Easter is a time of renewal. For Christians, it carries the weight of sacrifice, but also mercy, empathy, and love. As we move into a new season and gather again with family, I’ve been thinking about something we rarely define properly, especially as neurodivergent people:

What does it actually mean to feel safe?

Because safety, in theory, is simple. We associate it with places, systems, protection, seat belts, locks, routines, institutions. But that version of safety doesn’t always translate.

I don’t normally drive, but when I’m in a car, I often forget to put my seatbelt on.
Not because I don’t understand its purpose, but because what feels “obvious” to others doesn’t always register in the same way.

And that’s what safety can feel like with ADHD.

Safety is not where you think it is

For many neurodivergent people, safety is not primarily physical. It’s emotional. It’s about how feelings are expressed, received, and held.

You can explain safety clinically, prefrontal cortex, dopamine regulation, emotional processing, and all of that is valid. But it often misses the lived experience. Because from the inside, it feels more like this:

Imagine a fountain that never turns off. Emotions are constantly flowing, tidal, intense, fast, layered. That’s why transitions feel hard. That’s why something small can feel overwhelming. That’s why we can go from intensity to silence, because we learn to mask it.

We grow up in systems built on agreement, discipline, and conformity.
Not for difference, but for what is considered “normal.” So safety becomes something abstract. Something talked about, but rarely felt.

How I learned safety (without knowing what it was)

For a long time, I didn’t know what safety meant. But I recognised it in moments.

A warm shower. Fresh bed linen. Running by the canal. Sipping a coffee, writing in my journal, buying flowers, helping someone…taking my makeup off at the end of the night, no matter how tired I was. Creating small routines that brought order into chaos. Safety, for me, was never handed over as a concept. It was something I built instinctively.

Sometimes that meant retreat.

When life felt emotionally unstable, I would step away, from people, from noise, from expectations, and return to something internal. Writing became that place. It gave me cohesion. And eventually, that cohesion became a form of safety. But not everyone gets to build that. And that’s where the real issue sits.

Safety changes as we grow

What safety looks like evolves.

For a child, safety is:

• structure

• predictability

• boundaries

• space for creativity

Not control.
Not suppression.
Not systems imposed without understanding.

When I entered school, some of that structure existed, but only partially.
Socially, it became unpredictable. Painful. Confusing.

And without the right support, that lack of safety starts to show up everywhere,
in behaviour, in performance, in identity.

So I adapted.

I created an internal system that gave me what the external world didn’t. But that’s not something every child should have to do. Children need to be seen.
Not streamlined.

And too often, we try to standardise people instead of recognising their individual strengths.

So what does safety really mean for an ADHD mind?

Safety, for an ADHD mind, is not primarily physical. It’s emotional.

It’s the feeling that your internal world won’t be dismissed, rushed, or misunderstood.
That your reactions, however intense, won’t be met with judgment, but with steadiness.

Because when your mind processes everything at a higher volume, safety isn’t about protection from the outside, it’s about regulation on the inside.

Safety looks like:

• being spoken to with clarity, not ambiguity

• consistency in words and actions

• emotional responses that don’t escalate yours further

• space to process without pressure to “move on” too quickly

It’s not about removing intensity.
It’s about not being overwhelmed by it.

For an ADHD mind, emotions don’t arrive gently, they surge.
And when that surge meets unpredictability, criticism, or silence, it creates instability.

So safety becomes the opposite of that.

It becomes:

• predictability

• reassurance

• emotional responsibility (from both sides)

• environments where you don’t have to constantly self-correct just to be accepted

And perhaps most importantly, Safety is the absence of shame. Because many neurodivergent people grow up learning that their natural responses are “too much,” “too fast,” or “too sensitive.”

We adapt.
We mask.
WE suppress.

But true safety is the space where adaptation is no longer necessary. Where you can feel fully, without needing to apologise for it.

For an ADHD mind, safety isn’t about being protected from the world, it’s about no longer needing to protect yourself from it.

And this is where Easter becomes something deeper

Because at its core, Easter is not just about renewal.

It’s about transformation.

About moving from suffering into compassion.
From isolation into connection.
From fear into love.

And that transformation doesn’t happen externally first.

It happens within.

A gift from the God’s

I’ve come to accept that the universe has given me everything I need to move through this world, even with my insecurities, even with my weaknesses. There is safety in that.
Something that doesn’t rely on perfection, but on presence.

I believe I’ve been given the ability to feel deeply, and to translate those feelings into words that others can recognise in themselves.

And maybe that’s part of safety too.
Being understood.
Or finally understanding yourself.

Because when we begin to love ourselves, not in theory, but in practice, we become grounded.

We start to see clearly what needs to change.
We take responsibility for our thoughts and actions.
We align with who we truly are.

And in that alignment, something shifts.

We realise that love, real love, transforms.

It softens pain.
It brings light into places that once felt heavy.
It creates space for healing.

Every day, we are given a choice:

To be kind.
To be patient.
To meet others where they are.

The world doesn’t need more perfection.

It needs more people who feel safe enough to be real.

Because when we feel safe, we stop comparing.
We stop trying to become something else.

We return to ourselves.

And in that return, we realise something simple but often forgotten:

We were never incomplete.

This Easter, instead of asking what you need to become,
ask yourself:

Where do I feel safe enough to be fully myself?

And if the answer is nowhere yet,

start there.

Happy Easter!

M

Delays in the ADHD and autism diagnosis are creating a growing but largely hidden economic and public health crisis across the UK. Research suggests untreated ADHD alone may cost the UK around £17 billion a year, while autism-related costs are estimated at £25 billion annually. Yet NHS waiting lists still stretch for years, leaving many children and adults without timely assessment, treatment or ongoing support, driving educational disruption, reduced workforce participation, rising welfare dependency and increasing pressure on public services.

Neurodiversity Celebration Week

Ahead of Neurodiversity Celebration Week, the ADHD: Beyond the Label podcast is helping to bring the growing national conversation around ADHD awareness to a wider audience. Hosted by John Reynolds, founder of the Extraordinary Life Stories podcast, alongside Dr Phil Anderton, the series explores the realities of living with ADHD and the broader societal questions around diagnosis, support, and access to care.

On the latest episode of ADHD: Beyond the Label, “Belonging on Her Own Terms: Marie Weidlich’s ADHD Journey from Diagnosis to Advocacy.”, I was invited to share my personal journey navigating ADHD and the story behind the public petition calling for improved access to diagnosis and treatment in the UK.

The conversation explores a lived experience behind the policy debate, including what it is like to grow up masking and build a career in the City of London while navigating ADHD, how life can change once the right diagnosis and treatment are in place, and why many people continue to struggle with long waiting times and limited access to NHS support.

From Diagnosis to Advocacy

During the episode, I reflect on the experiences that motivate my advocacy work including launching the UK Parliament petition “Fund a Fast-Track for ADHD and Autism Diagnosis and Treatment”, calling for improved NHS access to diagnosis and care, which went on to spark a ADHD diagnosis debate in Parliament, in January this year.

We also delved into a deeply honest conversation about identity, resilience and what becomes possible when we finally understand how our mind works, and when we use that understanding to drive change for others, highlighting how early experiences can shape lives and why improving awareness on what neurodiversity is and how it works, as well as providing individuals with access to timely ADHD and autism diagnosis and treatment are so vital and remain a critical topic on a nation wide public agenda.

“One size does not fit all in education, yet that is still the reality for many neurodivergent children. When difference isn’t recognised or supported, the consequences can last a lifetime.”- John Reynolds, Extraordinary Life Stories

The full episode was nationally broadcasted on Bloomberg Television UK last Saturday 7th March at 9:00am, and is now available on “ADHD Beyond the Label” Youtube channel and via ADHD: Beyond the Label podcast on Spotify

👉Click above to watch the FULL episode.

Untreated ADHD

An independent NHS taskforce has estimated that untreated ADHD costs the UK economy approximately £17 billion every year. These costs arise through a combination of reduced workforce participation, lower tax contributions, higher unemployment, increased welfare dependency, and greater pressure on healthcare and criminal justice systems. Without timely diagnosis and treatment, many people struggle to maintain stable employment, education pathways, or long-term financial independence.

The Economic Impact of Autism

Autism also carries substantial long-term costs when support systems fail. According to research led by Professor Martin Knapp at the London School of Economics, the costs of supporting autistic adults in the UK are around £25 billion per year, and the lifetime cost per individual is estimated at roughly £0.8 million (without intellectual disability) to £1.23 million (with intellectual disability). These figures illustrate how the absence of early intervention can lead to significantly higher long-term public expenditure.

Rising Welfare Claims

Media analysis of the latest Department for Work and Pensions (DWP) statistics, reported in The Times, suggests that the annual cost of PIP awards for ADHD has risen to around £393 million, with autism-related PIP awards reaching approximately £1.3 billion. Insights highlight the growing number of individuals who are unable to fully participate in work or education due to a lack of timely diagnosis and treatment.

Pressure on the Education System

The education system is also facing increasing strain. The National Audit Office and a subsequent Public Accounts Committee report note that the number of children with EHCPs has increased by about 140% since 2015, reaching around 576,000 by January 2024. This rapid growth has created an estimated £3.3 billion deficit for local authorities, with projections suggesting the shortfall could reach £5 billion by 2026.

A Preventable Economic Burden

Taken together, these figures demonstrate a critical point: the cost of failing to diagnose and support neurodivergent people early is far greater than the cost of providing effective care. Improving access to diagnosis, treatment, and ongoing support for ADHD and autism would not only transform lives, it would also reduce long-term financial pressures across the NHS, the welfare system, and public services.

A Nationwide Discussion

Funding a fast track route for ADHD & Autism

A new UK Parliament petition, “Fund an NHS fast-track route for ADHD & autism diagnoses and treatment” (Petition 736475), is already showing broad national reach. With 291 UK signatures to date spread across 220 constituencies, support is dispersed across England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, indicating a country-wide concern, not a localised issue.

The petition calls for a funded NHS fast-track pathway so people with ADHD and autism can access timely assessment, treatment and continuity of care, including when they were diagnosed privately. Campaigners argue that current delays and fragmented pathways leave many without essential support, increasing the risk of mental health problems, educational disruption and unemployment.

This public pressure is emerging alongside growing parliamentary attention: On 13 January, a recent debate in Westminster on ADHD diagnosis and treatment highlighted long waiting lists, gaps in medication and NHS capacity for ADHD diagnostics. Together, the petition and parliamentary focus suggest that reform of neurodevelopmental care is becoming an increasingly urgent national question.

From Awareness to Action

While we raise awareness to the hidden cost and the human reality behind the numbers, it’s important to recognise that the spark has been ignited and change has started…

There are already several important pieces in motion:

1. All-Party Parliamentary Group (APPG) on ADHD
   A cross-party group of MPs and peers that raises awareness of ADHD in Parliament, hears from experts and people with lived experience, and helps to keep ADHD on the political agenda.

2. Independent ADHD Taskforce (NHS England)
   A taskforce established to examine current ADHD services, understand where the system is failing, and make recommendations for how access to diagnosis and treatment can be improved.

3. Key Parliamentary Inquiries and Actions
   Debates, questions and committee work have started to highlight ADHD and autism within broader mental health and SEND discussions, including recent debates on ADHD diagnosis, waiting times and access to medication.

Taken together, these efforts show that awareness is in motion. The challenge now is turning awareness into a critical path that results in coherent, joined-up action.

The next phase of the conversation is not just, Is there a problem?
It is, What should a modern, fair, and economically sustainable ADHD and autism pathway actually look like? Marie Weidlich, London Fashion Today

That is where the voices of people with lived experience, families and carers, clinicians on the front line, teachers, employers and support workers, will be essential.

A Closing Thought

ADHD is not a marginal issue.
It is woven into our schools, our workplaces, our mental health services and our economy.

The hidden cost is already here, in lost potential, avoidable crises, and lives that could have gone very differently with the right support at the right time.

📝 Sign Petition 736475 – Fund an NHS fast-track route for ADHD & autism diagnoses and treatment
👉https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/736475

Recognising that cost is the first step.
Deciding to do something about it is the next.

Thanks,

M

On 20 January 2026, the UK Parliament held a Westminster Hall debate titled “ADHD Diagnosis”, led by MP Bill Esterson, with a response from Health Minister Dr. Zubir Ahmed.

You can read the full transcript here: 👉 Hansard Parliamentary Record

For those of us who have lived with ADHD, not just the diagnosis, but the reality beneath it, the questions raised in this debate weren’t abstract. They were echoes of experiences we’ve carried for years, often in silence.

This article is my reply, as an ADHD advocate and someone who has navigated the system, both public and private, who continues to witness, up close, what happens when that system fails.

Why This Debate Matters

In August last year, I created a petition to urge the UK Government to Fund a Fast Track for ADHD & Autism.

After sharing my story here and on Instagram, people reached out to say they finally felt empowered to seek their own diagnosis. Many are now in treatment, and the shift in their lives, their careers, relationships, and mental health, is already profound.

The fact that Parliament is listening signals a turning point. It proves that when we speak the truth about our lived experiences, we can achieve things together. While the debate touched on clinical definitions, backlogs, and NHS processes, it also demanded questions to be answered.

I’ve chosen to answer 5 of them on this article, drawing from my own experience and from what I’ve seen and heard among friends, peers and loved ones.

1. What Happens When People Wait Too Long?

“Delays in diagnosis can damage relationships, careers, mental health, and life chances.”

Delays are not neutral. They compound. The longer a person goes undiagnosed, the more likely they are to internalise shame, fail silently in school or work, and develop co-occurring conditions such as depression, anxiety, and chronic stress disorders. I know because I lived it.

I was seven when hyperactivity was first noticed. But it would take decades to receive formal treatment. The cost? Years of masking, people-pleasing, self-doubt, and exhaustion so profound it felt cellular. I wasn’t lazy. I was under-resourced, mentally and emotionally.

When you operate with a brain that doesn’t produce enough dopamine, the neurotransmitter responsible for reward, motivation, and attention, you’re not choosing dysfunction. You’re living inside it. Survival becomes the norm. By the time help comes, many of us are already fractured.

I was diagnosed with hyperactivity at 7. But it took over two decades, and a collapse for me to receive treatment. What happens during those “in-between” years? You survive in fragments. You become brilliant at coping, but at war with your own mind.

By the time I sought help privately in 2024, I was already a mother. Treatment didn’t fix me, it returned me to myself. And that’s what’s at stake: not convenience, but continuity of self.

2. Is ADHD Care Becoming a Two-Tier System?

“Access to private diagnosis is faster, but expensive, what does that mean for equality?”

Absolutely. Private care and NHS care do not operate at the same frequency, not in speed, clarity, or follow-through. When I accessed private care, I received rapid assessment, psychoeducation, and a well-structured plan, including medication. It was life-changing.

My attempt to move into public care through a shared care agreement was met not with support, but with silence. Between practitioners who didn’t understand the protocol and others who outright refused to prescribe, I watched as my letters were lost in the GP clogged system and the months ticked by.

With my treatment interrupted, my stability began to fracture. I couldn’t help but wonder: if this system is this difficult for me to navigate, what hope is there for a vulnerable teenager? If a thirteen-year-old were standing where I am, struggling with anxiety and depression and a failing system, would they have the strength to survive the wait?

ADHD treatment works best when it’s timely, tailored, and continuous. When that continuum is broken by system inequality, the message becomes clear: recovery is only for those who can afford it.

A two-tier system is not just unfair, it’s dangerous. Because the people who can’t afford private care are often the ones most at risk of falling through.

3. What Is the Human Cost Behind the Data?

“We need to hear from people who’ve lived this.”

Behind every waiting list is a human being, often a gifted, overwhelmed, empathetic person trying their best to function in a world that wasn’t designed for their brain.

The symptoms are not just “being distracted.” They include emotional dysregulation, executive dysfunction, ADHD paralysis, and a kind of internal chaos that’s hard to put into words. And yet, so many of us mask it. We appear competent. We over-deliver. Until we collapse.

One of the hardest realities to accept is that ADHD, when untreated, leads to higher rates of suicide. I’ve lost someone I loved to that fate. And it’s not uncommon. Many of us did, and the ache will be always there… what if we could have done something to help? The answer is that we can.

There’s also the quieter cost: the mothers who can’t keep up with the multiple roles demanded from them, the employees who burn out, the teenagers mislabelled as “problem kids.” Many neurodivergent people don’t fail because they lack talent. They fail because the systems around them never accounted for their biological difference.

When people finally get help, whether through diagnosis, meds, or therapy or a system that supports their needs, the shift is seismic. I’ve seen people around me change careers, rediscover joy in life, become more confident about themselves, reconnect with their children. We shouldn’t have to fight so hard to reach that point.

4. Are Children Being Missed Too Early?

“How many children are falling through the cracks?”

Yes, and the cost is generational. The earlier a child is identified as neurodivergent, the sooner they can stop internalising the message that they are broken, lazy, or difficult.

Growing up neurodiverse meant I often dissociated. I could be extremely sharp, but then freeze at the smallest task. My nervous system was in a constant state of overdrive. Teachers saw the symptoms but not the cause. And the result was years of mislabelling and misplaced guilt.

My son is now five. Watching him develop has illuminated how early intervention could change lives. If schools had proper ADHD screening, emotional literacy programmes, and trauma-informed approaches, many children would grow up not in fear of being different, but in celebration of it.

Neurodivergence is not a disorder to be cured. It’s a brain-type to be supported. And when kids feel that support early, they thrive, not in spite of their differences, but through them.

5. Is Diagnosis the End or the Beginning?

“Once diagnosed, are people left to manage alone?”

Diagnosis is just the start. What follows determines everything.

After my diagnosis, I began treatment with a nervous system stimulant, a compound that metabolises like food, stimulating the brain to produce the dopamine it chronically lacked. The effects were transformative. My brain stopped panicking. My thoughts slowed. I could access joy without the shame of delay.

But that’s not enough. Real treatment is multimodal. It includes psychotherapy that helps untangle the trauma of decades spent masking. It includes lifestyle shifts, access to informed practitioners, and, ideally, community.

Without follow-up, diagnosis is just a label. And the danger is that people get stuck, believing the system has done its job. But diagnosis without care is like drawing a map and then refusing to let someone leave the shore.

This is where private practitioners excel, they offer continuity. Because their business model depends on outcomes. But basic access to care shouldn’t be a commodity. It should be a right.

🌱 What Comes Next?

What Parliament began this week must continue, with transparency, urgency, and inclusion of real voices. Not in token panels, but in working groups, school policy, NHS commissioning, and everyday care.

And if you believe in this cause, I invite you to do one small thing today:

👉 Sign the petition here.

👉 Read the full debate here.

👉 Watch the debate on ADHD diagnosis here.

There is nothing radical in asking to be understood. But sometimes, it’s the most revolutionary thing we can do.

Thank you!

Marie :)

Press links:

BBC, Westminster Hall-https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/m002qr4b/westminster-hall-20012025?seriesId=unsliced&page=2

ADHD Diagnosis, Bill Esterson extracts-https://www.parallelparliament.co.uk/mp/bill-esterson/debate/2026-01-20/commons/westminster-hall/adhd-diagnosis

Sotheby’s: THE SNOWMAN (1982) ORIGINAL STORYBOARD ARTWORK, BRITISH,

The Temper Trap, Sweet Disposition

I arrived in London with two suitcases and a dream. I left behind everything I knew, my family, my language, my country, my comfort. What I brought with me was belief. Not just in the future, but in myself. This is the story of ten years of building a life from memory, from love, from fragments of possibility.

All my family came to the airport to say goodbye: my parents, my friends, my siblings, my cousins, my aunties, and my grandma. I was naïve. Full of dreams, and absolutely no idea what I’d find in London. I didn’t give it too much thought, I just knew I wanted it. So I went for it. And I figured things out once I got here.

There were moments tough, lonely, disorienting but I kept going. Because the dream of being here was bigger than anything else I could explain. It was visceral. Unshakable. London lived in my thoughts long before I ever made it my postcode.

The day I came back to Brazil from my student exchange, the very first trip to London, I remember lying in bed in Wimbledon, in the house of the family who hosted me. Looking up at the ceiling. Watching the streetlights glow through the window. Thinking: I’m in a dream. I am the dream. That night, I wrote a letter to my family. Outside, a soft shower made the red bricks glisten, the pavements shimmer in that bluish tint that only belongs to London. I loved it. The smell of coffee, the quiet buzz. London has a fragrance. A texture. And I was hooked.

When I got back home, I thought about that feeling every day. The freedom. The sense of being in step with a city whose rhythm didn’t overwhelm mine but matched it. I made comparisons. I imagined the version of my life that could exist here. And then, I worked for it.

I spent years in British English classes. I remember my teacher saying, “You’re so good, you always top the class, why don’t you work a little more on your grammar? I just didn’t learn like that. I couldn’t. I created my own method and brought native fluency into existence.

And my father, he believed in that method or the apparent non existence of one. He’d leave work and cycle across town to pay for my tuition. Sometimes late, always steady. Every month, for years. There was one thing he knew without question: I would make it. Because he believed in me. The way his father believed in him. That belief was passed down like inheritance, and maybe, just maybe, he sensed I needed it more than anyone else.

We lived in a small, agricultural city in southern Brazil. A place where people drove Mitsubishis like they were Range Rovers. And my dad? He cycled. He’d collect me from private school on his bike, not in an SUV. He was a man of law, but always a bit of an outlier. Never quite conventional. Never fully understood either. He owned two cars, one very old, which he refused to part with, and a new model my mum drove. She was the one behind the wheel, doing the shopping, the school runs, the birthday, prom, party dress fittings. We had a comfortable life. Protective. Loving.

But I was always comparing. Most of my friends came from families turning over millions a year through farming, exporting commodities. They travelled abroad at least twice a year, lived in sprawling houses with garage space for at least four cars, the latest tech in every room, and playrooms that looked like something out of a shop display. One of them had thirteen bathrooms.

I came from a traditional professional background, solid, respectable, but I couldn’t even grasp what life looked like outside that bubble. And then London burst it. And it didn’t burst gently. I learned what reality looked like the hard way, and it wasn’t overlooking a view of the Shard. It was something called Zone 3.

Leaving that behind, flying to London, felt like abandoning a version of myself that hadn’t been backed up in iCloud. But human memory doesn’t wipe like digital files. There’s no hard reset. No corrupted folder. No “restore from backup” button when things disappear. We carry memory in our cells. Our DNA is memory. Our future is built on it. Layered, coded, stored in the soft tissue of who we are. And I brought it all with me, in two suitcases, across an ocean.

When I arrived, I had to make new memories. I had to learn how to become someone else, in a new language, in a new system, in a new life. I was anxious. I was hungry. For everything.

I arrived in a place that didn’t know a thing about me, but had already decided what I was. Based on how I speak. How I look. It’s comforting, apparently, to file people quickly. Less thinking involved.

At customs, I told them I was here to study fashion journalism. I felt proud. And terrified. My English was solid, but not sharp enough to decipher someone from Glasgow on a first try. I had no one waiting for me. No safety net. Just me, my ambition, and the belief that had been placed in my spine cord.

Somerset House, 2025:

One of these days leading up to Christmas, walking through the city with my five-year-old, we rushed to Covent Garden for burgers. We’d just watched The Snowman, at The Peacock Theatre, the animated adventure of a boy and his magical, one-night-only friendship. As we dashed past Somerset House, I stopped in my tracks. The ice rink. The towering Christmas tree. The fairy lights dancing across the flaky ice. It felt untouched by time. 1960s, 1970s, 1980s… it could have been any year. It transported me.

And looking at it through his eyes, I thought:

I’m walking in the air. I’m still living the dream. Every chapter I write. Every milestone I reach. This is the dream made real.

It’s ten years of memories, plus the 28 that came before. The full archive of a life in motion. This is the gratitude and grief and joy I carry, shaped by every person who walked beside me, especially the ones who believed in me before I knew how to believe in myself. I wish every person would know how important that contrast is.

A thank you, most of all, to the tutors through my academical journey. The ones who saw a kid full of potential, not a problem to be solved. Yes, I was neurodiverse. Yes, I was different. But they chose to nurture that, not label it. Others called it a problem. But I was lucky. I had people who chose to see me.

Miss Lourdes, the nun and Maths tutor with the same name as my grandma, my great Italian nonna, now in heaven. She saw my pain and invited me for tea. Who welcomed me into her quiet world without ever compromising her role. She didn’t soften the system. She bridged it for me.

Then came university. Thiba, my first journalism tutor, reminded me of my grandad. A little wild, a little brilliant. Funny, sarcastic, drunk on literature. He said, “The My best students aren’t the ones who always get Firsts. They’re the ones who swing between a 2:2 and a First, because that’s real. He made me feel seen. He gave me my first journalism job before I graduated. Pulled me aside and whispered, “You’ll do the interview like everyone else, but your spot is already yours.”

Then Magda, my Master’s degree tutor. She saw the spark in my ideas. She chose me out of many. She let me think differently, encouraged it even. And in that, a new voice was born.

These mentors replaced every “you’re not enough” with “I see you. I believe in you. I want to know what you can do.”

That belief, that thread, is what got me to London. It’s what held me through this last decade. And it’s what’s pulling me forward now.

Because this next chapter? It’s not about London Fashion Today. It’s not about lifestyle, or hotel reviews, or curated moments. That chapter is over. It mattered, but the world is shifting. I’m shifting. I’m building my life for impact now, not just ambition.

And I want you to be part of it!

I want this space on Substack, to be a place where belief gets passed on. Where anyone unsure of whether they’re “allowed” to dream can read this and know: you are. And if you’re still in doubt, let me close by saying:

I was nobody in London.

No one knew my name.

And now, they do.

Make sure you place not just presents, but also that one wish you’re holding onto under the tree this year.

Merry Christmas! 🎄

M

Lana Del Rey, Just Ride

Author’s Note:

I’ve always found that Ride by Lana Del Rey acts like a compass through my story. No matter when I listen, it brings me back to a certain feeling I carry. It’s slippery to describe, but I’ll try…because this is the thread that moves me; this is the spark that remains through my journey, and will likely remain until the day I’m gone.

This essay is part memoir, part manifesto. It speaks volumes about ADHD through, music, myth, and meaning. It doesn’t seek a diagnosis or a redemption arc. It seeks resonance, for anyone who’s ever felt too much, not enough, or somewhere in between.

Singing Blues Has Been Getting Old

I remember my childhood with enthusiasm. My mind was full of ideas, wild, imaginative ideas. Reflecting on my upbringing, I see how this part of me unfolded, especially at preschool, where I convinced all my classmates that we were going to Disney. Every break‑time we gathered on the staircase, our little porch in school, and pretended it was our airplane stairway. We were off to Disney. I had five, six kids buying into it, because children have an imaginative power that is so often undervalued. I had it: I wasn’t a “normal kid” (of course), because I have ADHD, so my mind was always exploring, day‑dreaming, but I didn’t see that side of me as a shortcoming. I thought it remarkable that I got them all to dream with me.

That thread recurs. I could point to many moments, many incarnations of it. I was wired, by ADHD’s impulsiveness, not to pause but to go. When I got an idea and I was passionate, I acted. Childhood: I created a roller‑skating club and got the neighbours involved. At another time we believed in fairies, and we’d run across the vast backyards of our countryside homes in southern Brazil: tree‑jumping, ripe fruit‑eating, hands in mud, cooking and baking on our grandma’s kitchen. My childhood was tactile, full of texture, full of wild space and imagination.

And that matters, because kids who are neurodiverse, especially those growing up in a more virtual world, won’t always get the chance to experiment, to test their ideas. I was fortunate. My parents had recognised my hyperactivity after a formal neurological diagnosis, but they chose: “Okay, she’s like this, and we love her the way she is.”

There were no guidelines for neurodiversity in the early 90s in Brazil; I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for them. A child so full of life and energy, and at the same time difficult to deal with. That is often the paradox for neurodiverse kids (and later grown‑ups): we are seen as “difficult,” “problematic,” and so two intertwined threads run through our lives: exuberant possibility and the sting of non‑belonging.

That continues until the day I got my late ADHD diagnosis and life shifted, but the spark, the thread, I kept it.

I Hear the Birds on The Summer Breeze I Drive Fast I’m Alone at Midnight

In my teens, I collected more of these experiences. They weren’t all bad, they included light and texture. My environment was rather conservative in mindset, but I found pockets of freedom. I loved to challenge things. For me, accepting something without scrutiny was not an option. I don’t know if that’s environmental, personality, or both. But I grew up in a family of lawyers. from my dad’s lunch‑table talk about legal cases and local politics, to my sister becoming a prosecutor. My younger brother remains the light of my childhood.

And I, the outcast. Privileged by class and skin colour, yet dismissed for not fitting the mould. In Southern Brazil, where I grew up, and perhaps in the North too, class and wealth act as social magnets. To be accepted, you must be wealthy, white, and successful. If you look European, you’re treated with a kind of automatic respect, as if your appearance alone validates your worth. That’s what we’ve come to recognise as entitlement. I ticked two of the boxes. But I still didn’t belong. I was neurodiverse, and that didn’t qualify. It disqualified.

So many layers: wealth and outcastness, privilege and mismatch, light and fracture. And that thread, that light of impulse and execution, propelled me onward. Thinking and acting, living as someone with ADHD, it means that you are always on. Imagine a lightbulb that’s at 100 % all the time, you go to bed, you wake up; your eyes have to adjust; you’re tired but the bulb stays on. That’s ADHD.

Trying Hard Not to Get Into Trouble, I’ve Got a War in My Mind, So I Just Ride

This line specifically narrates what it’s like to be inside a neurodivergent head. The war isn’t visible. But it’s constant.

The metaphor of the open road resonates: being simultaneously nowhere and everywhere; overlooking tiny cities, your seat is shrinking beneath you, you’re nearly touching the sky but you don’t know the sky because it’s nothingness. And you feel: you finally have a place to exist. Because this is what ADHD feels like: you can’t belong, but you’re always somewhere else.

And I’m relieved I discovered this while I’m alive, because so many lose their lives without grasping the beauty of the neuro‑diverse mind.

The key to surviving that war is this: find your core, your non‑negotiable. Step away from the narratives of pity and sabotage. Become an actor in your own story.

Now I’m nearly 40, and I understand.

neurodiversity has no off button. You are born this way, you die this way. As with sexual orientation: you don’t choose being gay. You were gay; you’ll be dying gay.

The same for neurodiversity. You can’t switch it off. The more you try, the more you feel you don’t belong, you don’t have the right to exist.

This is why I’m telling this story. Our society has spent too much effort pushing us to be shaped. But we also have the power to reshape, and to shift. That’s what this thread is, this life‑impulse that follows me.

The best example of that thread might be the day I decided to leave Brazil and move to the UK. I knew I was different. If I’m an apple, I’ll never turn into a pear. Doesn’t matter what people expect.

Don’t Leave Me Now, Don’t Say Goodbye, Don’t Turn Around, Leave High and Dry

My family valued order, career, stability, but I wanted flight.

I sat through lunch-table conversations about legal matters that, somehow, inevitably spiraled into arguments. And while I listened, sometimes even interjected, I knew, with absolute certainty, I could never fit that frame.

If you’re neurodiverse, you often become the change‑maker, not because you seek it, but because you are always changing. You’re adapting, masking, reshaping.

The creative and analytical mind is constantly spotting patterns, noticing what others overlook. But the real challenge is emotional: managing the gap between what you think and how you feel, between autonomy and insecurity, assertiveness and passiveness.

And when families or institutions look at neurodiverse kids and take everything away from them, agency, autonomy, the right to experiment, or fail to offer opportunities where they can thrive, it makes me deeply sad. Angry, even.

What a neurodivergent person needs is the space to experience life on their own terms, with autonomy, trust, confidence. More than love (though everyone needs affection), they need the freedom to be themselves.

It’s estimated that around 15% of the UK population is neurodivergent, an umbrella term covering conditions such as ADHD, Autism Spectrum Disorder, dyslexia, dyspraxia, and others.

So, if I might offer a piece of advice, to families, governments, institutions, anyone: Don’t underestimate neurodiversity. Don’t pity neurodivergent individuals. Don’t assume they lack intellect.

Many people with ADHD or autism are extraordinarily capable, often intellectually gifted. In the right environment, they demonstrate above-average IQ and insight.

The crisis comes when society says: “You are not capable.”

Rejection, the fear of being left high and dry, that speaks to every neurodivergent person who carries the deep wound of not belonging.

We comply to live like others, but the norm holds the power. Until we challenge it. Until we re-signify it. Until we transform, not by tearing ourselves apart, but by evolving without losing our essence.

Society should be cyclic, retrofitting, reinventing, but never erasing. And in that reinvention, we need more compassion, more love. Not just for people who look or think like us, but for those beside us who are different.

Lane by lane: I’m in mine, you’re in yours. We coexist.

That’s the Way the Road-Dogs do it, Light-’til Dark

Lana’s narrative, if you tilt your head and squint, is tailor-made for commodification. Hollywood and the entertainment industry have long preyed on the neurodivergent spirit without ever naming it. The rebels, the adrenaline junkies, the feral femme fatales, the ones who were uncontainable, those were always the most interesting, the most magnetic, the most mythologised.

Hollywood did a brilliant job mythologising the aura of neurodivergence: the grit, the chaos, the madness‑as‑sexy. But it failed to name it for what it was.

The glamorous edge we romanticised growing up, the drinking, the smoking, the sex, the risk, the rage, it was often the surface symptom of a deeper truth: a mind trying to regulate itself in a world that refuses to understand it.

The aspirational version of a neurodivergent life is intoxicating. The reality? Often devastating. Many artists are neurodivergent without knowing it. They spend a lifetime chasing clarity through their art, trying to find peace through expression. I sympathise with that entirely.

And here’s the twist: it doesn’t matter how polished your identity looks, how wealthy, how acceptable, how “palatable” you’ve made yourself, there’s always a moment of reckoning. A moment when you realise: we’re just humans on a rock floating in space, trying not to fall apart. That’s the trap. That’s the punchline.

So yes, the narratives need to be rewritten. The heroic arc. The femme fatale trope. The glamorised self‑destruction. These once-radical templates, forged by cinema and fashion, are no longer revolutionary, they’re exhausting! And many of us, especially those who are neurodiverse, tried to live those stories. But the practicality of it is debilitating.

I’m Tired of Feeling Like I’m Fucking Crazy

An ADHD mind without the right tools, environment, or people around can fall hard.

The emotional trauma we accumulate can leave long-lasting scars, on our sense of belonging, our ability to function, organise, love, and show up in the world. That’s why that one line from Lana Del Rey’s ‘Ride‘ hits me in the gut: I’m tired of feeling like I’m fucking crazy.”

It’s a cry most neurodivergent people have felt deep in their chest. When we try so hard, only to crash. When we break down, and instead of support, we’re told: You’re too much.We’re labelled “disruptive,” “difficult.” But what we’re really doing is feeling. And in a world built for neurotypicals, feeling deeply is treated like a threat.

It’s emotional gaslighting, though most of the time it’s unintentional. It’s a lack of awareness. ADHD isn’t a personality quirk. it’s a neurobiological reality.

All I’ve got to keep myself sane, baby, so I just ride…

I did that. For years. Flying non‑stop, reviewing hotels, exploring cities. I was proving nothing to anyone, just to myself. But I see now: life isn’t about proving anything. It’s about living.

When I could no longer move from place to place, person to person, job to job, when I couldn’t “ride” anymore, I crashed. And in that crash, I had to find a new kind of freedom. One that wasn’t about motion. One that came from within. I found it in art. In writing. In speaking my truth. Because when we speak, we create.

The logos, is the word materialised in the universe. You can’t unsay it.

And that, for me, was the key to my freedom: connecting with that invisible thread that I’ve felt since childhood. A divine thread. One that exists in all of us. Reflected in the wind, in ecosystems, in the subtle transitions of the seasons. A divine light, eternal, cuts through all darkness, we can name it resilience, strength. It opened the locked doors. It pushed open the windows. It freed me from rooms I thought I’d never escape.

And now, even when I revisit those places, emotionally, mentally, I know the way out. Because that thread is still shining. Not with the impulsiveness of my younger years, but with something deeper now. Something holy.

A quiet knowing that something bigger than us exists. Hope, perhaps? That grace exists. That it lives within every soul on this planet, neurodiverse or not.

And no matter how difficult life gets, we have the power to reignite the spark.

To reconnect.

To rethink.

To transform.

To evolve.

To become something new.

We have the right to exist in our own shape and form.

It’s a existencial ride.♾️

I guess renovating can be really hard work if you put your mind into it, but it’s extremely rewarding when you get to use it, and realise aesthetics are proportional to functionality in equal measure

On My Definition of Comfort and Style…

I’ve spoken a lot about my travels and moving fast, from five-star hotel reviews across Europe and flatsharing in London, to owning my own property. But throughout it all, what I was always looking for was comfort. Not the surface-level kind. The kind you carry with you. The kind that reflects your values, mindset, aspirations, and the spaces you orbit.

Comfort doesn’t always translate into objects. It’s more of a frequency. A sense. One that I’ve sought both as an expat and a traveller.

When you’re constantly on the move, comfort becomes intangible, but deeply felt.

Nostalgia Fuelled Design

Some hotels got it just right. Others didn’t. A few, though, taught me what intimacy in design feels like.

Two that I’ve loved every single detail of it: The Pierre in NYC and The Conservatorium in Amsterdam.

Both hotels used warm natural stone and felt naturally elevated.

Those experiences made me see design as emotional architecture, not just aesthetics. So when it came to our own renovation, a Victorian/Edwardian property with protected character, I wanted something that honoured heritage and spoke our language now.

I also knew where my love of bathrooms started. As a kid, I’d stay in the tub until the mirror fogged, pouring every bottle within reach to create maximum bubbles. Heaven for me; a headache for adults. The universe has a sense of humour: now I’m the adult, and my son once emptied 500 ml of L’Occitane Almond shower gel into the bath in one glorious pearly waterfall. He was delighted; my wallet cried; we laughed. That memory clarified the brief, a ritual-worthy bath that welcomes exuberance and forgives it!

Designing with Vision

We began with moodboards, but the real tension was personal. My partner leans Nordic and functional; I wanted Victorian gravitas, a real bath and taps with presence. We needed a bridge.

We found it in Haddon England. Their fittings sit in that sweet spot: modern without being anonymous, grounded without feeling pastiche. That balance became the room’s anchor.

For me, the centrepiece was really the Cobham Carrara Marble Floorstanding Vanity Unit an elegant statement with real utility. Subtle Carrara marble counter top, and rounded base speaking contemporary with vintage appeal. The basin design prevents any splashing (a non negotiable). Couldn’t have chosen better!

We paired the vanity unit with the beautiful Kensington Regent 3 Tap Role Mixer With Pop Up Waste from Sanctuary Bathrooms.

But, it’s not all roses…

Constraints were real: 100 years old bricks hidden behind the old tiles. Pipework that limited our choices in terms of layout etc. Not glamorous, but the things you actually deal with in a Victorian property.

I took the embryo of an idea to Alternative Bathrooms Showroom in Battersea, Glen understood our layout and, with the precision of someone who knows these kind of buildings ins and outs, pointed to what would actually work. And yes, the history lesson still surprised me: bathrooms weren’t standard in UK homes for a long time. It explains a lot about pipe runs and the inconvenient layouts.

Everardo handled the internal comms, and Andrea the logistics, quotes, timings etc. We went for a german design Bette Comodo 1900×900 which was by far one of our best bets. Generous proportions, it’s extremely spacious and it really added the convenience of a bath that is so spacious that feels like a shower too.

Heritage Meets Minimalism

Hardware became a conversation rather than a compromise: For the wet area we went with Moreno Chrome exposed thermostatic 3 way shower from Haddon. For the bath I wanted a dramatic Victorian inspired tap but it wasn’t available for delivery so I went with something more minimal the Nuvo Chrome Wall Mounted Bath Shower Mixer Tap which I’m quite happy with actually! I ended up with doubled taps but they’re quite handy given we have a child at home.

Because I like breaking rules and mix and matching, I still wanted the Victorian look for certain aspects of the bathroom so I bridged the minimal aesthetic at the Bath with the Arlington Polished Nickel Robe Towel Hooks and Arlington Polished Nickel Towel Bar Rail 600mm from Haddon which I paired with the Bella Floor Mounted 4-Bar Polished Nickel Radiator and Towel Warmer , they surely added a classic and timeless look giving hotel vibes.

Mid-works, we discovered our first toilet spec wouldn’t play nicely with the existing pipes; and pivoted to the Burlington Regal CC With 520 Lever Cister, which now looks intentional and behaves perfectly.

Tiles were the turning point…

I arrived at Walton Ceramics Showroom in Chelsea with too many screenshots and not enough clarity. Rosa met me with an Italian eye for harmony over hype. We laid samples, mixed finishes, edited hard.

We settled on honed Soapstone by Stone & Ceramic Warehouse to anchor the room, soft to the hand, quietly warm, the kind of material that earns its beauty depending on how light reflects on it. The tile plan was treated like tailoring: proportions first, grout tone second, pattern last.

We sourced through Ceramic & Stone Warehouse, with practical conversations and endless support from Jo and her team. I remember being stuck in traffic on my way to Heathrow still deciding on the floor tiling, they listened, called back, made sure the order was placed before I took off. Invaluable partnerships! 🤍

Reno Wrap Up: Lessons and Takeaways

The hardest part of the renovation wasn’t choosing the fittings. It was managing the project. Sequencing. Procurement. Deliveries. Headspace. I was client, creative, and PM in one. If I could rewind, I’d hire someone just to protect the timeline and liaise with trades at the checkout.

If you’re planning a reno: test your studio’s project management, not just their taste. And if you already know what you want, don’t outsource your judgement, protect it, and let good people help you land it.

What we built now feels inevitable, my favourite kind of design. The soapstone warms. The fixtures behave as if they were always meant to be here. Mornings feel clearer; evenings feel softer. I don’t have a single regret, and that, more than any photograph, is the measure.

Author’s Note:

Your soul is your heart, and all the emotions you kept in it after life broke it apart. It carries the early impressions of life, the texture of sound, the shape of a room, the scent of a season.

These impressions don’t just sit in the past. They form your wiring. They explain why you move a certain way through the world, why you’re drawn to chaos or stillness, or why certain things feel like home before you’ve had time to explain them. It’s not about choice. It’s about identity.

This series of love letters to my younger self is a search for what was *already* written, like a serial number woven into the early fabric of memory. I’m not constructing meaning from scratch. I’m *uncovering* it. They are a way to excavate the lightness and beauty of a childhood I didn’t fully understand until it was gone. A world where movement made sense, before life taught me to sit still and perform.

Some Velvet Morning, Primal Scream

I’ve always been a little sad. Even in joy. Even in momentum. Not a crisis kind of sadness, but a hum, a quiet, constant weight I carried without knowing why. For a long time, I thought something was wrong with me because I couldn’t hold peace for long. But peace, I’ve realised, was never stillness. For me, peace is *motion*. And maybe that’s the truest way to describe how life feels with ADHD.

I often imagine myself in motion, on airplanes, trains, boats, you name it. It’s a recurring image: me sitting quietly, surrounded by strangers, yet lost in my own abstraction. I watch the landscape blur into a single canvas, green fields, blue skies, cotton clouds, rocky coastlines, or icy, fog-draped mountains. The world outside moves too fast to name, yet just slow enough to feel.

There’s something deeply comforting about being carried forward without needing to steer. A passenger in time. That is the closest way I can describe living inside an ADHD mind: a runaway of thoughts, sometimes scattered, sometimes ordered, critical, abstract, analytical, methodical, or suddenly revelatory, but always moving.

ADHD doesn’t let you forget, only reshuffle. Your memory, and your notion of past, present, and future, are caught in the same spin and randomised like a playlist on Spotify.

When I was younger, I mistook this restlessness for something broken. Now I understand: it’s not dysfunction, it’s design. ADHD taught me to experience time through texture, over sequence. I don’t remember things in order as much as I remember through scent, through colour, through sound. The typewriter clicking in the background. The vinyl crackle of Bob Dylan and Pink Floyd. My mother’s voice humming Mozart, Bach, Chopin, or Tchaikovsky from the next room. These are more than memories, they’re anchor points.

I remember the smell of eucalyptus in the sauna, wooden floors creaking beneath my feet, the way grass felt on bare skin in early morning light. The scent of rain falling gently on dry earth. People smiling without needing a reason. A line of laundry dancing in the wind. Fresh brewed coffee. Oranges being squeezed into juice. All of it stored somewhere in the body.

Fade Into You, Mazzy Star

When I began to open up, life expanded like air in my lungs running through Battersea Park on a Sunday morning. I felt myself returning to something primal, a rhythm I had forgotten but never lost.

That’s the thing about healing, it’s not always about acquiring something new. Sometimes it’s just remembering what you already knew before the world taught you to forget.

Writing has always been part of that rhythm. As a child, my grandfather would pay me to write him a letter every week. I thought it was a game. A way to earn money I then converted into candy. But now I see it for what it was: an initiation. A ritual. He was teaching me to notice. To articulate. To sit with my feelings long enough to name them. And in doing so, he gave me the greatest gift: the habit of reflection.

When he passed, I didn’t just lose a ritual, I lost someone I loved, someone I wrote endless letters to. I hadn’t realised how tightly love and writing had been braided through my life until both were gone. Yet writing never truly left me. It waited, patiently, quietly. It returned through movement: in my solo travels across Europe and North America, in my daily London chronicles on Instagram, in work, and in moments of unexpected presence, like a flicker of light at the edge of vision that turns out to be your own soul, waving back.

Bitter Sweet Symphony, The Verve

I used social media for years to try and belong. To reassure myself that I existed. That I was seen. I built personas, versions of myself shiny enough to survive. But they were projections, not reflections. I was raw. I didn’t grow up with beautiful, polished things in the way Britain defines them.

My childhood home in Brazil had wool carpets, linen threads, soft cotton sheets, and wooden furniture passed down through generations. There was always food on the table, clothes neatly pressed, fire and water running, light pouring in, and the steady presence of people’s attention and care. Abundance wasn’t absent, it was simply shaped differently.

Beauty wasn’t empire-polished; it was lived in. A middle-class immigrant family weaving European habits into the Brazilian climate, where life carried texture and presence instead of staged permanence. Here in the UK, polish means something else. It means empire, heritage estates, centuries-old oak, facades scrubbed until history gleams like marble. A ritual of power, of continuity.

In Brazil, polish was comfort and natural resources. In Britain, polish is architecture and institution. That difference taught me to feel before I understood what I was feeling. It’s why people have never been able to universalise me, and the very reason I never fully understood bias or prejudice directed at me.

I like to remember the comfort and exploration of my childhood, the continuity of touch with sports, community and nature, the rawness woven into city and academic life. It was a different sense of belonging, one I wish everyone could know: what it means to feel comfort as something natural, not extravagant. Comfort makes life easier, more joyful.

In Britain, even within the sovereignty of empire, post-war scarcity still lingers in the social ethos. That austerity shapes how resources are seen: guarded, rationed, finite. For a long time, I struggled to build a relationship with that idea. It felt foreign compared to the endless fields of southern Brazil, horizons that seemed to stretch without boundary. There, abundance wasn’t questioned; it was lived.

Keeping Your Head Up, Birdy.

Coming to terms with the fact that everything in the world today is finite and perishable changed me. When I finally absorbed that truth, my mind became freer, released from the misconception that abundance means permanence. That realisation is why reconnecting with my roots matters now: they remind me of a kind of belonging where comfort was not excess but the natural state of living.

I’ve never been a product of my environment. I either resisted it or reimagined it.

The real glossy things in my life aren’t Instagram-worthy, they’re the parts you read between the lines. That’s why I write. To make sense of my existence. To create relevance out of noise. To name the movement that never stops inside me and say: *this, too, is beautiful*.

As I put these letters together and share with you all over here, I am also writing an existential non-fiction book, diving into the themes I explore here and uncovering a story that, rather than being constructed, was never told!

Through it, I hope to shed light on what life feels like with ADHD, the lengths one must go to fully exist in their own right. In that process, I share how I began acknowledging, naming, re-signifying, and finally releasing the pain of being a misfit, even when perceptions of me suggested otherwise.

It’s about the weights we carry and the ways we shed them. It’s about watching the world pass outside a plane window and knowing you don’t have to control the direction to arrive at something meaningful.

It’s about the shape of identity when you’re not just living, but performing an existence for others. And what happens when you stop performing and start *becoming*.

I admire those who can hold who they are without apology. Who live without filters. Who aren’t afraid to say: I am not okay, but I am alive. That’s what I want my book to be, a mirror, a map, a place where your own light might catch and reflect back something honest. You are not behind. You are not broken. You are not making it up.

You are free to exist ✨

We’re always evolving, always changing. More often than not, the people we draw close, and the relationships we nurture, reflect a version of ourselves tied to a particular season of life.

Some relationships happen by consequence of environment, not intention. When you change, when you wake up to your surroundings, the people orbiting your life begin to feel different. Sometimes that’s a conscious choice. Sometimes, it’s just the environment shifting, like tidal waves turning with the seasons.

I’ve learned that keeping someone around out of vanity or convenience is neither intentional nor sustainable. Especially when your direction changes and their presence no longer fits the shape of your life.

On the day of my confirmation at Temple Church, I stood alone. I had invited people, sent messages, tried to bring them in, but most didn’t even acknowledge it. And yet, it didn’t bother me. Many family members did show up, more than I expected. They watched the ceremony on YouTube. It felt comforting, as if I was being welcomed into something larger than myself. Embraced, finally, for who I truly am.

As I walked the aisle from my seat near the altar on the Inner Court side toward the West Door, I looked up at Willement's roundel in the nave, showing Christ surrounded by his angels. The choir stood alongside, the church surrounding me like a witness. Stepping forward became a moment of recognition, for the truth I carry, regardless of how others perceive it.

For the first time in my life, I felt fully seen. And I understood then: it isn’t about religion. It’s about how you connect with God, both physically and spiritually. Religion is only the passport; everyone is free to choose the denomination that aligns with that purpose.

For me, the Temple spoke more than words could. And over many days, through reflection and searching, I felt compelled to act on it. Hence the confirmation. It was intentional, deliberate, not a product of environment, but of alignment. And because of that, it carried purpose.

After the ceremony, as I said goodbye to the Reverend who had supported my journey, he told me:

“You are now part of the family.”

I made my way out through the Inner Courts, toward Temple Chambers where I used to work. Rain poured down. Two tourists ducked under the arch where I stood, trying to shelter. They looked lost. I offered help, first in English, then in Spanish. They realised St Paul’s Cathedral was only a few steps from where we stood and quickly readjusted their route.

I stayed. No umbrella. My shoes were new, stiff against my skin, and already aching. Two blisters burned, one on each heel. They clashed with the silk yellow-and-green dress I wore. Striking, but impractical for the rain. Then, just as suddenly, the storm eased. A streak of yellow sunlight broke through, and I felt compelled to walk again…

The Tide Shifts

I walked toward Embankment, stopping at King’s Reach Monument with its figure of Neptune, trident raised above the Thames. It marked a symbolic passage.

Neptune, lord of tides and illusions, reminded me that what looks stable on the surface can be turned by unseen currents below. Friendships, too, are like this, some drift quietly out to sea, others pull you under, and a few carry you forward when the tide is right.

As I reached Victoria Embankment Gardens, yellow, green, and red flowers brightened the way. Among the busts of historical figures, one stood out: William Tyndale, the first to translate the New Testament into English. He died a martyr in 1536.

His last words were:

“Lord, open the King of England’s eyes.”

Within a year, a Bible was placed in every parish church by royal decree.

I had never noticed this monument before. It felt serendipitous to discover it now.

It reassured me. I realised this wasn’t my journey alone, it was shared. And I too had opened my eyes.

I wasn’t ready to jump on the train just yet, so I continued walking, following the Thames until I reached Westminster.

The Houses of Parliament stood across the river, the clock chiming, a striking view of the city. One of my favourites, especially when seen from afar. From Temple.

Later, I’d realise it had been a rare kind of Sunday. Not just spiritual, but deeply personal. A quiet connection with myself. A third part of me, long dormant, had stirred.

Buckingham Palace Road, Victoria Station Stop R

I ran into them at a dingy bus stop. Women I’d once called friends, except one. The encounter was out of the blue, a product of chance, not intention.

Victoria isn’t a place people usually meet. It’s where people pass through. A stopover. Transitory. Who in London gets on the tube on a Sunday to have brunch in Victoria?

I had ended up there after walking for hours. Tired, blistered, but elated. The day had felt meaningful, light-filled, almost cinematic. Victoria was just the fallback plan. A place to finally eat.

They were awkward. I was detached. We exchanged small talk. They had eaten at Morena in Eccleston Yards, didn’t like it, but still recommended it. The irony stung.

One asked, bluntly:

“So you’re converted now?”

Converted to what?

Confirmation isn’t conversion. It’s a rite of reconnection. For me, it was quiet, meaningful, harmonious, not the spectacle they seemed to imagine.

This is what living intentionally feels like. Acquaintances and half-friends begin to fall away. Casual circles no longer make sense when you’re rooted in truth.

I excused myself, said I was going for tea at The Clermont. I stepped into the hotel, but the tea room felt wrong. Something about that encounter had pulled me too abruptly back to reality, like being shaken from a dream. I left and walked to Eccleston Yards.

Curious, I wanted to see what Morena looked like. Why recommend a place you dislike?

It was chaotic. Loud. Crowded. I sat briefly outside. Ordered nothing. Moved on.

Eventually, I landed at a salad bar, one of those private equity chains dressed up as wellness. Trendy. Overpriced. Pretending to be premium, but unmistakably low quality. Eleven pounds for a Caesar salad with questionable chicken.

It felt ordinary. Naked. Like holding a transparent Tesco bag.

I found a picnic table to eat. On one side, two girls were deep in conversation about diet plans. I asked if I could join. They waved yes.

Finally, I opened my phone. Weeks earlier, I’d created a family group to invite everyone to the confirmation. Reading their messages again, supportive, loving, reminded me of something simple:

There is nothing more beautiful than being seen for who you truly are.

Those who love you will not question your ways. Even if your ways take you a thousand miles from where you grew up. They don’t fade. They grow with you.

That is family.

Dissolution

Like the invites I sent to those friends, the same ones I bumped into at the bus stop—they were never replied to. That alone said enough.

But there’s a darker edge. One I’ve come to recognise in many social interactions—not just personal ones. A lot of people don’t truly listen. They collect information without retaining it. They listen to respond, not to understand. It’s a loop. Their words orbit back around themselves. Zero empathy.

They’ll run over your thoughts, then accuse you of not listening. Twist your self-expression into selfishness. Frame your attempts to explain how you feel as proof you don’t care about them. When in reality, they were never really listening.

This isn’t just bad communication, it’s a kind of emotional erasure. A subtle, pervasive gaslighting. And when you see it clearly, you stop wasting your voice.

What should be dialogue becomes monologue. Connection becomes performance. Corporate life trains people into this. So do many social groups. You don’t see it until it’s already been signed, sealed, and internalised.

Some people are narcissists in disguise:

“I’m pretending to hear you, but this is really about bending your will to mine.”

Seeing it clearly was freeing.

That chance encounter in Victoria, the awkward smiles, the unanswered invitations, the hollow brunch recommendation, tore away an illusion. If we’d truly been close, wouldn’t someone have suggested we celebrate? Hugged? Shared coffee? Asked how it went?

It’s funny how, as long as the press invites are rolling in and the champagne flows, the messages come easily. Once the lights dim, they vanish.

Still, I’m not innocent in this. It was a circle. It didn’t happen overnight.

I had turned down many of their invites too. Prioritised my son. Said I’d come and didn’t. Not out of neglect, but devotion. A mother’s sacrifice, one made from love. But slowly, that choice made life isolating, even when that’s not what I wanted.

Maybe they thought I was no longer part of the circle.
And maybe I wasn’t.

It made me rethink what friendship really is. Where I place my energy. And with whom I share the weight of my life.

Sometimes, life forces you to shed falsehoods so you can live your truth.

And in doing so, you don’t lose anything, you gain clarity.

Author’s Note

This entry came from a day that looked like peace from the outside, but inside, I was parsing something I couldn’t quite name. All I had was a physical stillness and a mental spin cycle. My body felt grounded, warm sun, soft air, nothing to fix, but internally, something was off. I didn’t have a framework for it. I just knew I felt slightly outside myself, like I was watching my thoughts from a few feet back, trying to catch up to their logic.

What I now understand is that I was experiencing the sensory fragmentation and time distortion that often comes with undiagnosed ADHD. But at the time, it felt like a glitch. Or worse, like a personal failing. I was trying to be present. I was doing nothing, and yet my mind was working overtime to find meaning in it all. The heat, the light, the smell of sunscreen, everything was a portal. I kept slipping through.

Reading this letter now, I see how much effort I put into feeling normal. Into narrating a moment that didn’t make sense internally, but needed to be archived anyway.

This wasn’t daydreaming. It was a real-time attempt to regulate my own experience, without knowing that was what I was doing.

If you’ve ever found yourself over-analysing a calm moment, or trying to decipher an emotion that seems unearned or untimed, this might feel familiar.

This letter isn’t about introspection.
It’s about making contact with the self, when the self is a moving target.

Then: Age 20-something, writing from a moment that didn't ask for attention, but kept it

The afternoon was uneventful. The kind of summer day that lets you forget where you are until the sun settles differently on your skin. I remember the scent of sunscreen more vividly than anything else, a sharp, nostalgic trigger that pulled me into a memory I didn’t invite but welcomed anyway. A beach, somewhere in the past. Unsteady waves coming in and out. Not rhythmic, more uncertain. Like my thoughts.

I was present, technically. Lying there. Breathing. Watching the light shift. But mentally, I was moving through layers, past, present, something imagined. My body was grounded in the now, but my perception was sliding elsewhere. It wasn’t disassociation. It was observation, me watching myself watch something I had once lived.

A low hum of restlessness showed up like static. Not enough to jolt me, just enough to make me question the architecture of time. Why are we so obsessed with dividing it up? Past, present, future, as if they exist separately, without overlap or echo. As if we could ever extract ourselves from them cleanly.

The months that led to this moment had been muted. Not in a dramatic way, just flat. A stretch of time spent trying to fix something I couldn’t reach. A slow erosion of control. I had stopped expecting resolution and started rehearsing detachment. But of course, detachment never really works. Our bodies always know the truth. They remember before we do.

At some point that day, I imagined myself in a white museum. Barefoot, in a long red dress. The floor cold, the space immaculate. I don’t know why that image came to me, but it stayed. I moved through it like a dream, still, but not stuck. Alive, but untethered. The kind of internal vision you don’t need to explain. You just recognise it.

Looking back, I know what it was: a visualisation of weightlessness. Of clarity. Of feeling every sensation without needing to reduce it to meaning. For a moment, I wasn’t trying to process or heal or move forward. I was just letting myself feel the present without fleeing it.

We like to think that burning the cards, deleting the photos, scrubbing the data, erases something. But erasure is a myth. What’s remembered in the body can’t be undone. The heat always lingers. What we call healing is often just learning how to live with what already exists, with more grace, with less resistance.

Now: Age 38, understanding that time doesn’t pass, it returns

Back then, I thought I was just feeling too much. Now I know I was processing without a name for it. What I described as reflection was really executive dysfunction disguised as introspection, a brain trying to organise something that refused to land in sequence.

The emotional dissonance I felt, the mismatch between external calm and internal turbulence, is something I now recognise as a hallmark of ADHD. Especially in women. Especially when undiagnosed.

That day gave me a glimpse of how memory actually works when you live in a nonlinear body. It’s not chronological. It’s experiential. You don’t remember back. You remember through. Something smells like 2012. A sound unravels your twenties. A gesture drops you into the middle of an unfinished sentence from five years ago.

What I’ve learned is that you can’t intellectualise your way out of the body. You can’t theorise your way into healing. You have to let the memory arrive. Let the heat rise. Let the moment live.

Not everything needs to be sorted. Some things just need to be felt in full.

If you’ve ever spent a quiet day questioning why you feel unsettled, if you’ve ever tried to decode your own emotions like they were someone else’s handwriting, this letter is for you, too.

You weren’t making it up.
You were making sense of it.
And you’re not late. You’re right on time.

Marie x

Author's Note
This entry is part of an ongoing series exploring how my undiagnosed ADHD shaped the way I wrote, thought, and experienced the world in my early twenties. Each piece begins with an excerpt from my original 2000s blog, followed by reflection from my present-day self, now 38 and newly able to name what was once just a feeling.

The Girl in the Window:

It is late on a Sunday night, the kind of night that makes the week ahead feel a little too close. Most people are already asleep, wrapped in the kind of dreamless rest I’ve always imagined other women inherit effortlessly. Others drift through the immensity of the night, some for work, others because their minds refuse to settle.

Suddenly, a light flickers on in the window across from mine. A sharp beam slices through the dark, illuminating the body of a young woman, maybe 21. Too young for this world, yet too old to believe in the childish myths that still keep her eyes shut to what’s coming. She lies still, almost like a monument, untouchable, unknowable.

And I feel I am not alone.

There is life moving through unseen spaces, even in those that were once considered corridors to the future. I mean the internet, that wild terrain we mistook for connection. A geography designed to keep us in motion, suspended between tabs and selves. Mine, hers, yours. The sick, the quiet, the overly awake.

I want to believe that even the rats beneath the city carry some signal of presence. That their movements mean something. I know I live a fortunate life, I travel, speak in multiple tongues, breathe modern air. But none of it fills me.

I am restless. Exhausted by what should sustain me. Bored by everything good. I have no real complaints. No illness. No tragedy. And yet, I feel empty. I feel infinitely empty.

Sometimes I believe I’m a woman with opinions, tastes, particularities. Then I see my own reflection and do not recognise the image looking back. I know I have a shadow, but it’s on leave.

And still, I fantasise. About being the girl in the lit window. Dreaming of a prince who arrives slowly, lovingly. Someone who sees through the static and softens what feels jagged. The light on her skin becomes a spell: butterflies, soap bubbles, imagined grass, a warm body beside hers.

But I close the fairytale. And return to my own projection. I do not want to be the sad self wandering digital alleys in this swollen Sunday night. I am preparing a diuretic to calm the turmoil.

When morning comes, I plan to colour something. To do one kind thing. To not complain. To be tender with myself, my body, my mind. I will romanticise the sky. I will try to believe in love, not just in glances, but in good thoughts.

And just for a moment, I want to feel overtaken by something bright. A small euphoria. To remember that there is still youth inside me. That the blood still moves. That I am still here, still becoming. That only those who fight to live truly survive.

And then I think of the swing in my grandparents’ garden.

That was the one place where I never had to perform. I bloomed while the potted flowers withered in their season. The food was made with care. The circus was always assembled. The costumes sparkled even under the scent of mothballs. The call to lunch was the best invitation I’ve ever received, an offering of belonging.

The air held the smell of passionflowers and wisteria, rose petals underfoot, hummingbirds overhead. Sweet abstraction.

There is someone with a giant heart waiting for me, I think. I rest my head on my pillow as the girl across the street turns off her lamp, curls to one side, and disappears into dreams.

And the night continues moving, trafficking thoughts, people, shadows. Composing its quiet opera of lives, deaths, and resurrections.

No prince arrives for the complicated girl. That’s the myth.

When I wrote this, I was 21. I didn’t yet understand that what I was capturing wasn’t just melancholy or a moody stretch of early adulthood, it was neurological. A cognitive architecture I was born with, moving faster than I could follow.

This wasn’t depression. It was a restless urgency with no clear destination. An internal frequency that mimicked longing, ambition, anxiety, everything but peace.

For more than a decade, I lived with undiagnosed ADHD, misinterpreting the signals, reshaping them into metaphors. I didn’t know that the time distortion, the emotional volatility, the craving for intensity, the magnetic pull toward chaos, all of it, was part of how my brain functioned. I simply assumed I was too much. Or not enough. Or both at once.

So I turned it into something beautiful. I wrote my symptoms as poetry. I rendered overwhelm as romance. I created narrative from noise, and I called it voice.

Now, at 38, I no longer see a dramatic girl grasping for attention, I see a neurodivergent woman building a survival system with language as scaffolding.

And here’s what else I see now, clearly:
That girl had been conditioned to believe love was something to earn. That worthiness was the reward for smallness. For stillness. For being easy to care for. The world told her that love was conditional, and she believed it. Because when you are young, female, and chaotic, the message is rarely “you are lovable.” It is “become lovable, then we’ll talk.”

No prince arrives for the complicated girl. That’s the myth.

And the love letters? They were never really written for anyone else. They were attempts to shape the formless ache into something legible. We write to imagined lovers, begging them to do the work we can’t yet do ourselves, to see us, hold us, fix what feels unfixable.

But that’s the reversal we miss: the letters were always addressed to us.

The hardest part of love: the part we wait for others to perform, is the part only we can give.

I no longer want to be rescued. I want to be reclaimed.

I am the girl in the window.

If this resonated…

…with your own experience of late-diagnosed ADHD, memory, or creative survival, feel free to share it or reply. I’d love to know what your younger self was trying to say!

Leave a comment

In 2008, I was 21 and convinced that suffering was glamorous. If you weren’t romanticising melancholy, were you even alive? I believed in unrequited love, Blogspot anonymity, and that quoting Dalí could make my emotional collapse seem artistic.

And it kind of did.

I didn’t know it then, but what I was really doing was documenting early-onset millennial burnout, masked as poetic self-reflection. The internet was still soft around the edges, no filters, no “content,” just digital diaries and raw drafts of our inner monologues. I wrote with the urgency of someone trying to outrun time, and a subconscious belief that if I captured the feeling, it wouldn't swallow me whole.

Here’s the first entry I’m revisiting:

#1 All we ever wanted was everything:

Looking back, I see everything again.

But the second time is never the same. It’s always a retrospective, a return to a fixed point, like a train looping back to its departure station once the itinerary collapses under its own momentum.

In this new script, whose final contours I’ve just outlined, I’ve come to realise something simple, and almost devastating: My happiness depends on the version of myself that lives intensely inside someone who only exists through knowing me.

It sounds like projection, but it’s worse, it’s intimacy. An identity formed not in isolation, but in the mirror of another’s attention.

The pain, the tears, the quiet sobs that fall with reckless velocity, these are not weaknesses. They are, in fact, the purest expressions of something noble: sensitivity. A rare kind of clarity reserved for those still willing to feel without irony.

There is, even now, nothing more curative than a quiet, measured conversation, just enough warmth, just enough wit, to tip the balance and turn grey zones into something resembling light.

“There are some days when I think I’m going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.”
— Salvador Dalí

And sometimes, if you listen closely, that satisfaction doesn’t come from the fireworks, but from the soft implosion of understanding yourself better the second time around.

Memory as a Diagnosis

Now, re-reading this with ADHD in the mix (diagnosed much later), I understand why the emotions felt so explosive. Why memory blurred into obsession. Why writing wasn’t a hobby, it was triage.

And honestly? I miss that girl a little. Not the anxiety or the drama or the codependent longing, but the way she felt everything as if it were the last page of the book. The way she found catharsis in a two-line paragraph. The way she never once second-guessed hitting publish on a blog post that read like a breakup letter to the void.

The Shape of Our First Language

Maybe sensitivity isn’t something to grow out of, it’s something to refine. Like an instrument you learn to tune, but never mute.

And maybe the past is less of a train station, and more of a signal, flickering in the distance, reminding you of the shape of your first language: feeling.

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