Unspoken Label

 If you’ve been following along, you may have noticed something slightly… intense.

Over the course of just a few days, I published seven blogs. On paper, that doesn’t sound extraordinary. One per day feels reasonable, balanced, disciplined. But that isn’t how it unfolded.

Those seven blogs poured out over three, maybe four days, in bursts of hyperfocus that overrode everything else. Emails waited. Laundry waited. The world waited. My mind, however, would not. Ideas collided and overlapped. Sentences formed before I could catch them. And somehow, it all needed to be captured.

And so, I wrote.

When Hyperfocus Takes Over

When hyperfocus kicks in for me, it’s not gentle or rhythmic. It doesn’t knock politely or ask permission. It overrides. It absorbs. I try to capture ideas as they come - in my phone, in the margins of notebooks - but when the tunnel of focus locks in, everything else dims until the thread is complete.

The methodical part of me wants to plan, pace, structure. Hyperfocus laughs at that order, pulling me into intensity that feels both exhilarating and exhausting.

When the seventh blog - “Becoming Her” - was complete, something shifted.

Climbing into bed beside my sweet men, I released a deep, auditory, sigh - the kind that empties your lungs completely. My mind unclenched. The fog lifted. The dense tangle of thoughts loosened. It felt like the clapboard snapping shut at the end of a take. A cut. A pause. A landing.

And yet, in the dark, ideas began stirring again - overlapping, forming threads I could almost reach for but had to let go. I chose rest. And in that choice, I recognised another paradox: even in stillness, my mind is never truly quiet. And perhaps it never should be.

The Un-named

Still, it highlighted something in me I’ve been circling for a while now. A word. A label. One I’ve been breadcrumbing through posts without actually naming. Whenever I edge toward declaring it, there’s a debate within me - a tug of war. Part of me leans in, relieved at the possibility of a lens that might explain the way my mind ignites and then exhales. The oscillation between immersion and relief.

Another part resists - wary of boxes. Of trends. Of being perceived as following some orchestrated global narrative. Of reducing an entire life to a single word. Perhaps that resistance is upbringing. Perhaps the echo of other people’s ideals. Perhaps societal pressure whispering, Don’t make it your identity.

Growing Up Unnamed

When I think about why a label sits so heavily in my mind, I am reminded of the world I grew up in. In the 70s, 80s, and 90s, differences like the ones I’m circling simply weren’t named. Children who were “too much,” “too sensitive,” or “gifted but inconsistent” were expected to adapt. To mask. To blend. There was no language for wiring that didn’t match the norm. You either internalised… or you learned to create order where understanding didn’t exist.

Heightened Sensitivity

There is another element here, too. As a child, I could hear, see, and sense things others couldn’t. Even now, that remains true. I’m speaking both physically and metaphysically - heightened sensitivity to tone shifts, micro-expressions, energy in a room. The atmosphere before a storm - relationally and literally. Subtle details others miss. Patterns beneath behaviour. Undercurrents beneath words.

It has often felt like living with the volume turned up. Not hallucination. Not fantasy. But intensity of perception. And when the world tells you that what you sense isn’t real - or is “too much” - you begin to question your own instrumentation. You try to turn it down. Sometimes you succeed. Often you don’t.

Structure and Freedom

Even now, I feel the tension between structure and freedom shaping how I move through life. I’ve always liked doing things methodically. Across my home, my work, my routines - I like defined lines. There’s a place for everything. Structure is my safety rail when the mind and heart feel unmoored.

And yet, I long for the version of myself who can leave the house without rehearsing a checklist. Who can immerse in spontaneity without discomfort. That version feels wild. Untethered. Free. Maybe she is me. Maybe the wiring just runs differently.

Motherhood and Reflection

I see the tension most clearly in my children. I remember my beautiful boy coming home from school, upset, asking me why he was different. My heart shattered - not because he was different - but because he couldn’t yet see the beauty in that. Months later, he shared his aspiration for the future: “To just be myself.” Such a simple statement. Such profound courageousness. It’s depth still reverberates.

Moments like that remind me why understanding - rather than labelling for the sake of labelling - matters. In 2020, my oncology psychologist asked if I had ever been assessed. She wasn’t questioning dysfunction - she was reflecting on resilience. Despite surgery. Despite the pandemic. Despite upheaval. I pushed through. Her question caught me off guard. And yet, underneath it, I felt seen. I rejected testing then. Why would I need it? What would it change? I’ve built a life. Raised children. Created. Loved. Endured.

Labels and Accountability

And yet, the tension remains. I have seen what a diagnosis did for my youngest - how it opened doors to school support that made a tangible difference. Offering language, context, and accommodation where previously there had been only struggle. And so, I understand the utility of a label, even if I resist it for myself.

I fear labels becoming alibis. I’ve witnessed that. I never want one to excuse poor behaviour or replace accountability. Growth and responsibility remain mine. But perhaps a label isn’t an excuse. Perhaps it’s a lens. A framework. A way to decode patterns rather than judge them.

Emotional Regulation and Recognition

In the past, emotion would build - sometimes invisibly - and then erupt. Sharp. Immediate. I blamed insecurity. Bottling. Weakness. But what if it was dysregulation? Sensory overload? Emotional saturation? A nervous system stretched too thin? Expectation versus intensity. Containment versus overflow. A collision between internal intensity and external expectation.

A lump forms in my throat as I write this - not from sadness but recognition. I’ve spent decades trying to smooth edges I didn’t fully understand. Trying to discipline intensity instead of decoding it. Suppress reaction instead of learn regulation. Maybe I wasn’t “too much.” Maybe I was overstimulated. Maybe I wasn’t dramatic. Maybe I was dysregulated. Maybe I wasn’t broken. Maybe I was wired differently.

Maybe I Was Wired Differently

Hyperfocus, sensory intensity, emotional surges, metaphysical sensitivity - perhaps they aren’t random flaws. Perhaps they form a pattern. A nervous system tuned finely - sometimes beautifully, sometimes painfully. Perhaps perfection was never the goal. Perhaps understanding is.

The Gift and the Grit

Hyperfocus is still a paradox. It derails structure, yet it propels me forward in ways nothing else can. Deadlines are met. Projects completed. Ideas realised. It prevents languished indecision. What looks like procrastination is often internal alignment - sorting before immersion. Once it lands, it’s a current I can ride with surprising efficiency.

That intensity spills into creativity - art, music, writing - ways to process and make sense of life. I am, in many ways, a dabbler of crafts. Not for mastery. To inhabit different facets of myself. I don’t like conformity, yet I crave order. I like rules, yet I chafe under them. The methodical version of me and the hyper focused version of me don’t sit neatly together – they’re more “clogs” than cogs.

Even in light-hearted spaces, I see myself reflected. The Big Bang Theory remains my favourite show. Sheldon mirrors my precision and rigidity. Leonard mirrors my relational warmth. Academia doesn’t come easily like it does for Sheldon - my HDs come through hyperfocused grit and persistence.    

Fire and Fog

And yet, with all these threads - intensity, sensitivity, hyperfocus, structure, resistance to naming - I’m learning to offer myself grace. Life is a negotiation between wiring and desire. Between fire and fog. Between compulsion and calling. Growth isn’t linear. Perfection was never the goal. Understanding and acceptance are enough.

I see this in my children - their courage to just be themselves. And I see it in the quiet moments when I remember that resilience and intensity can coexist.

Perhaps wiring, difference, and depth are not flaws. Perhaps they are simply patterns. Even now, I sit with the tension between producing seven blogs in three days and needing to close my eyes and remember I am human. Perhaps both are true. Perhaps both are me. And perhaps naming it won’t diminish it - but simply give lyrics to the rhythm I have always lived inside.

I think this is the most exposed I have ever felt.

L, L, P, 

Tash xo