Joyful Chaotic

What if neurodivergent people really do have more fun? Not because life is easy, but because we learned a long time ago to laugh at ourselves?

We learned to enjoy the sideways leaps our minds make. We learned to find delight in the randomness that makes no sense to anyone else and perfect sense to us.

I was doing dishes when a line from Ratatouille popped into my head.
“That would be a mistake of elephantine proportions.”
I laughed. It was ridiculous and perfect.

I had just thought: “That is it. The little one is not allowed to load the dishwasher.”
Suddenly Chef Skinner was in my head calling someone an idiot.
It was funny because my brain runs sideways as fast as it runs forward.

A “normal” person would wonder what could possibly be funny about doing dishes. They would watch my eyes light up and then theirs would glaze over when I tried to explain the branch my mind followed. But that is their limitation, not mine.

Lately I have been giving myself permission to enjoy these silly thoughts. I am letting myself relish the random things my mind comes up with. I am dedicating time to simply being. And it is hilarious.

For far too long I have been stifling that child, telling myself to “be an adult,” and in this moment I am realizing I never even knew what that meant. I thought adulthood was seriousness, stillness, self‑containment, and silence. I thought it meant shrinking the parts of me that were playful or curious or chaotic. I thought it meant being responsible to the point of erasing myself. Now I am asking what if that was never adulthood at all. What if that was just masking. What if the real adult is the one who can laugh, play, imagine, and still get the dishes done.

I want to be clear that this is not easy work. Unmasking is not a whimsical little hobby. It is uncomfortable. It is disorienting. It asks you to peel back layers you built for survival and look at the parts of yourself you were taught to hide. It asks you to question the rules you lived by and the identities you performed. It asks you to meet the child you buried and admit you miss her. This is not light work. It is necessary work.

Losing my job was the best thing that ever happened to me. It was not just a job. It was the mask. It was the identity. It was the version of me that had to stay small, serious, and exhausted to survive the machine of the 9 to 5. I have been incredibly blessed. I was given the space to stay home and learn myself instead of being forced to jump straight into another ill‑fitting position just to prove I could be independent. That time has been a gift.

My son told me, “Mom, I like who you are now. You are not so stressed all the time.” He was right. I can play more now. I can breathe. I can be myself. He is learning emotional literacy in real time. He is watching what happens when a person steps out of the grind that was dulling them. He is seeing the difference between a parent who is surviving and a parent who is alive.

People keep calling every random idea an “intrusive thought.” As if every spark of imagination is a threat. As if the sideways brain is dangerous. As if the word means what they think it means.

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Because to be clear, I do have intrusive thoughts. Real ones. The kind that are not funny. The kind that show up uninvited and unwanted. The kind that I would never act on. Standing at the edge of a cold, rushing river and thinking, “I wonder if the fall would kill me, or if the water would.” Not because I wanted to jump. Not because I was planning anything. Just the brain running a risk assessment. The physics. The likelihood of survival. The kind of thought that is uncomfortable, but not something I would ever act on.

That is an intrusive thought.
Chef Skinner yelling insults while I do dishes is not. He is just my imagination doing parkour.

So yes, could the neurotypicals stop jacking our words. Let us have our language. Let us have our humor. Let us have our sideways brilliance.

I enjoy making people happy. I even enjoy the disapproving looks from people who do not understand why I am being silly with my children. They do not have to understand. This is the reemergence of the sweet little girl I was not allowed to be. The one who giggled at her own thoughts. The one who found magic in nonsense. The one who was told to grow up too fast.

She is back. She is allowed to stay. And she is beautiful.

This is what healing looks like.
This is what joy feels like.
This is what it means to finally let myself be whole