THE WAIT.
I recently reread a journal I kept in my early twenties.
It’s filled with questions about my life at that age—what things meant, where I was headed, who I was supposed to become. There are entries about friendships, dates, jobs, and family. Some of it is funny. But most of it reveals a younger version of me trying desperately to fit into a world she simply wasn’t built for.
Even then, I was already trying to reshape my creative, nonlinear mind into what I believed was the correct way to live. I was trying to find my place.
When I finished reading it cover to cover, one word stood out more than any other:
Wait.
I closed the journal’s hard navy cover and smiled wryly. No wonder, at 51, I couldn’t stand to do nothing about my otherness any longer. I’d been waiting for thirty years.
The Long Wait
So much of life, especially for those of us who are neurodivergent, is spent waiting.
Waiting to fit.
Waiting to feel steady.
Waiting for things to finally click.
We’re told, over and over, “Just wait. It’ll happen when it’s supposed to.” Words echoed across generations in an attempt to offer hope to young people searching for their place in the world.
But those statements have always felt incredibly ambiguous to me. They offer no edges to hold onto. And for a mind that craves clarity, that kind of ambiguity can feel maddening.
I’ve spent much of my life searching for the place that feels like it’s mine—really mine. A place where a mask isn’t required and who I am is enough.
Almost Right Isn’t Quite Enough
More often than not, I settled for places that were good enough or almost right just to have some sense of stability and normalcy.
The contortion it takes to make those places work always grows exhausting. Eventually, something has to give, and a new place must be found. The wake of my life is strewn with friendships, relationships, jobs, and hobbies—left behind once it became clear that my authenticity still wasn’t truly recognized.
That cycle reinforced a painful belief: that effort and outcome would never quite align.
Seeing Yourself in the Story
One cold, gray Friday afternoon, I picked my daughter up from school and decided a movie felt like the right way to spend the day. We put on our cozies, pulled out the blankets, and curled up on the couch to watch Wicked.
As we pointed out which of Galinda’s outfits we loved most, I found myself drawn to Elphaba.
She was different from the start. And no matter how hard she tried—no matter how much she wanted it—nothing was going to change who she was.
She was strong.
She was smart.
She was talented.
And still, she wasn’t understood. She wasn’t heard. Her desires weren’t met—not until she found connection, not until someone truly saw her.
Living with ADHD has often felt like that to me—like standing on the other side of a window, watching people do the very things I want to do.
I’m not a jealous person, but I do feel envy when I watch how effortlessly some people seem to move through life. They decide. They follow through. They keep going. I know that’s not the whole truth—but it looks that way often enough.
That straight, linear path can feel incredibly appealing when your own feels winding and unpredictable. ADHD-related demoralization reinforced that gap over time, training me to expect disappointment before I ever reached for hope.
Wings on the Inside
In the final scenes of Wicked, Elphaba tries to give herself wings—casting incantations to escape the guards coming to imprison her.
I commented that the spell hadn’t worked.
Without hesitation, my daughter said, “Yes it did. Her wings are on the inside.”
What a perfect response. She recognized the magic where I couldn’t.
That moment shifted something in me.
Everyone else seems to have wings we can see—ones that let them do things easily, visibly, effortlessly. But those of us with ADHD have something else.
Talents.
Depth.
Insight.
Wings on the inside—ready to lift us once we learn how to trust them.
Building the Place
Maybe the reason I haven’t been able to find my place is because I didn’t trust my wings yet.
Maybe I was waiting for belonging to arrive instead of realizing I needed to help create it. To find my own strength. To understand that my worth lives in sharing my differences, not hiding them.
Creating a place where the next generation of neurodivergent minds can belong—without masking, apologizing, or shrinking—feels like the work I was meant to do.
The wait may be over.
But the work is just beginning.
I’ll be back next time to talk about what comes after waiting—when belonging stops being a question and becomes a choice.
Until then, give yourself grace.