Between the Meltdown and the Metaphor

My ADHD Brain: Catastrophic Disaster or Constellation? Yes.

I wrote two different pieces about my ADHD brain recently—one from the middle of complete overwhelm, one from a gentler place where I was trying to find beauty in the chaos.

When I read them back to back, I realized something: I didn't have to choose between the struggle and the metaphor. The disaster and the wonder can coexist in the same mind, in the same moment, in the same poem.

This isn't about toxic positivity or finding silver linings. It's about the messy reality that sometimes you can see your scattered thoughts as stars and still feel like you're drowning in them. Both things can be true.

For anyone else living in the space between catastrophe and cosmos—this one's for you.

The Catastrophe and the Stars

The catastrophe of ADHD— Everything becomes clutter for me So I write it all down, type it in, get it out.

Lists upon lists all over the house. Then comes the moment to execute, I run with the momentum to take action, to make even a fraction of my to-do's happen.

Which leads to more ideas so I find myself back to researching, creating through writing— desperately trying to organize my crazy brain.

Now, too many browsers open, I am shutting down, can't stop seeing absolutely everything as clutter— creating more clutter.

I thought I could write and type the clutter out of my head, but it gets recycled and constantly births new life. What starts as creativity and great ideas becomes more clutter for my brain to organize.

Meanwhile, the house is also piling up, too many things that never found their way back home, it is ALL TOO much, and this is the point in which I give up.

ADHD, out of control, total fucking overwhelm.

A content creator's dream— to have more than enough ideas to work with, but for me, a catastrophic disaster, an explosion of ideas that I never seem able to piece back together, to make something cohesive, to create a work of art, something to master.

Going down a million rabbit holes at once, wishing I could make them all come together in one big tunnel.

Even more browsers open, I am shutting down, burning out, not knowing how to go back and do things properly.

And then—

Last night, looking up at the sky, I realized: I never call the stars scattered.

I don't look up at the Milky Way and scold it for being "all over the place." I don't stand under the vast softness of a dark sky and wish Orion would get his act together.

I just love them. Every distant sparkle, every stubborn constellation, every glimmer of light telling me that chaos can be beautiful too.

But here's the thing— I can think my thoughts are starry and still feel like I'm drowning in them. I can love the metaphor and still hate the overwhelm.

Both can be true.

My auDHD brain that chases a hundred thoughts at once, my soul that rhymes poetry in the margins of my to-do list, my hands that can't stay still long enough to fold laundry but will hold my journal like a lifeline—

This is my version of a galaxy. My thoughts are not just scattered; they're also starry.

But starry doesn't pay the bills. Starry doesn't clean the house. Starry doesn't make the overwhelm any less overwhelming.

The only way forward is to expand my capacity while learning to let go of all that I wanted to make happen. To honor both the catastrophe and the beauty. To stop apologizing for the explosion while still seeking the tunnel.

Some nights I can look up and see wonder. Other nights I just see too much sky.

And that's the work—remembering this is okay. As above, so below— scattered and starry are the same thing. The cosmos in my chaos, the galaxy in my overwhelm. I don't have to choose between the struggle and the magic.

I am both the disaster and the light.