A Day in the Life of a Neurodivergent, Chronically Ill Queer Writer

4:00 AM: Wake up. The world is quiet. My brain is… questionably functional. This is prime writing time—before the sun, before the obligations, before my nervous system remembers it’s permanently stuck in fight-or-flight mode (thanks, childhood trauma). I open my laptop. The tree outside my window taps insistently, as if to say, "You could be sleeping." Joke’s on the tree—I have insomnia (the "sleep maintenance" variety, which is a fancy way of saying my body treats sleep like a suspicious ex).

5:30 AM: Walk. Summer is my villain era—thanks to MCAS (Mast Cell Activation Syndrome), the sun might as well be a flamethrower. I’m back by 7 AM, masked and pollen-free, because my apartment is a sterile bubble of HEPA filters and fragrance-free everything. (If you’ve ever wondered what a cross between a lab and a library looks like… hi.)

Post-walk: Shower (non-negotiable—pollen is the enemy), then tackle the most taxing tasks while I still have spoons. (Spoiler: It’s never enough spoons. Capitalism was not designed for people who run on glitter and adrenaline crashes.) Emails, marketing, ARC campaigns—the unsexy author grind.

Lunch: The same vegan mush I eat every day (MCAS-approved, digestion-friendly, deeply unexciting). Sometimes I rebel and have… oatmeal. Living on the edge.

Afternoon: Either a nap (gambling with my insomnia, but necessary) or another writing sprint. My focus lasts roughly 10-15 minutes before my brain starts screaming "I HATE THIS MY BRAIN IS ON FIRE" in my notebook. (Yes, I keep a rage journal. No, my handwriting is illegible. Therapy is expensive.)

Tools of Survival:

Fidget toys (also known as "random trash my brain latched onto"—bottle caps, dental floss, a tiny pair of scissors that’s weirdly soothing).

Rain sounds (if you’ve read my books, you know my characters are also soothed by water—this is not a coincidence).

The unhinged squirrels outside my window (they’re either rabid or kindred ADHD spirits; I can’t tell).

Editing: My nemesis. I’ve tried to like it. I’ve failed. Maybe one day I’ll mature, like a fine wine or someone who enjoys brussels sprouts. Today is not that day.

The Anxiety: Chronic illness means every good day feels borrowed. What if I flare tomorrow? What if I’m hospitalized again? It’s a trauma response—this panicky need to do everything NOW. But most days, there’s another sunrise. Another quiet hour at 4 AM. Another chance to write queer stories where characters like me get soft endings.

And that? That’s worth the mush.