Going Back to Work as a Neurodivergent Adult (and Terrified of Messing It All Up)

Behind every strong mom is a pile of laundry, a cold cup of coffee, and this exact facial expression

I’m getting ready to go back to work.

And if I’m being honest?

I’m terrified.

Not in the “run for your life, there’s a bear” kind of way. More like the “what if I forget how to people” kind of way. The “what if I say something weird and no one tells me, and I just spiral about it at 3am for the rest of my life” kind of way.

You see, I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for years. Not a spa-day, bon-bon eating kind of stay-at-home mom—an “I manage a rotating cast of therapy appointments, melt down over parent-teacher meetings, and have four special needs kids who all need me in different ways every hour on the hour” kind of mom.

Oh, and I’m also married. To a man with health problems that scare me more than I’ll ever admit out loud. Because when he hurts, I hurt—and when I don’t know how to fix it, I shut down. (Which is super helpful, I know. 10/10 coping skills.)

And on top of all that?

I’m neurodivergent.

Unmedicated. Untamed.

Basically, a self-taught circus performer trying to juggle flaming swords while riding a unicycle on a tightrope of executive dysfunction.

And now... I’m going back into the world. The professional world. The one with fluorescent lighting, small talk, and group emails that expect you to hit “reply all” correctly.

I’m not scared because I don’t want to work—I do. I’m scared because I’ve never had the support or guidance to navigate this world in a brain like mine. No “how-to” manual, no accommodations, no therapist to walk me through why I replay conversations from ten years ago like they’re on some kind of mental Spotify loop.

I overthink everything.
I panic-text my best friend after every interaction.
I analyze my tone, my face, my eyebrow placement.
I worry that I’m too much… and not enough… at the same time.

I feel like I’m always walking an invisible line, just hoping I don’t trip over it and fall face-first into awkward silence. And honestly? Sometimes I do.

No one’s ever said I was “too weird” or “not the right fit.” But you don’t need the words when the vibes are loud. You feel it—in the way people pause, shift, look past you. In the way you start to shrink to take up less space, just in case.

And that fear sticks to your skin like humidity in the summer. You can’t scrub it off, you just learn to carry it.

But even with all of that?

I’m doing it anyway.

Because I know I’m not the only one.

I know there are other neurodivergent women out there, holding it down for their families, trying to make life work without a blueprint. Women who’ve been told to “just try harder” their whole lives, when in reality, we’ve been trying harder than anyone even realizes.

So yeah, I’m scared. I’m messy. I’m anxious and tired and stretched way too thin.

But I’m also capable.
I’m determined.
And I have a brain that doesn’t work wrong—it just works different.

I might not blend in. I might say the thing no one else says. But I’m going to show up. I’m going to work hard. I’m going to be honest about what I need. And I’m going to remind myself, every single day, that I belong here too.

So if you're like me—neurodivergent, overwhelmed, and showing up scared—just know this:

You are not a burden.
You are not broken.
And you are absolutely not alone.

Here’s to showing up scared.
Here’s to doing it anyway.
Here’s to us—flawed, fierce, and figuring it out.