It’s one thing to feel different — it’s another to realize the world was never designed for your brain.

For years, it felt like everyone else had the answers while I was still stuck figuring out the questions. Social situations? Draining. Overstimulating environments? Impossible. Everyone else just adjusted — seamlessly, like there was a manual I never got.

Growing up, I knew my mind was different. I could get lost in a book or project for hours, but the noise of life often overwhelmed me. School felt like both a refuge and a challenge. I excelled in class, yet struggled with the social side of things. It often felt like I was standing outside, just watching. Some days, it all became too much — too loud, too fast — and I’d retreat, needing space. I didn’t know then that this wasn’t just me being “sensitive” or “quirky” — it was something deeper that I hadn’t yet learned to name.

When the label neurodivergence came along, it was both a relief and a frustration. Suddenly, all the quirks and struggles had a name. It wasn’t about struggling socially or getting lost in hyper-focus — it was just the way my brain worked. On one hand, there was relief: an explanation. But there was also that gnawing question: Why didn’t someone tell me this twenty years ago?

All those missed chances, all those “What’s wrong with me?” moments — turns out, it wasn’t me.

Trapped in the wrong office

Work was the worst. Traditional workplaces and a neurodivergent brain? It’s a setup for failure. I spent years trapped in jobs that felt like endurance tests for sensory overload.

Take the open office layout. “Collaboration” supposedly meant overhearing every conversation, phone call, and the endless hum of distraction. Imagine trying to focus on a project while three coworkers talk about their weekend plans, phones buzz constantly, and someone’s microwaving burnt popcorn at 2:15 every afternoon.

And the feedback was always predictable. Great ideas, just work on your time management. Sure. As if the problem was time management, not the fact that my brain was constantly fighting to filter out noise, chaos, and distractions. It wasn’t the work itself — it was the pressure to “perform” in environments designed for a completely different kind of brain.

Research shows that 30–40% of neurodivergent adults struggle with work performance directly because of environments like these. Open office designs and multitasking demands don’t support different cognitive needs, yet these are still the default.

Needing work that lights up my brain

Routine tasks don’t work well for my neurodivergent brain. It’s not about being lazy; it’s just how I’m wired. Put me in a three-hour meeting about spreadsheets, and I’ll be looking for the nearest exit. But give me something interesting, something that sparks a challenge? I’ll sink my teeth in and not let go.

Yet no one ever tells you that’s okay. Instead, the advice is always some version of Just try harder. As if trying harder will magically make a boring spreadsheet more engaging. If my brain wanted to focus on this, it would. Instead, it’s off solving a different problem that’s far more interesting.

Neurodivergent people need work that actually engages them, that taps into creativity or deep thinking. But jobs like that? They don’t just land in your lap. 50% of neurodivergent individuals report being either unemployed or underemployed, often working in jobs far below their skill levels​

Not made for their mold

Then there’s the whole “career ladder” thing. The idea that moving up is always the goal. But for neurodivergent people like me, that ladder feels more like a hamster wheel — promotions come with more tasks, more social interactions, and more unpredictability. What’s the reward? More of the same, only worse.

It’s not about capability — it’s about fit. My neurodivergent brain doesn’t work within rigid boxes. There’s always the confused look during performance reviews when things like “quiet workspaces” or “fewer meetings” are brought up. It’s as if asking for an environment that doesn’t burn me out is some sort of unreasonable request.

But fitting into those boxes isn’t what makes someone successful. It’s about finding the right environment where different wiring isn’t a disadvantage.

Finally finding a fit

Eventually, after too many jobs that drained me, I stopped trying to be the “ideal employee” everyone else expected. Instead of chasing jobs that demanded constant shifts in focus, I looked for work that made sense for how my brain functions.

I was never the top pick for “Best Team Player.” But when I had the space to focus and be creative, my work was far better. It was miles ahead of anything I managed during those long, pointless meetings and idle conversations.

What I needed was work that didn’t expect me to be “on” all day, every day. Space to think, without someone constantly asking how my weekend was. It took time, but I found roles where I could shine because of my neurodivergence — not in spite of it.

Pushing back against the noise

Of course, the world isn’t built for that, and it’s not going to adjust anytime soon. Traditional workplaces are still dominated by loud, open spaces and multitasking, designed for a kind of brain that thrives on constant interaction and quick transitions. For a neurodivergent mind, it’s a direct route to burnout.

It’s not just about office layouts, either. Traditional beliefs around productivity define success as multitasking, responding instantly, and keeping up a relentless pace. I can’t work that way. Most companies don’t care about creating spaces for neurodivergent minds. They’re more focused on applying pressure to impact performance.

Only 16% of neurodivergent individuals report that their workplace is supportive of their needs​. Rather than evolving with diverse cognitive styles, workplaces are holding on to outdated ideas about productivity and pressure.

But checking out entirely isn’t an option. The key is pushing back where it matters, advocating for what’s needed. Setting up boundaries — quiet spaces, remote options, fewer meetings — doesn’t mean asking for special treatment. It’s about ensuring the way my brain works is recognized and respected, not treated like a flaw to be hidden or overcome.

Making my own way

At some point, it became obvious the problem wasn’t me. It was never about being lazy or lacking effort — it was about trying to function in a world that wasn’t built with my brain in mind. The rules weren’t going to bend to fit me, so I decided to stop bending to fit them.

Instead of chasing jobs that drained me, I sought out work that allowed me to use my strengths. I thrive when I’m able to think, create, and solve problems in ways that are aligned with how I’m wired.

Looking back now, there’s no regret — just clarity. My brain was never designed to fit into those narrow ideas of success. I’ve stopped trying to make it.

My brain didn’t fail my career — the failure was forcing my brain into a career it was never meant for.