I woke up early, even without my alarm clock. I felt happy. I matched my outfit in a monochromatic green tone. I took my dog for a walk and cooked breakfast while singing.

I felt light. It seemed like a good day.

I took my mother to her doctor's appointment. I wanted to be there with her. I know how hard it is for her to drive, how afraid she is of crashing with other cars in the city. So I drove.

It was almost 11 a.m., and the traffic jam persisted. This city never rests and it only gets worse. It's been almost four months since I last drove these roads. I tried to stay calm.

I managed to take my mom to the doctor.

When I walked into the coffee shop, sat down, and looked at the menu:

I can't.

I'm done. I don't want to eat. I don't feel like drinking coffee. What I thought would be a quiet moment—coffee, writing, working—suddenly wasn't.

I don't know what I'm feeling. Confusion, maybe. There's a strange emptiness. I don't know where it comes from. Is it because I'm revisiting a place and a situation that used to be traumatic for me?

I felt so happy earlier. I was dancing and singing while making breakfast.

And now—nothing.

The kind of nothing that's actually concerning. No sadness. No anger. No anxiety. Just nothing.

I tried to put on a programming course I've been venturing into. My mind couldn't follow. I stopped. I couldn't do anything.

I drove home. Getting back was even harder. A bigger traffic jam. More than an hour. I didn't feel like crying. I didn't ruminate. I just kept driving.

When I got home, I reached a simple conclusion:

Today, I can't.

I feel drained.

Since I adopted a life that actually fits me, I've realized how demanding and exhausting certain stimuli can be. I'm learning that traditional productivity standards are not made for me.

A 9-to-5 feels impossible.

I don't even know if neurotypical people can really do it—or if they're just pretending. Maybe it's time to ask bigger questions about what productivity actually means. In most economic models, it magically makes things grow, as if it weren't tied to bodies, emotions or context.

My energy levels are not stable. They can be easily ruined by sensory overload.

Before, I used to ask myself: Why did I start the day with so much energy, and now I'm completely fried?

And then I would turn against myself.

You need to study. You can't stop studying. You can't go to that party. You can't sleep until this is done. You can't eat until you finish. You can't waste time crying or you'll fail.

I was cruel to myself. My self-talk was violent.

You need to work harder. You can't rest until you achieve this. It has to be perfect. If you don't finish, you're a failure. This isn't enough. You can't show up like this. Everything is wrong. You look horrible. You need to look perfect. You can't be sick. You have to finish.

I forced myself to read the same things over and over again. I forced myself to master economic models and complicated math. I forced myself into a corporate job and a salary, even though it meant betraying my needs and my body.

I forced myself to exist and perform when my mind and my nervous system were already overwhelmed.

That was how I graduated from college. That was how I made a living. That was how I achieved things.

Until I couldn't.

Learning that I'm a neurodivergent woman came with the realization of how many times I pushed myself toward perfection. Growing up constantly criticized and shaped into how a girl should behave made me my own worst enemy.

I made peace with myself. I reflected on how I treated myself—and how I allowed others to treat me. I grieved what could have been different. I grieved the fact that I had to overcome things I should never have had to survive.

I learned that life is cyclical. My energy is not constant. It never has been. It has sharp peaks and sudden drops. It can be amplified by hormones. It feels like the ocean: one day you're on top of the wave, the next you're crashing and dissolving into the sand.

It is what it is.

I learned that traditional models don't suit me. I can hyperfocus deeply on something I love, nonstop, for hours. And then I may need weeks—or months—to recover from that intensity.

I might feel like working at 9 p.m., when I'm supposed to be asleep. I might spend an entire 9-to-5 unable to focus at all. Some days I wake up, get everything done, and disappear. Other days, my energy miraculously aligns with office hours.

Energy is not linear for a neurodivergent mind.

Fixed schedules don't work for me.

Clear, meaningful, challenging objectives do.

Being asked to fit into an office schedule felt like a prison.

It was exhausting.

The biggest lesson I've learned through this process is to unlearn the excessively demanding version of myself—and to allow myself to say, without guilt or explanation:

Today, I can't.