Book Now
I vividly remember one December during my middle school years. My family was getting ready to go to a holiday gathering, and I knew I was heading into sensory chaos. The loud, boisterous commotion from extended family, the heat cranked up beyond logic, and my aunt's house feeling like a sensory kaleidoscope. I was expected to join in the merriment, but instead, I found myself retreating outside, to get away from the overload.
Back then, I didn’t understand why the holidays felt so overwhelming. The flashing lights, the overlapping conversations at family parties, and the constant pressure to be cheerful all felt suffocating. I felt like an outsider at every gathering—a child who couldn’t quite figure out how to match the world’s “holiday spirit.” People assumed I was shy or even rude for not participating fully, but the truth was, I didn’t know how to explain the storm inside my head.
At the time, I had no idea I had ADHD. I just thought something was wrong with me. My mind darted between a thousand thoughts, unable to settle, and the sensory overload of the holidays amplified everything. Every flashing light seemed brighter, every jingle seemed louder, and every festive demand seemed heavier. Small talk with relatives felt like a marathon. The idea of unwrapping presents in front of a crowd filled me with dread—I hated being the center of attention in a room that already felt too crowded.
The holiday season’s pace clashed with my need for downtime. It was a time of year when “extra” was celebrated: the bigger the tree, the louder the laughter, the fuller the calendar, the better. But I wasn’t wired for "extra." I craved calm. And because I couldn’t keep up with the cheerfulness expected of me, I felt broken, misunderstood, and out of place.
So I did what many children in similar situations do—I hid. I grew quieter, more introverted. The older I got the more I avoided family parties and disappeared into video games and TV shows where I didn’t have to navigate social expectations. On the outside, I seemed withdrawn, but inside, I was full of anxious thoughts and screaming for relief.
Over the years, the pressure of navigating holiday chaos without understanding my neurodivergence took a toll on my mental health. I developed destructive coping mechanisms, retreating further inward and isolating myself from those who cared about me. Depression crept in like a shadow, and by adolescence, it had a firm grip on me. I believed I was “too much” for others—too sensitive, too lazy, too weird.
Without the language to describe what I was experiencing, I internalized my struggles as personal failures. Why couldn’t I just be “normal” like everyone else? Why did I always feel so drained when others seemed to thrive in the holiday frenzy? These thoughts haunted me throughout my teenage years, shaping how I saw myself and how I believed the world saw me.
It wasn’t until adulthood, after my ADHD diagnosis, that the pieces of the puzzle began to fit. Understanding my neurodivergence changed everything. I could finally see that my reactions during the holidays weren’t because I was broken—they were because I experienced the world differently. The sensory overload, the social expectations, and the constant activity weren’t “fun” for my brain; they were overwhelming. And that was okay.
Today, I approach the holiday season with a sense of self-compassion that was missing in my childhood. I’ve learned to set boundaries that protect my mental health. I give myself permission to step away from large gatherings when I need a break, and I’ve reframed traditions to align with what feels authentic to me. The twinkling lights that once felt blinding now hold a quieter charm because I experience them on my terms.
Most importantly, I’ve embraced the parts of me that felt like liabilities as a child. My sensitivity, my need for calm, and my ability to notice details others might overlook are gifts of my neurodiversity. They allow me to create spaces of calm for others who might also feel overwhelmed during this season.
If you’re a parent of a neurodivergent child or someone who struggles during the holidays, know this: it’s okay to experience this season differently. You don’t have to match anyone else’s level of excitement or participate in every tradition. There is no “right” way to celebrate. What matters is finding moments of joy and peace that resonate with you.
The holiday season doesn’t have to be about surviving chaos. It can be a time to honor who you are and what you need, even if that means saying no to the noise and creating your own quiet magic. Because at the heart of it, the holidays should be about connection—not perfection. And sometimes, the best way to connect is to start by understanding and honoring yourself.