a change in someone’s tone. Who knew?

I feel everything extremely deeply. This means the burnout, the exhaustion, the overwhelm. But it also means the passion, the drive, the love. It means my writing is a museum of every wave I have managed to ride without drowning, every current that has taken me under. Every moment that my head has come up for air.

It’s in there, in my words and in the way way they leave me and resonate with whoever needs it.

Of course my AuDHD comes with its challenges to my writing. The hyperfocus can leave me neglecting myself entirely, the endless ideas can leave me overwhelmed, the emotions can paralyse me so that I can’t write at all.

Yes, my AuDHD is great for writing. But it’s also great for burnout. And exhaustion. And screaming into a pillow.

Sometimes I need to practise mindfulness (keyword practise, not perfect), and distract myself by doing something else. Sometimes I need to take regular breaks and set timers for meal times. Sometimes I need to not write at all, so I can make sure I leave time to feel.

Whatever I do, I no longer think of my AuDHD as a burden. I utilise it and, equally, care for it when things get too much.

For a long time, I saw my AuDHD as something that held me back. Now, I see it as the reason my writing feels the way it does. Passionate, honest. Real.

It’s not always easy. But it’s mine. And it’s powerful.

If you’ve been learning how to work alongside your AuDHD instead of against it, know you aren’t alone.

I’ll be here,

- Ella

Ella Thompson

Giving life another go, but this time: No eating disorder. No masking the AUDHD. No self destructive and harming behaviours. And, above all, not a single clue.

If you’d like to support We Hyperfocus - the platform by and for neurodivergent creatives, including a magazine, an Instagram account, a monthly directory of courses for neurodivergent creatives and this Substack - we’d be ever so grateful.

You can support We Hyperfocus…

for £3.50/month or £35/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/subscribe

for £1.75/month or £17.50/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/alittleless

for 88p/month or £8.75/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/everypennycounts

Thank you for reading, and supporting.

Annie x

A month ago, I took a flamethrower to the life I’d been building over the last twelve years. As an undiagnosed autistic girl who grew up thinking that being anything other than a Grade A student was tantamount to abject failure, climbing the corporate ladder had been the natural endgame after I graduated in 2014. So, what made me climb off?

Frenzied millennial ‘girl boss’ energy used to course through my veins. It did this for around eighteen months every time I got a new job, until I suddenly couldn’t cope with the stresses of office life. The go-getter persona that I’d so carefully crafted fell apart at the seams, and I would end up crawling immediately into bed after work, exhausted. After fighting tooth and nail against myself, I’d eventually quit after having something of a nervous breakdown. There would be a couple of weeks of guilt-ridden ‘rest’ whilst looking for another job, then the cycle would begin again.

As the neurotypical police residing in my head screamed, “Why can’t you just be normal?”, I doubled down on projects and put myself forward for presentation opportunities. I was masochistic for praise. The work itself was never the problem. It was the having to be constantly switched-on, with my face contorted into a painted-on smile; far from the flat effect and resting bitch face that appear when I’m alone.

This cycle of chaos is now known to me as autistic burnout. I was pushing my brain and body to exist in environments that they just weren’t meant for. Something as benign as going to the coffee corner felt like scoping out my surroundings lest a lion bite my head off. It was only Sarah from Marketing. A well-meaning boss once wryly quipped as we rounded off my performance review, “You’re nothing like you were in your interview, are you?”

It’s quite a kick in the teeth to know that I am capable of doing the work itself, but am frankly incompatible with the nightmare human safari that is the modern-day office. Companies have a long way to go when it comes to accommodating their neurodivergent employees, and it’s hardly a secret that those who can shout the loudest will be the most successful in those structures.

I moved to the Netherlands in 2022 to be with my then-partner. Within a week of being there, I secured a well-paid job in fashion e-commerce, which offered me a ‘highly skilled migrant’ visa. At first, despite this being a role in which I travelled across eleven European countries as part of my day-to-day, I flourished. Buoyed by the manic desire to be the Most Normal Woman Who Has It All, plates were juggled, and work dinners were navigated with relative prowess.

In 2024, the wheels started falling off. The relationship I’d moved for was long gone, and consequently, I’d been priced out of the Amsterdam rental market. I moved to a smaller city nearby, decided to stop drinking, and proceeded to isolate myself until I started going a bit mad. With my already scarce pool of expat friends all being in Amsterdam, and my will to socialise without alcohol at an all-time low, it was easy to fall into unhealthy patterns. I slept all day, doomscrolled all night. Soon, I was sitting in front of a GP, bawling my eyes out.

I started again on anti-depressants and floated the potential of an autism assessment. Having read up on it in my doom-scrolling days, and my younger sister getting diagnosed the year prior, it seemed a plausible fit. I wondered if it was normal to feel like people were shooting lasers in your eyes as you tried to talk them through the latest sales figures. It turned out that it wasn’t. I developed an interesting relationship with the concept of ‘normal’.

As the Dutch healthcare system is Disneyland compared to the poor NHS, the whole process took less than six months. I sat on a Zoom call with two psychiatrists as they confirmed that there was a concrete reason why I’d found everything so damn confounding. I surprised myself by bursting into tears. I wasn’t broken. It wasn’t that I wasn’t trying hard enough. If anything, I was trying too hard to crush myself into a box that was never designed for me.

With this revelation under my belt, I tried to navigate things differently. Working from home as much as possible; caring less about padding every meeting with pleasantries; trying to send the word “sorry” less in emails. But things just got worse. The closer I got to understanding myself, the more I couldn’t summon the drive to push myself back towards an even worse burnout. Sick days started racking up.

Because I am incapable of taking it easy, I had signed up for a part-time coaching and counselling certification in Amsterdam, quite soon after my diagnosis. It began as a hobby, something to get me out of my shell a little; a booze-free activity where I could try out gradually unmasking my true self. Within a couple of study days, I realised that I was actually good at it. Donning the metaphorical jacket of ‘coach/counsellor’ didn’t feel weird at all. My classmates consistently offered the feedback that I was a “calm presence”. Me? Wow.

Eventually, I made the very difficult decision to move back to the UK. As I’d been on the same visa for almost four years and needed a new company to take on my sponsorship, it became quickly apparent that I wasn’t going to get a part-time contract on that basis. The earning threshold was too high, and I couldn’t handle the idea of going full-time again. I’d had to cut my hours down to 32 in the previous job, which had only been kindly granted because it was a good place to work.

Now that the ground has settled, I’ve made the rather terrifying decision to use the next six months (and consequently most of my savings) to pursue a self-employed, multi-hyphenated living that’s actually designed for my autistic ass. Leveraging the creative talents and skills that fell by the wayside due to the constraints of corporate work, I have already got a growing client base for my coaching/counselling practice. Paid Substack subscribers are on the ascent. I’m pulling together a showreel to book singing gigs in the near future. I’ve started designing my own neurodivergent merch. I’m even trying my hand at content creation on social media, despite my Gen Z sister referring to me as “Unc”.

Whether it works out or not, I will know that I tried to do something on my own terms. Until getting diagnosed, I lived my life by shoulds. We should climb the corporate ladder. We should have 2.5 children and be married by 28. We should have a mortgage and a fat savings account. We should achieve all of these things, even if doing so comes to our detriment. No thanks. Not anymore.

For neurodivergent readers: try coaching out with a free 50-minute session - no obligation - register your interest by emailing me at hello@ebonynash.com.

Meticulously Organised Chaos

Trying to make sense of a late autism diagnosis as a woman; one post at a time.

By Ebony L

Links:

My website (coaching enquiries and writing opportunities):

Etsy (mugs, tote bags)

Instagram: @ebonylaurenn

YouTube: @ebonylaurenn/shorts

If you’d like to support We Hyperfocus - the platform by and for neurodivergent creatives, including a magazine, an Instagram account, a monthly directory of courses for neurodivergent creatives and this Substack - we’d be ever so grateful.

You can support We Hyperfocus…

for £3.50/month or £35/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/subscribe

for £1.75/month or £17.50/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/alittleless

for 88p/month or £8.75/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/everypennycounts

Thank you for reading, and supporting.

Annie x

If you’re neurodivergent and looking to crack yourself out of creative stagnancy, unlock inspiration or pick up a new creative skill - the courses and programmes listed below have been designed with you in mind.

We’d love to know if you do go ahead and sign up for something. The idea with this monthly email is to feed - creatively and financially - back into the neurodivergent creative community.

Please note: we are not affiliated with any of these courses or course creators. We don’t receive any payment if you choose to sign up. We include anyone who asks to be included.

• Unlock your creative blocks - a 10-week journey through the emotions standing between you and your creativity and the ones that fuel it - with creative coach and story producer Laurie Farrugia. Heal your inner artist; learn to trust your instincts.

• The art book - memory, belonging and transformation - make your own art book with Professor Merritt Wuchina. Explore forms including collage, flash writing, poetry, painting and drawing, and break apart more formal ideas of writing.

  

• The New Mothers’ Writing Circle is an eight-week programme, taught live on Zoom, by award-winning creative producer and writer Catrin Kemp. Bringing in memoir, non-fiction, poetry and prose to explore core experiences of mothering.

• Creative Stimming is an online art class that invites you to explore creativity through play, movement and sensory expression, with Lucy Dixon. Bring whatever tools you love (pens, paper, chalk, paint etc) and get creative.

  

• WHOLE Creative Wellness Membership with Adie McDermott. Over 120 pre-recorded creative mixed-media projects you can follow along with, live recordings of art studio demos and masterclasses to help remove blocks.

• 5 MINUTES A DAY - somatic practices to restore your energy. No overthinking. No planning. Just simple, guided practices that help you create more calm in your day, space for your emotions and a deeper connection with yourself and others.

  

• Living Stories - a six-week online course from Impro Studio exploring the art of storytelling. Weekly themes are carefully crafted combining artistic prompts, guided meditations and improv games; taking inspiration from books, film, music.

• GERMINATE: plant school for artists - a ten-day webinar for artists to learn about the plant kingdom. Photosynthesis, plant/animal relations: pollination and seed-spreading, botanical poisons, foraging invasive plants for food and medicine.

• Kindred Neurodiversity pilot programme: Eight thoughtfully designed modules, exploring in detail each of the executive functions, using psychoeducation to expand your understanding of your neurodivergence.

• The Resilience Workshop - facilitated by certified mental health coordinator Mayumi Hikida. Includes breathing exercises, grounding practices, ways to soothe anxiety and emotional overwhelm, how to clear brain fog - and more.

  

• The Creative Weekend Reset with Jen Parr. It’s not about optimising time or fixing habits. It’s about remembering what it feels like to enjoy making things again. A moment to shut out the noise and choose yourself.

If you’d like to support We Hyperfocus - the platform for neurodivergent creatives, including a magazine, an Instagram account, a monthly directory of courses for neurodivergent creatives and this Substack - we’d be ever so grateful.

You can support We Hyperfocus…

for £3.50/month or £35/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/subscribe

for £1.75/month or £17.50/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/alittleless

for 88p/month or £8.75/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/everypennycounts

Thank you for reading, and supporting.

Annie x

Basil Waite, AKA FopDoodles, is 36 and lives in South Wales.

Tell us about your creative career…

I hated university, but while I was there I managed to get several work placements at CBBC in London, off my own back. I worked on Blue Peter and a few other shows, and that’s where I fell in love with children’s entertainment, especially the live puppetry side of it.

At the time though, I wasn’t based in London and I came from a working-class background, so that world didn’t feel open to me. I quietly filed it away as a pipe dream.

After graduating I became an illustrator, working with indie publishers and private clients. Over time I started selling work at comic cons, festivals and events, and tried everything from wedding illustration to running live workshops. Along the way I learnt a lot about character design, colour theory, storytelling and how to connect with people.

Combined with my lifelong love of puppetry, moving into puppet building and performance eventually felt like a natural step. That said, I had no formal background in performance, and I was actually banned from textiles at school after breaking the sewing machine within five seconds of the lesson. So it was mostly passion, persistence and a lot of terrible early creations that got me here.

I was also incredibly lucky that professional puppet builders and puppeteers were generous with advice when I was starting out. That kindness meant a lot to me, as I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

Now, about three years later, I run FopDoodles, where I build puppets and perform, and founded The OverTheres, a non-profit literacy programme designed to support neurodiverse children and help all kids fall in love with reading, books and hands-on creativity. I started it with two brilliant friends who also grew up navigating neurodivergence and a lack of support in school, so it’s something we care deeply about

What does a work day usually look like?

It changes every day, which is both exciting and slightly terrifying. I usually start work around 10.30am. A combination of chronic illness and ADHD means early starts and consistent sleep can be tricky, so I’ve learned to work with the rhythm that suits me best.

My day usually begins with a bit of admin - scriptwriting, research, emails, or catching up with clients. After that, I’ll spend most of the day working on puppet builds. These are often commissions, and each one comes with its own set of challenges and little engineering puzzles to solve. I also try to remember to photograph the stages of the build, both for the client to review and for social media.

I have a bit of a love–hate relationship with social media. It’s useful, but it can also be time-consuming and overwhelming, so if I can capture something “content-worthy” during the natural build process, it saves me some time and brainpower later.

I’m usually working on two or more puppets at once. That way, if one project pauses while I’m waiting on materials or feedback, I can move straight onto the next. If there’s ever a brief lull in commissions, I work on pre-made puppets that I sell through my website, and hopefully one day I’ll have enough stock to take them to festivals or comic cons.

Throughout the day I’m also ordering materials, researching solutions to problems I’ve run into, and connecting with other creatives.

Every so often, the day looks completely different and involves live appearances, workshops, or shows through my non-profit, The OverTheres. Those are some of my favourite days, getting to encourage play, imagination, and storytelling with families and young people, and using puppetry for good with some of my favourite creatives.

Where do you find new ideas and inspiration?

With puppetry, it’s often that I’ve got some leftover fabric that I want to use, I’ve seen a character design I’d love to interpret in my own way or I’ve just woken up with the burning desire to make a blue dinosaur.

In terms of writing work for The OverTheres, I make things I wanted to see as a youngster. The project is all about being yourself, inclusion, accessibility, creativity and stories so it’s endlessly inspiring. If I’m stuck, I’ll pop to the library, chat to parents or watch some kids TV to remind me of my audience and our end goal.

What do you do if you become creatively blocked?

Usually, I get frustrated. Creative blocks have a nasty habit of making me feel like I’m a terrible puppeteer and a complete imposter in the industry who should never work again.

When that happens, I try to step away from the work for a bit. Going for a walk or having a shower often helps reset my brain, and sometimes I’ll watch something inspiring or immerse myself in another creative medium for a while. Just taking a few hours off is often all I need.

Other times, the best solution is simply to wait it out and do the boring jobs I’ve been avoiding - admin, tidying the workshop, or even the washing up. Strangely enough, those small tasks are often what get the creative engine going again. By the time I come back to work, the spark has usually returned.

When did you discover that you’re neurodivergent?

Only a few years ago, when I hit 30. I’d always felt different, needed support I didn’t get and as a result had a really hard time throughout my childhood, education and the workplace.

I think I read a self-help book that I can’t remember the name of and it listed some things about ADHD and it was like a lightbulb moment.

Then I looked into it, researched, spoke to neurodiverse people and when I told my friends I suspected I had ADHD, they all assumed I was already diagnosed. That reaction told me quite a lot.

How did you feel about it, at first?

It was like a weight had lifted. Suddenly things made sense. I wasn’t stupid, or lazy, or useless. My brain just worked in a different way and I had no idea how to manage that previously. I started reading up on it and realised there were coping methods and workarounds.

What was school like for you?

I was homeschooled until I was 10 by parents who didn’t really know how to manage a kid with different needs. My only memories of those homeschool days are crying, throwing things and feeling intensely frustrated.

Fast forward to regular school, which was tough. I had lots of friends and was bright when something captured my interest, but I really struggled with maths, science, and sitting still through lessons I found boring. I remember being yelled at by a science teacher because I couldn’t recall any of the points he’d made, a moment that really stuck with me. That - and constantly being late and forgetting homework - did not make me a popular student.

Even though I loved art, drama and sport, the feedback from teachers was often the same: I was distracted, restless, not doing things the “right” way. I was even sent out of an art class over and over because I’d get bored during a short lecture, which felt especially frustrating in a subject I loved.

Looking back, it was clear that school at the time wasn’t very tolerant of neurodivergence. I didn’t fit the mould of the “normal” student, and that made those years pretty difficult. What does making a kid sit alone in a corridor for an hour achieve, apart from making them feel stupid?

What got you through?

My love of sports, and creativity.

I got to run it all off on a pitch, tackle people who’d wound me up in lessons (sorry coach) and draw pictures in maths to make it more tolerable. It was a real challenge though and I do not miss any academic settings.

In what ways does your neurodivergence help you, creatively?

I think it’s made me more compassionate in the way I work. Whether I’m building a puppet, collaborating with a client, or writing a show, I’m always thinking about how to make the process comfortable and inclusive, because I know how it feels when spaces aren’t designed with you in mind.

I’m also very aware of my own tendencies, like overthinking, so I try to communicate openly. If I need time to reflect before replying, I’ll say so, or keep people updated so they know where things stand.

Creatively, it also allows me to interpret ideas in my own way. I often see connections or approaches that might not be the most obvious ones, which can lead to unexpected character choices, design ideas, or storytelling moments.

Does it bring any challenges?

I struggle with organisation as someone with ADHD, so it can be really stressful to keep on top of everything that comes with being both a freelancer and running a CIC - admin, marketing, meetings, writing, performing, building, and social media.

It’s a lot for anyone, but it’s an extra challenge for me. Also, ensuring I’m being authentic and honest with my followers, workers and fellow performers so they know what to expect when working with me, is nerve-racking. So far everyone I’ve worked with has been understanding but I worry one day they won’t be.

Do you prefer to work alone, or with others?

It depends. When I’m building puppets, I prefer to be alone. I hate the idea of being judged or observed. I think it’s rejection sensitivity, the idea that someone watching me mess up means they think I’m useless or rubbish at my job. I’m trying to work on it, but it’s tough. I find that if I put music on and just work away for hours, it seems like no time at all.

For writing and performance stuff, I need a team. I’m lucky that I’ve got great, creative people around me who inspire me and make me laugh all the time.

What are your creative dreams for the future?

I’d love to work with the Henson Company in some capacity one day. I know it’s a big dream, especially being based in Wales, but it’s the one place that really captured my imagination growing up. If someone asked me to perform Kermit’s right hand just so I could be in the same room as those geniuses, I’d happily say yes.

Fraggle Rock was one of my biggest inspirations as a child, so the idea of performing on that set, or even contributing to that world in some way, would mean the world to me.

More than anything, though, my dream is simply to keep doing this. I’d love to spend my life building puppets, performing, collaborating with brilliant people, and spreading a bit of joy wherever I can.

With my CIC, The OverTheres, I’d love to see it grow to the point where we’re fully booked during school holidays - visiting libraries, theatres and community spaces across the country, meeting families, and sharing the wonder of storytelling and books with as many young people as possible

And your dreams for neurodivergence/the neurodivergent community?

I’d love to see more compassion and understanding. In the arts there’s often a bit more openness around different ways of thinking and working, but outside of those spaces, the support can be much thinner. It can feel like you have to constantly explain yourself, challenge stereotypes, and advocate for your needs just to be taken seriously.

More education in workplaces would make a huge difference. A better understanding of neurodivergence helps create environments where people can actually do their best work, rather than spending their energy masking or defending themselves.

I’d also like to see a little less of the “TikTok-ification” of neurodivergence. Seeing people like you represented online can be incredibly important, and visibility matters but ADHD, for example, isn’t just a quirky or funny personality trait for me. It affects my day-to-day life. It means missing deadlines, struggling with tasks that others take for granted, and often needing accommodations to navigate work and life successfully.

Greater awareness that neurodivergence is complex, challenging and deeply human would go a long way.

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www.instagram.com/fopdoodles / www.instagram.com/theovertheres/ www.fopdoodles.com / www.theovertheres.co.uk

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Our mission, here at We Hyperfocus, is to change the narrative around neurodivergence and creativity.

It feels like the most powerful way to do that is by profiling the neurodivergent creatives themselves.

Highlighting both the challenges and strengths of a mind that works differently.

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Written by May Cadman

I grew up in a very creative family – actors, artists and designers – surrounded by big ideas and imaginative energy. Creativity was simply part of everyday life. As a child I had freedom to explore and create, and my dreamy nature and big emotions were usually met with empathy rather than correction.

My childhood felt completely normal.

But alongside the creativity there were also challenges. Our bohemian life was wonderful and creative, yet emotionally it could be intense and unpredictable. By my teenage years anxiety had crept in quietly and I began experiencing panic attacks, though at the time I simply assumed that was just part of my personality.

In my early twenties I channelled my creativity and energy into a bespoke cake business. I was just 23 when I started it, and it quickly grew into a successful company. The work was hugely creative and incredibly rewarding, but it was also non-stop. A wedding cake can’t be late, so every week ended with deadlines that simply could not move.

There were parts of the business where I thrived - designing cakes, working with clients and bringing ideas to life. But other aspects felt almost impossibly difficult. The tasks that interested me flowed easily and organically; the ones that didn’t felt like trying to swim upstream.

Looking back, burnout and masking became a regular rhythm in my life. At the time I attributed it to stress and the sheer demands of running a business. I had no framework for understanding that something deeper might be going on. It was only much later that I began to understand why.

My son was diagnosed with ADHD at the age of ten, and it was while reading through his diagnostic report that something unexpected happened. As I moved through the descriptions of emotional dysregulation and overwhelm, I felt an uncomfortable sense of recognition. I had started reading to understand him, but increasingly it felt as though I was reading about myself.

I wanted to understand everything I could about ADHD - initially for my son, but the more I learned, the more pieces of my own life began to fall into place. My heightened emotions. My dysregulation. My struggles at school. And as I’ve learned more about neurodivergence, it’s as if a light has been switched on. Suddenly my past made far more sense.

As I learned more about ADHD, I came across coaching and eventually went on to train as an ADHD coach myself. What surprised me most was how practical and accessible the changes could be. Coaching helped me begin to understand my brain in a completely different way. Instead of seeing my challenges as failures, I started to see patterns - and with that came the ability to work with them rather than constantly fighting against them.

It was through this process that I began to recognise patterns that show up again and again in creative people. One of the most obvious is idea abundance. Creative ADHD brains generate ideas constantly. When I ran my cake business I was always thinking of something new - designs I wanted to try, books I might write, directions the business could grow. Some of those ideas became reality. Others quietly fell away. For a long time I saw this as a personal failure. Why couldn’t I follow through on every idea I had?

Only later did I realise that the problem wasn’t a lack of discipline - it was the sheer volume of ideas. ADHD brains are extraordinarily good at generating possibilities but not every idea needs to become a fully realised project. With that constant stream of ideas can also come overwhelm and a kind of analysis paralysis about where to begin. These days I’m much more comfortable letting ideas come and go. Some are worth pursuing. Others are simply part of the creative process.

Another pattern I began to recognise was the challenge of getting things done. Starting something new can feel exciting and energising, particularly when curiosity and interest are involved. But finishing - especially when the novelty fades - can be much harder. What I now understand as ‘interest as fuel’ was something I experienced constantly while running my business.

Perfectionism is another trait I see frequently in creative ADHD minds. Many people assume ADHD means carelessness or a lack of attention to detail. In reality, the opposite can often be true. When we care about something, we care deeply. The desire to produce work that feels ‘right’ can become paralysing - not only making it difficult to start, but also making it hard to know when something is finished.

It’s easy to slip into hyperfocus trying to get things just right, long after they are already good enough. Hyperfocus is the extraordinary ability to become completely absorbed in something that captures our interest. It can be a remarkable creative strength. It allows hours of work to pass unnoticed and ideas to develop in rich, detailed ways.

Another insight that helped me make sense of my creative life came from discovering my character strengths. As part of my ADHD coaching journey I completed a strengths assessment and learned that my top strength was, quite simply, love. Suddenly my years working in the wedding industry made perfect sense. I had always loved weddings and, perhaps more importantly, I love love. I’m a big believer in it.

Realising this helped me understand something important about neurodivergent creativity: we often thrive when our work aligns with what genuinely energises us. Seeing these patterns through a different lens has been one of the most powerful shifts for me. What once felt like personal shortcomings now look far more like traits of a brain that simply works differently.

One of the most important things I have learned is that ADHD isn’t really an issue with attention, despite what the label might suggest. It’s much more about regulating and directing attention. Our focus is drawn strongly toward the things that interest us, while the things that don’t can feel almost physically difficult to engage with. Understanding this changed everything. Instead of constantly trying to force myself to operate like everyone else, I began creating structures that supported the way my mind naturally works.

But perhaps the most important shift of all was self-compassion.

For years I had interpreted my struggles as personal shortcomings. Learning about ADHD helped me see that many of the things I had criticised myself for were simply characteristics of a different kind of brain. Sometimes I think of it like driving a supercar at full throttle. A supercar uses more fuel than a small city car — and it needs to refuel more often.

In the same way, a brain that runs at high emotional intensity simply needs more regular recovery. Sometimes the solution can be surprisingly simple: a cup of tea, five minutes in the sun, stepping away briefly from hyperfocus.

Small things. But powerful once you understand why they matter.

Coaching taught me that small, intentional shifts can make a meaningful difference: creating structure where it’s needed, following interest where it leads, and, perhaps most importantly, approaching it all with a greater sense of self-compassion.

Neurodivergent creativity is powerful. It brings curiosity, passion and the ability to see the world differently. But like any powerful force, it needs understanding and support. And perhaps now, more than ever, the world needs exactly that kind of creativity.

www.may-cadman-coaching.com

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Did you enjoy this piece? If so, please remember to give the heart a little tap.

Our mission, here at We Hyperfocus, is to change the narrative around neurodivergence and creativity.

It feels like the most powerful way to do that is by profiling the neurodivergent creatives themselves.

Highlighting both the challenges and strengths of a mind that works differently.

So, that’s what We Hyperfocus Magazine is all about.

And we really need your support.

You can support We Hyperfocus…

for £3.50/month or £35/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/subscribe

for £1.75/month or £17.50/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/alittleless

for 88p/month or £8.75/year here: wehyperfocus.substack.com/everypennycounts

Thank you for reading, and supporting.

Annie x

Elle McNicoll, 33, is the bestselling author of nine books, one of which - A Kind of Spark - became an Emmy-nominated television series for the CBBC. She has won many book awards, including the Waterstones Children’s Book Awards and the Blue Peter Book Award, and was named one of the BBC’s 100 women. Elle recently signed an eight-book deal with Pan Macmillan. She is autistic, dyspraxic and writes characters who are also neurodivergent. Her books are recommended in schools, and form part of the UK’s national curriculum.

When did you decide that you were going to be a writer?

I’ve been writing since primary school and I think a quiet part of me knew then it would always be a part of my life. I assumed I’d have to self-publish eventually, due to the industry’s nervousness around neurodivergent voices. But I found a great editor when I was in my twenties and she really understood my manuscript. She’s still my editor now and I owe her so much!

You started out writing for children and YA, now you’re also writing for adults: what drew you towards writing for younger people, first?

Children’s books are definitely not a stepping stone to adult books, though that is something you hear a great deal. It was about the character. The age of the character dictates the novel and it’s really that simple. Addie was eleven so the book had to be middle grade. Raina is twenty-nine, so the novel had to be for adults.

What was childhood like for you?

Haha, next!

How did you find school?

Terrible. I got out with my imagination intact, thank God!

When did you discover that you are autistic and dyspraxic?

I was diagnosed at nine so it wasn’t really a discovery, but rather an intrusion. I didn’t know what it meant and it took me twenty years to be ready to talk about it properly.

How did you feel about it?

Complicated. I’m a very proud person (to my own detriment) and the images society held of autism weren’t flattering. I found that very painful.

How does neurodivergence impact on your creative process?

I think it shapes it. Sometimes that hyperfocus and drive can be incredible. I write quite quickly compared to neurotypical peers. I’m also not used to being considered perfect in any way, so I don’t chase perfection. It isn’t something I think I’m capable of so that takes away some of the pressure.

What challenges does it bring?

None in writing. But the networking part of the job, as well as the marketing, is very difficult as an autistic. I don’t enjoy having to promote myself or my book. It’s the biggest challenge, I’d say. I’m so lucky to have my readers because I find the promotional side of publishing a book quite circus-like.

What does a usual work/writing day look like for you?

I try to commit to a minimum of 1,000 words a day. Any more than that is a bonus. But I usually have events as well as writing, so that can break up my time a little bit. No two days look the same.

How do you spend your weekends?

Writing and editing.

You have won and been nominated for many prestigious prizes, how do you feel on hearing you’ve been nominated?

It’s lovely. I prefer the ones that are chosen by readers to the ones chosen by industry peers. The latter always gives in to neurotypical politics.

What are your thoughts on being in the public eye?

As an autistic, I’ve always felt overly perceived and on display. So it’s nice to be seen and known for my work, especially if it means something to people. I’ve always had a lot of negative attention so the last few years have been a nice change. I love my job. I’m very lucky to do it.

Congratulations on your eight-book deal with Pan MacMillan. How does it feel to have your writing career set up, like this, for some years?

It’s a privilege. I’m very grateful and very lucky.

What impact do you hope your books have on readers?

I hope my books take them away from the parts of the world they find hard and remind them of the parts that are worth living for.

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Follow Elle McNicoll on Instagram: @ellemcnicollofficial / Buy her books: waterstones.com/author/elle-mcnicoll

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Now, the interview…

“Unconscious masking has been an extremely large part of my life,” says autistic artist Anna Margaretha Pettersson

Did you have a creative childhood?

I was probably quite creative as a child, even if it wasn’t in the stereotypical way with paints, pencils, and crayons. I often had creative ideas that others had a hard time understanding the logic or meaning behind. For example, I wanted to have newspaper pages covering my walls instead of new wallpaper because I loved the written word so much. And I recorded different radio programs and TV shows with a camera, so in a way I suppose I was quite creative as a child. But I also think that most children are creative – that it’s something children tend to possess naturally.

Do you remember the first painting you did that you felt proud of?

In general, I find it a bit difficult to feel proud; I’m not entirely sure how it actually feels. But I remember one of my first larger works that I sold to a collector in the United States, and how excited I was that someone wanted something I had created. It gave me a feeling that it might actually be possible to pursue what intuitively feels completely right for me and do it professionally.

How did you find school?

I liked school, even though it involved certain challenges socially and in terms of energy, and I often felt that the environment was messy and chaotic. But I generally found it quite easy to learn things in school, and I enjoyed studying. I have also continued studying at university level in different subjects.

What has always been difficult for me is collaborating in groups and the social aspects. Even though I have had friends, it has been challenging as a girl to be quite driven and to prefer doing things on my own. In addition, I was a very inconsistent student because my energy would run out all the time. My teachers always said that I either performed at the very top level or not at all.

Did you go onto to study art?

No, I haven’t attended art school; I’m self-taught, a so-called outsider artist. Painting as a creative form of expression is actually relatively new to me, as my creativity previously was mostly focused on writing and text. But around the time I received my autism diagnosis a couple of years ago, I began drawing and painting as a way to express stress, and it became a way for me to process impressions and anxiety. Along the way, I realized how much I enjoy expressing myself visually.

Did you always know that you wanted to be a professional artist?

As a child, I knew that I wanted to write and become an author, but I never had any thoughts about becoming an artist. It’s something that has developed over time, as I received my autism diagnosis and began learning new ways to manage my life – where painting and drawing have become major pillars in how I manage stress and sensory input.

When did you realise that you were neurodivergent?

I have always had a feeling of being different, but you only really have yourself to compare with, so I probably assumed that everyone feels that way. I never actually considered the possibility that I might be autistic; it was my therapist at the time who noticed the signs in me. By then, I had been on sick leave for several years due to burnout without understanding why.

When I was eventually assessed and later received my autism diagnosis, many pieces suddenly fell into place. Unconscious masking has been an extremely large part of my life, and I also had very little knowledge about autism. I only knew what mainstream media portrayed through rather stereotypical images.

How did you feel about it?

At first, I was quite shocked. It felt as if I had lived my whole life on stage, and suddenly I was supposed to start being who I really was. It was an extremely difficult and long process with many conflicting emotions, both relief and shame, which I later wrote about in a book, My Life on Stage – Autism Through My Eyes, as a way to process and work through the experience.

How does being autistic impact your creative process?

Autism profoundly influences my art, both in how I create and what I create. My artwork has become a crucial tool for processing the constant flow of sensory input, stress, and complex emotions that I experience. Through drawing and painting, I find a way to make sense of overwhelming impressions and to express feelings that are difficult to put into words.

At the same time, my autistic mind, with its heightened awareness of details and patterns, is strongly reflected in my work. I notice intricacies, repetitions, and structures that might go unnoticed by others, and these elements naturally find their way into my compositions. This combination of using art as an emotional outlet and a lens for observing the world shapes both the process and the final outcome of my creative expression, giving my work a deeply personal and distinctive perspective.

Does it bring any challenges?

While I deeply enjoy the creative process itself, I often struggle with the social aspects that come with being an artist. Reaching out, networking and making professional connections can be exhausting and challenging for me. My focus and energy are primarily devoted to creating, which means that while my art thrives, the social and logistical sides of the art world can feel overwhelming and difficult to navigate.

Do you have a studio where you paint and if so, what’s it like?

I have my studio in my own home because it takes a lot of energy for me to go out somewhere else. It’s a small, cozy room where I feel comfortable and focused. My dog, Ebba, is always with me when I paint, keeping me company and adding a sense of calm and warmth to the space.

What does an average day look like, for you?

My days are fairly structured and follow a routine shaped by Ebba, my dog, and her needs. Around that framework, I build my own schedule, and I usually paint in the mornings, as that is when I have the most energy. We also spend a lot of time in the forest, where I find both calm and inspiration for my work.

Do you have tools and rituals to help you to feel good?

Painting and drawing are my primary tools for well-being, helping me process stress, emotions, and sensory input. In addition, I practice yin yoga and spend a lot of time in the forest with my dog. These are my main ways of taking care of myself and maintaining balance in my life.

What dreams do you have, for your career?

At heart, I am very grateful and content to be an artist. I am happy with the small things I have achieved, while still allowing myself to dream and aspire for more. I already live my dream being able to working professionally with my art and make a living out of that, but my greatest dream as an artist is to be able to continue working professionally and to make a living from my art. It would be incredible to have a large solo exhibition at a well-known gallery somewhere in the world, where many people could experience and connect with my work.

Is there anything you’d like to say to the next generation of autistic artists?

What I would like to say to the next generation of autistic artists is that their perspectives, voices, and ways of seeing the world are needed now more than ever. The way they experience and interpret things is unique and incredibly valuable.

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Follow Anna on Instagram: @annamargarethapettersson / Invest in her art: annampettersson.etsy.com

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Over the past few months, I’ve been publishing weekly interviews and articles featuring neurodivergent creatives on We Hyperfocus Magazine.

I love the stories I’m hearing about the creative processes of people who are autistic, ADHD, dyslexic or a combination of these neurotypes.

And I wanted to continue with the magazine but also extend beyond these stories by hosting online courses created by other neurodivergent creatives.

This would be a way to feed back into the community, financially, and also all pick up new creative skills across writing, drawing, designing, making etc.

At first, I thought it would work best if I hosted other creatives’ courses on We Hyperfocus. I’ve run courses for seven years, I know a lot about how it works.

Plus, I have the course platform all set up and ready to go.

So, I did a callout on Instagram.

I had hundreds of emails and I started the conversations with some of the creatives who wanted to teach: how to structure the course, how I could help with marketing.

But there were a few issues coming up.

For instance: could I host courses from people outside of the UK? How would it work with currency, tax, timezones (for live elements).

Also, I was having to work through the quite difficult process of deciding who to work with.

That kind of selection process begins to feel quite exclusive, and yet: it’s completely subjective.

I didn’t want anyone to think that a ‘no, thank you’ from me meant anything about them/their creativity.

Really, I wanted to be able to host everyone’s courses.

But, lastly: it’s mostly just me, , here.

No admin support, or team to share the load with. (Though, my sister, , does all the brilliant, colourful design, for which I’m very grateful).

I could feel burnout approaching.

I put together calculations for the cost of a team, working part-time, to help me make this online course-hosting platform dream come true. And it came to:

£100,000 for year one.

By year two, we’d be turning a profit so that it was self-sustaining.

But I need a team in place to get there - which means, I need investment - and… I don’t have the time to make it happen. Not right now.

I didn’t want to give up on the online course idea entirely, though.

Then, I realised that there is a different way to do this, that will make it much more inclusive. Also, that will remain within my capacity.

The new plan

Once a month, every month, I’m going to send out an email to the We Hyperfocus mailing list (here, on this Substack) with a list of live online courses by ND creatives.

That way, I can feature every single neurodivergent creative who has a course to share with the world. Hopefully they will get sign-ups, and we’ll be spreading creativity.

My mission, with We Hyperfocus, is to change the narrative around neurodivergence by showcasing the creative ways neurodivergent folk navigate life, and the world.

This plays into the mission in a big way.

In time, I hope it might become a directory. I’m looking into that.

And maybe I’ll work out how to secure funding to set up that team and grow an actual course platform. I really would love to do that.

Are you a creative teacher?

If you are a neurodivergent creative and have an online course that will be open for sales mid-April, please send me a link before 13th April.

It will be included in a roundup going out on 15th April.

(You can email the link to me: annie@wehyperfocus.com.)

Every live course that I am sent will be included.

If your course won’t be ready, that’s fine - it can be included in the following month’s email. Or the one after that. I’ll send a reminder, with the monthly mailout.

Never created a course before and looking for some guidance? I have a comprehensive online course that will teach you everything you need to know.

It’s usually £99 but I’m offering it to this community for £15…

How to launch a successful online course

Or, if you’re considering creating your own online course business, from scratch, this brand new course goes a few steps further (and includes email support)…

Build an online course business

Lastly, a request…

If you’re able to support We Hyperfocus with a small monthly/yearly subscription, you will be helping me to nurture and grow this creative neurodivergent community…

Support We Hyperfocus

Thank you,

Annie x

“Following my son’s diagnosis in 2024 and then my daughter’s diagnosis a year later, the focus of the practice shifted significantly to researching neurodiversity-affirming spaces,” says interior architect Hami Lawton. Here’s how she works.

You’re an interior architect with a focus on neurodiversity-affirming spaces: when did you develop this specialism?

When I first started Neurokind Design back in 2022 we were establishing ourselves as a research-based interior design practice focusing on creating resources and tools around specific topics such as spatial wellbeing, spaces to support nervous system health and exploring sensory sensitivities in relationship to the physical built environment.

A few years later, following my son’s diagnosis in 2024 and then my daughter’s diagnosis a year later, the focus of the practice shifted significantly to researching neurodiversity-affirming spaces. We went from researching quite broad topics to very specialised areas specific to neurodivergent people including deepening our understanding of how the built interior environment impacts and supports executive functioning, emotional regulation, hyperactivity, routine behaviours, monotropism, sensory and communication differences.

At the time as I was deepening my knowledge in these areas I was observing, watching and learning from my two neurodivergent children; I was constantly intrigued by the ways they engage, interact with and relate to the environments around them.

Tell us what makes a space neurodiversity-affirming?

I think there are three important questions to consider when we are thinking about whether a space is neurodiversity-affirming or not. Firstly, has the space been designed to change and flex around neurodivergent people? When neurodivergent people are not thriving the focus should be on reshaping, adapting and adjusting the surrounding environment rather than “fixing” or changing the person. This means adaptability in the sensory quality of the space (can the person adjust and adapt sensory aspects of the environment to meet their needs?) and spatial diversity (diverse spaces which provide variety and choice and therefore gives a person a sense of autonomy and control) to support sensory-spatial needs and differences.

Secondly, does the space celebrate and honour strengths and interests? Does this environment genuinely celebrate individual interests; does this space spark joy, creativity and personal meaning? And thirdly, does this space make sense? Is there a spatial dialogue between the person and the environment-a spatial intelligibility-for that person in this space? Is it predictable, it is designed with natural sensory cues and is it easy to navigate without cognitive overload. I think if we can answer yes to these three questions then this is what makes a space neurodiversity-affirming.

What would happen if schools were designed with sensory needs in mind?

If schools were designed with sensory needs in mind we would have environments where both neurotypical and neurodivergent children could learn, play, engage, focus, connect and thrive together; barriers to participation and engagement would dissipate; teachers and educational support staff would be better supported via the physical environment around them; and most importantly, neurodivergent children would feel a deep sense of safety and belonging rather than overwhelm and burnout.

If the school environment was designed with the mindset of supporting varied and diverse sensory-spatial needs we would see spaces with more flexibility and less rigidity, more focus on spatial diversity and clearer sense of spatial intelligibility. Teaching staff could work alongside neurodiversity-affirming interior designers and allied health professionals (such as occupational, speech and play therapists) to work towards a more considered approach to layering in sensory input into the school environment in different and creative ways that would not only benefit neurodivergent learners but the whole class. But perhaps the biggest change might come from creating an environment where neurodivergent children feel safe to advocate for their sensory needs to be met in environments that have the capability to be adjusted and adapted to support those needs throughout the day.

How important is it to create a home that responds to our/our children’s sensory needs?

When I look at the different types of environments my neurodivergent children experience throughout a typical week, the only environment that I can really create and adapt for my children is their home. And therefore whilst I advocate for their sensory-spatial needs to be met in other environments (for example, their school environment) the only space I can really shape to respond to their sensory-spatial needs is our home. And it is such an important space for them; a space to regulate, a space for recovery and complete nervous system reset.

Our home is designed around our children’s (and our) needs from a sensory-spatial perspective. The colour palette responds to natural sensory cues (dark, deep tones for down-regulation and low-stimulation, and earthy, up-lifting nature-based colours for energising and creativity). The floor plan is designed around a series of micro-environments to support the natural patterns of our children including spaces to down-regulate, spaces to move, spaces to create and spaces which invite our children to engage in their special interest activities often leading to states of hyper-focus and monotropism (states of pure joy and regulation for my kids!). There is a sensory courtyard for swinging and moving our bodies and within each micro-environment there are layered opportunities for sensory input facilitated by swivel chairs, trampolines and considered furniture choices for proprioceptive and vestibular input. The spaces in our home are flexible, highly adjustable and never fixed or static; the spaces continually change to meet our sensory-spatial needs.

Are many interior architects thinking along the same lines as you, or is this a niche approach?

I definitely think there are more and more interior architects who are approaching their work through a more neurodiversity-affirming lens. I think there is always an intention from interior architects to design spaces which are inclusive and more accommodating to those with different sensory-spatial needs, preferences and differences, however, I think there is still a lot of work (and research) that still needs to be done; I see this as an opportunity not a negative reflection of where the interior design industry is at today.

I think the way we “practise” interior design is definitely a niche approach. I am not an interior designer in the “traditional sense” but I do use my interior design skills and knowledge to create resources for neurodivergent families to help them better understand their child’s relationship to the physical, built, interior environments around them. I strongly believe that interior architects can bring new ways of thinking and different perspectives that can enrich and support existing systems of care for neurodivergent people, we just need to be invited into these existing conversations. Environments and relationships are everything to neurodivergent people and interior architects are trained to understand person-environment relationships. Our knowledge, therefore, can enrich the support systems around neurodivergent people to include the spatial systems they engage and interact with every day.

What do you hope to achieve, through your work?

In everything I do – in my research practice and my parenting – I am always looking for ways to shape space to scaffold and celebrate all the amazing things about neurodivergent children; their sensory engagement with the world, their strengths, interests and hyper-fixations, their creativity and different ways of seeing, thinking and processing.

Through my work, my hope is to help people understand their child’s relationship to the sensory environment (to identify their sensory preferences and for them to feel safe enough to advocate for sensory aspects of the environment to be adapted to meet their needs), to help create spaces that celebrate their child’s strengths and interests and for parents and caregivers to learn sensory-spatial strategies that they can implement to ensure their child feels regulated and safe within their everyday environments.

Any other comments?

There is a quote by Developmental Paediatrician, Dr Billy Garvey, that has become my “north star” in both my interior design research practice and my parenting. He said: “…you deserve to be in an environment that works for you, celebrates you, harnesses you, and is stronger because of you. Let’s see if we can find that place or make this one really unlock your potential … to really take advantage of all the awesome stuff about you.”

These words have set me on a trajectory to really lean into, support and genuinely celebrate what my children’s strengths and interests are; to create environments that foster the things they love doing and to filter out the environments that work against my children’s strengths. At the core of my work is a consistent drive to identify the environments and relationships that bring out “all the awesome stuff” about my neurodivergent children – these are the environments and relationships we truly invest our time and energy into and this is my hope for other parents of neurodivergent children. Our neurodivergent children deserve to be in environments that work for them, environments that celebrate them and environments that help unlock their potential because our biology, our genetics, is our potential. Our environment decides whether we reach it or not.

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Instagram: @neurokinddesign

Website: www.neurokinddesign.com.au

Photography by: Amy van Huis

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Here is the introduction to our new online course, Becoming the Artist. Lauren and I have so enjoyed putting this together. Researching the creative processes, rituals and routines of many writers and artists; exploring our own - and putting together creative coaching prompts so that it all becomes actionable. It starts tomorrow. If you’d like to join, we’d love to have you.

Read about the course

Introduction to Becoming the Artist (ending with some coaching prompts)

Welcome to Becoming the Artist.

Perhaps you’re here because you’d like to earn a living from your art and creativity, or you might just want to bring more creativity into your life. You don’t need to decide right now.

Either way, you’re here to become the artist.

In our eyes: you are already the artist. We are all born creative, but while some of us continue to focus on making art, for others: it drops away. We want to help you to bring it to the fore.

We are still becoming artists ourselves. This is an ongoing process. A creative evolution.

But the one non-negotiable is that we will make our best art if we keep trying. And trying means sometimes getting it wrong – failing – but picking yourself up and trying again. Then, we start to see improvements; a version of success.

You get to define ‘success’. This is your art. Your creativity. Your becoming. Your story.

This is the first course that Lauren and I have run together. I’m Annie Ridout, a writer (author, journalist, essayist, poet) and Lauren Davies, my sister, is an artist, designer and brand strategist.

We wanted to come together so that we could each bring our creative experience into this course – me, on the written word; Lauren, on visual art. But there is also crossover. I draw; Lauren writes.

We’re going to walk you through writing, visual arts, the business of creativity and confidence. These are the four elements that we each consider, when making and sharing our art and creative work with the world.

But first:

Here are some questions for you, to work out where you’re at and where you’d like to get to.

You can make notes in a notebook, or fill out the Becoming the Artist creative workbook – online, or print it off.

[link to the creative workbook will be here]

1. What made you sign up for this course?

2. What is your art?

3. How do you feel about referring to yourself as an artist?

4. Is creativity for work/pleasure or both?

5. Would you like to earn a living, creatively?

6. If so, what does the dream creative career look like?

7. When would you like this to be fully in place?

8. What will help you to make this happen?

9. What barriers do you envisage?

10. You have a magic wand. What’s your one wish?

If you join Becoming the Artist, you’ll get access to 28 topics all about writing, making art, getting creative, moving through doubt and earning a living from your creativity.

This is an inspiring course. Designed to get ideas flowing.

There are two live sessions that you can join, if you’d like to work through the prompts together, and you’ll be sent the recording in case you can’t make it live.

You’ll also be invited to join a WhatsApp group led by Lauren and to have email support from me. So, creative support and company from many angles.

Email me if you have any questions. The course materials drop 9am tomorrow morning (UK-time). We’d love to welcome you in.

If you’re on a low income or things are tight at the moment, add coupon code wearebecoming at checkout for 50% off.

Annie x

Becoming the Artist

Did you have a musical childhood?

When I look back on it, yes, my childhood was fairly musical. I remember doing choir in elementary school and I continued singing in school throughout middle school and high school. My parents are also big music fans. Growing up, they would always drag my brother and me to jazz festivals.

What were your early musical influences?

My early musical influences were the mainstream pop songs I was hearing on the radio coming out of the late great Cheiron Studios in Sweden. Think Britney Spears, Backstreet Boys, and N’Sync. Other than that, I have to give credit to pop punk bands like Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, and All Time Low.

When did you decide to be a professional musician?

I decided to become a professional musician after being wrongfully terminated from my role as an operations manager at a small luxury furniture company. I decided I might as well focus on what I really love as I was finally starting to pick up traction in the industry.

How did you discover your neurodivergence?

I was first diagnosed with ADHD around 2014, but it wasn’t until 2021 with the mass adoption of TikTok that I really began to understand how profound ADHD actually is.

In what ways does your neurodivergence impact your creative process?

I think ADHD impacts my creative process very heavily. If a hook doesn’t rub my brain the right way quickly enough, I don’t use it. I think ADHD is the reason my music is very earworm-focused and catchy. I want the song to stay in your head even if you don’t like it at first.

Does it bring any challenges?

Yes, ADHD can bring a ton of challenges to creating music. Often, I will start a new composition and then abandon it after deciding to work on something else. It also makes me want to jump around the pop landscape often. Generally, my singles tend to have many different types of genre influences.

Do you have coping mechanism for work/home-life?

My best coping mechanism for work/home-life balance is to lean on your support systems, be it family or friends. Having someone help hold you accountable can be a fantastic tool for any creative medium.

What are your hopes and dreams, as a musician?

My dreams as a musician are to be able to work with more of my favourite artists. I have already been able to work with some of my idols like Stargate, Diane Warren and Felix Snow, but there are many more I’d kill to work with.

Any other comments on music/art/creativity/neurodivergence?

While I think having ADHD is wildly helpful when creating art, I am not a fan of people calling it a superpower. ADHD still creates extreme challenges in modern life and needs to be taken more seriously. Everyone doesn’t have “a little ADHD,” so when your friends and family with ADHD need to talk about their struggles, please listen and try to lend them compassion.

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Listen to Devin on SoundCloud.

Follow Devin on Instagram, TikTok and X: @iamduexo

You can read more articles and interviews with neurodivergent creatives on We Hyperfocus Magazine.

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Thank you.

Annie x

This essay is by Kerry Nicole Davies

I’m dyslexic. I hated school, hated maths, hated tests and being confined to a desk. I hated being asked for the answers to questions. I struggled with reading and writing and I would try to cheat by looking at my neighbour’s work. I hated the pressure of having to get things right and feeling less for not being as smart as my peers.

I remember sitting at the table at school, when I was about seven, and the teacher saying we were spending the afternoon doing art. This didn’t happen often. My eyes started filling with tears. Soon, I was sobbing, uncontrollably, with joy and relief. I wanted to wrap my arms around her in gratitude.

A stack of art supplies had been dropped onto my desk and I was in the zone. I found a blue plastic container that looked like a boat. Without conscious planning, my fingers were moulding tinfoil into a mermaid and I was dipping Plaster of Paris in a bowl of water.

I didn’t need to be shown what to do, it was instinctive, complete free-flow. My brain was switched off but lit up at the same time: dripping, wrapping, moulding. It was sacred time to express myself, when words failed me.

Secondary school was still hard, but art was more available to me. That’s where I met lots of great teachers who understood my need for a creative outlet.

My form class was in the art department so I was surrounded by supplies and other students’ art work. That inspired me to create. My teacher said I could use whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I filled up my coursework books, I got lost for hours just making art.

I remember my first ever drama class. It was movement and I was a bit put out that I had to take my socks off and reveal my feet but I reluctantly did it. The teacher put on different types on music – from drumming to rain sounds, classical and rap. She told us we were artists and we had to paint the room with colours: our body was the brush, she could use it any way we wanted to. Again, I was in flow-state.

I understood the assignment, I felt free.

That teacher asked me to join her after-school drama class and soon, I was on stage in the school’s production of The Crucible. And then The Rocky Horror Show. She found a way for me to love words through expression, through play, through art.

I wasn’t drained, ashamed or worthless: I was an artist and being dyslexic didn’t matter.

Then the teenager years happened. My teachers tried to encourage me to go to art school but I was from a low income background and desperately wanted to learn to drive and buy a car, so I started working and put my dreams of becoming an artist on pause.

When I was 20, I gave birth to my first son. I spent my 20s growing and exploring the world with him. He is also dyslexic, and he’s about to go off to university to study English literature).

I then met my husband and we grew our family of three to six. It’s a heavy workload, with four kids who have different needs. Cooking different meals, cleaning up constantly, snacks, homework, lifts to clubs, school runs. Hospital appointments, tantrums. Maintenance of my own relationship.

A few years ago, I realised I’d put so much of my light into my family that I’d forgotten about myself. I’d forgotten about the things that I love.

Lockdown was my breaking point. I decided to apply for part-time drama school and spend three years training. The spark was reignited. From animal studies – on all fours, mooing as a cow – to a blocked voice chakra, writing plays and embodying Amy Winehouse, raw painful monologues and art books full of character exploration. I was back in the flow state.

Again, it didn’t matter that I was dyslexic, I could feel the words with all my other senses. I was bringing life to the page, paper and stage and – more importantly – to myself.

I just recently booked my first paid role in a short film called Still Life, which will be out soon.

Going to drama school gave me a deeper sense of self. I’ve built the courage and confidence to believe I am worthy of achieving my goals. Dyslexia may bring hurdles, but it does not define who I am or what I’m capable of becoming. My perspective, my voice and my experiences have value.

My message to the next generation is: never give up on your dreams. Follow whatever it is that lights you up. You have something real to share and something meaningful to offer, so follow your passions. Growth isn’t about being perfect or getting things right, it’s about being brave enough to keep going.

Find out more about Kerry Nicole Davies on her Spotlight.

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As a mother, I make sure our home is full of materials that might inspire my children to get creative. Pens, paper, card, clay, paint, paint brushes, activity books, glue, pastels. We have a messy home, with a table covered in pen and paint stains.

But as a creative myself, I didn’t used to think I deserved to make time for anything outside of my paid creative work (writing). I was rushing between motherhood and writing books and articles, there was no time to make art.

And then one day, I decided that getting back into drawing - something I loved doing as a child but had rarely done since - would benefit me, as well my children. It’s powerful when our children see us getting creative.

So, I started drawing. Bought myself some fancy new pencils. A sharpener. A sketchpad. I also tried out drawing on the iPad. Soon, I was feeling confident and creative enough to share my drawing online, over on my other Substack.

I need to earn a living, creatively. And I need to get creative outside of my money work. I write poetry for the love of it, Substack essays to earn a monthly income, also: non-fiction books and articles - and I draw, paint and make music to soothe myself.

It’s the same for my sister, Lauren, who’s a designer, brand strategist and artist. Her colourful home is piece of art in itself, often featured in magazines like this. She is a creative consultant for agencies, a colour expert and she makes beautiful art.

Becoming the artist

Now, Lauren and I are joining forces to help others to become the artist. To work out how to earn a living, or earn more, from your art. But also, to stay creative outside of your career. How to live like an artist. Work like an artist. Create like an artist.

We will help you to get organised, get productive, believe in yourself and your art. We’ll offer creative coaching exercises, business tips and lots of inspiration. And we’ll both be there, via email/WhatsApp, for all your questions and blocks.

This is a four-week online course, starting on Monday 2nd March.

Becoming the artist

You can work through the course materials entirely on you own, if that’s what you prefer (like me). Or join the two live sessions if you like to chat and work alongside others (like Lauren). Or both. There’s no pressure, and you can decide on the day.

We’re so excited to get started and to see the creative evolution of those who join us. There’s an early-bird sale on now, which ends next Friday (13th). Any questions, email me, pop them in the comments or DM us on Instagram heka_london / annieridout.

Annie and Lauren x