Welcome to my Sit Pit

(Bring Snacks)

I always thought if I started a blog, it would be very Carrie Bradshaw. You know, typing about the finer things while sipping overpriced coffee, pausing only to contemplate some profound truth about love, or maybe to look effortlessly cute in a hat I didn’t need.

Instead, here I am in sweatpants, hair in a questionable top knot, deep in what I call The Sit Pit. That’s the place my brain goes when I have 75 things I want to do, all of them screaming “start me first,” and somehow, I’m hand washing the dishes next to an empty dishwasher instead. It’s not glamorous. It’s mental fricken gridlock.

It took me years to understand that this wasn’t laziness or poor time management. 32 years to be exact. I didn’t figure it out alone. Friends who had been diagnosed with ADHD later in life kept hinting that I might want to get checked. It took a while for me to even consider it. I didn’t know much about ADHD, and I definitely didn’t see myself in the stereotypes. But after enough conversations, I booked the appointment.

Sitting there, explaining how I get stuck before I even start, how I procrastinate until the last possible second and then pull all-nighters just to scrape by, how I’ve been medicated for anxiety and depression more times than I can count. They ran me through more than one type of focus test. The kind where you’re staring at a screen, clicking a button every time a shape appears… and then realizing halfway through that you’ve zoned out so hard you’ve missed five in a row. Another one felt like a memory game, except the stakes were my dignity. Each test confirmed what I didn’t want to believe but couldn’t deny anymore, my brain wasn’t broken, it was wired differently.

I finally heard the words: ADHD.

Suddenly, so many moments from my past lined up. Like why focusing in school felt impossible, especially under fluorescent lights I always called “big light torture.” I later learned those can be brutal for people with ADHD. Or why, in elementary school, the teacher would quietly pull me out for small reading groups. Not the gifted and talented program. More like, “she’s trying, but she’s going to need extra help.” I learned early to mask, to make it look like I was keeping up even when my mind had wandered three stories ahead in a completely different book.

Now I have a diagnosis, tools that help, and a better understanding of my brain. But that doesn’t mean I never fall into the Sit Pit. I still do. I’m just better at noticing when I’m in it and have a few ways to climb back out. I'm also a lot better at giving myself some grace which is something that was once so foreign to me.

So no, this blog won’t be champagne brunches and high heels. It’s going to be messy, funny, and probably overshare-y. Because real is better than polished, and if you’ve ever been stuck in your own Sit Pit, you know exactly what I mean.

Welcome to my brain. Sorry about the mess.