Two Operating Systems, One Brain: Living with Both Autism and ADHD

By Frankie — Disabled Air Force Veteran | Chronic Illness Advocate | Social Scientist

Sometimes it feels like my brain runs on two competing operating systems — one built for structure, the other for chaos. One that craves predictability, and one that thrives on spontaneity. One that analyzes everything down to the molecular level, and one that forgets what I was doing mid-sentence because a bird flew by the window.

That’s what it’s like living with both Autism and ADHD — what many of us affectionately call AuDHD.

Before I Knew the Name for It

For most of my life, I just thought I was “too much” or “too intense.”
Too organized yet too distracted. Too sensitive yet too blunt. Too focused yet too forgetful.

As a kid, I was the one color-coding my school binders but losing my pencil three times a day. I loved rules — until they didn’t make sense. I’d hyperfixate on a project, pouring every ounce of energy into it for days, only to crash so hard afterward that I couldn’t function. Teachers saw potential, but not the exhaustion underneath.

Later, in the military, that duality became both a strength and a curse. I was laser-focused when I needed to be — calm in chaos, efficient, precise — but behind the scenes I was burning out. My brain was running 24/7 diagnostics, processing every sound, every tone of voice, every possible consequence. I didn’t know it then, but what I was calling “overthinking” was actually autistic processing, and what I thought was “just me being scatterbrained” was ADHD demanding dopamine and novelty.

The Diagnosis That Finally Made It Make Sense

It took years — and a lot of self-reflection — before I discovered that I was both Autistic and ADHD. It didn’t come from one defining test or moment, but from connecting patterns across decades of lived experience.

When I finally received both diagnoses, it felt like someone handed me the user manual for my own brain. For the first time, I wasn’t broken — I was simply wired differently.

But learning that you’re AuDHD is one thing. Learning to live as an AuDHD adult — to build systems around your wiring — is a whole different journey.

The Constant Push and Pull

Autism grounds me in routine. It gives me a deep love of structure, order, and precision. I find peace in patterns and predictability — in knowing what’s coming next.

ADHD, on the other hand, thrives on movement — the thrill of novelty, the spark of curiosity, the endless search for stimulation. It’s the part of me that wants to try five new projects at once, reorganize my workspace at midnight, and somehow forget where I put my coffee in the process.

Together, they form a tug-of-war that never really stops. My autistic side craves calm; my ADHD side gets bored by it. My ADHD side seeks excitement; my autistic side gets overwhelmed by it. It’s like having one foot on the gas and one on the brake at the same time.

And yet, in a strange way, that internal conflict is also what makes me, me.

The In-Between Space

Being both isn’t just a balancing act — it’s an identity that often feels invisible.

Sometimes it feels like I’m too autistic for ADHDr’s and too ADHD for Autistic people. The struggle is real. I live in the overlap — where structure and chaos collide, where community feels close but not quite aligned.

In ADHD spaces, I’m the one talking about sensory overload and needing silence — while others blast music and brainstorm out loud. In Autistic spaces, I’m the one interrupting myself mid-sentence because I had an idea I have to share before it escapes. Both sides are home, and yet neither fully fits.

It can be isolating, trying to explain how I can be both hyper-organized and completely disorganized, deeply empathetic yet socially drained, brilliant under pressure yet sometimes paralyzed by starting small tasks. But in this in-between space, I’ve also found people who get it. Other AuDHDers who live at the same intersection of curiosity, chaos, and clarity.

How It Shows Up in Everyday Life

My days are a constant dance between management and surrender.

I live by lists, calendars, and alarms — not because I’m Type A, but because if I don’t, everything collapses. I set reminders to eat, to rest, to move, to breathe. Some days it all works beautifully. Other days, my brain throws the whole system out the window and says, “We’re doing THIS now!”

There are times when I hyperfocus so deeply I forget the world around me — writing for hours, creating content, or researching a topic until my eyes blur. Then suddenly, I crash. My body demands stillness, my brain goes foggy, and the sensory overload hits like a wave.

Relationships can be tricky too. I love deeply and communicate intensely — but sometimes I miss social cues, overexplain, or get lost in my own thought spirals. I’ve learned to be honest about that:

“Hey, I’m not ignoring you, my brain just took the scenic route.”

And while masking used to feel like survival — trying to appear neurotypical so others wouldn’t misunderstand me — I’m learning now that unmasking is freedom. I don’t need to apologize for how my brain works. I just need environments that allow it to thrive.

The Strengths That Come From Both

For every challenge, there’s a mirror of strength.

My Autistic brain helps me see details others overlook — patterns, connections, inconsistencies. My ADHD brain helps me dream big and act fast. Together, they let me innovate, empathize, and create in ways I couldn’t if I were just one or the other.

I can take an abstract idea and bring it to life. I can organize chaos and find beauty in systems. I can feel emotions deeply and communicate them in ways that resonate.

That’s not to say it’s easy — there are still days of shutdowns, burnout, and sensory overload. But I’ve learned that those moments aren’t failures; they’re signals. My brain saying, “I’ve done enough. Time to rest.”

Learning to Work With, Not Against, Myself

I used to think I had to choose — to be the calm, structured version of me or the spontaneous, creative one. I thought one part had to win, that I couldn’t be both without constant friction.

Now I know better. I build routines that flex. I plan for distraction. I forgive myself for the days when focus is impossible, and I celebrate the ones when I’m on fire.

Some people think “balance” means achieving perfect control. For me, balance means permission — permission to ebb and flow, to rest and restart, to be both brilliant and scattered, both grounded and impulsive.

Living with Autism and ADHD isn’t a contradiction. It’s a spectrum within a spectrum — a reminder that the human brain was never meant to fit neatly into boxes.

Acceptance, Community, and Resilience

Since embracing my AuDHD identity, I’ve met others like me — people who’ve spent a lifetime feeling “almost understood.” We trade stories, share coping tools, laugh about our collective chaos, and remind each other that we’re not broken; we’re just different.

I’ve learned to build a life that supports both operating systems. To rest when I’m overstimulated, to feed my curiosity without guilt, to use movement when I can’t focus, and silence when I can’t think.

If you’re someone navigating the same intersection, know this: you’re not alone. There’s no right way to be both. You don’t have to justify your contradictions — they’re part of your brilliance.

Because sometimes, two operating systems can create something extraordinary — if you give them both the space to run.

✨ If this resonates with you, please follow along at @thechronicallyresilient — and as always,

Stay Resilient ❤️‍🩹

Love with an Autistic Heart: Learning to Be Understood, to Set Boundaries, and to Love Myself First

By Frankie — Disabled Air Force Veteran | Chronic Illness Advocate | Social Scientist

“Autistic love isn’t loud. It’s deep, loyal and sometimes misunderstood.”

The Quiet Weight of Feeling Deeply

For most of my life, I’ve loved with my whole nervous system.
Every connection, every friendship, every relationship I’ve ever had has lived somewhere beneath my skin — pulsing, sensory, almost electric. I notice everything. The pauses in a conversation. The way someone’s tone changes mid-sentence. The subtle cues of distance that other people might miss.

That’s the thing about loving with an autistic heart — it’s not casual. It’s never halfway. When I love, I catalog every detail, every moment, and I hold on tightly. But what I’ve learned — sometimes painfully — is that not everyone loves that way in return.

When Love Hurts: The Ache of Being Misunderstood

Recently, I had a tough conversation with one of the few people I truly believed accepted me fully — even with my new disabilities, limitations, and the ways my brain now works differently.

It started as an honest attempt at connection. I wanted to understand why the friendship had grown distant, why communication had become one-sided. I thought I was being direct, respectful, open. Instead, it turned into anger. They accused me of being critical, judgmental, hurtful.

I left that conversation gutted.
I’m tired of being misunderstood.
Tired of loving fully and receiving a fraction of that love in return.
Tired of being an afterthought — of giving so much emotional labor that I end up depleted and unseen.

That moment reminded me of every time I’ve been punished for being honest. Every time someone mistook my transparency for coldness or my silence for disinterest. But what they didn’t see was the overwhelm behind my words — the thousand invisible calculations happening in my head just to keep the interaction afloat.

The Autistic Way of Loving

Autistic love is often quiet, but it’s not weak. It’s detail-oriented, deeply loyal, and fiercely protective. We love through actions, through consistency, through showing up.

We memorize (if we don’t have a brain injury impairing our memory like I do), your favorite snacks. We remember the songs you hum when you’re anxious. We replay conversations in our minds for days, trying to understand what we might’ve missed.

“I don’t love halfway — I either love with my whole nervous system, or not at all.”

But the world doesn’t always recognize that kind of love. In a society that celebrates spontaneity, we’re the ones who crave stability. In a culture that rewards small talk, we speak in depth. That mismatch often leaves us loving loudly in a language most people can’t hear.

Communication, Shutdowns, and Masking

For years, I thought the only way to be loved was to make myself easier to understand — to mask my needs, quiet my honesty, dilute my intensity.

In relationships, that meant saying “I’m fine” when I wasn’t. It meant hiding sensory overload behind a forced smile. It meant apologizing for being “too sensitive” when my body was simply responding to too much noise, too much light, too much everything.

There were times in my marriage when I shut down completely.
When I couldn’t speak, couldn’t make eye contact, couldn’t explain the storm inside me. To someone neurotypical, that can look like disinterest or withdrawal — but in reality, it’s the opposite. It’s my system protecting itself from breaking entirely. Unfortunately, I also had another layer of difficulty, dementia and hearing loss from a brain injury following gamma knife brain surgery.

It took years for us — for me — to understand that love can exist in stillness, too. That needing silence isn’t rejection. That boundaries aren’t barriers.

Rebuilding Connection and Learning Boundaries

When my husband and I made the intentional decision to rebuild our relationship, we didn’t start from where we were — we started from scratch.

We learned each other’s communication styles. We stopped trying to fix or correct each other and started observing instead. We created new rules for safety in conflict — no yelling, no walking away mid-conversation, time-outs when either of us was overstimulated.

For the first time, I stopped apologizing for needing things like structure, reassurance, or quiet. And he stopped taking those needs personally.

That’s when love started to feel safe again.
Because it wasn’t about changing who I am — it was about creating space where I could exist fully.

Loving Myself First

Somewhere along this journey, I realized that I had spent most of my life waiting for someone to make me feel understood. But the real breakthrough came when I learned to give that understanding to myself.

“Maybe the real love story was learning I never had to earn acceptance in the first place.”

I learned to stop shrinking to make people comfortable.
To forgive myself for needing solitude and boundaries.
To understand that I am not “too much.”
That my way of loving — deep, loyal, deliberate — isn’t broken. It’s beautiful.

When I started treating myself with the same empathy I gave everyone else, everything changed. The friendships that were meant to last began to feel effortless. The relationships that weren’t aligned quietly faded, and for once, I didn’t chase them, just told them what I’m seeing, how I feel and what I need.

Because I finally realized: I can love others deeply without abandoning myself in the process.

The Quiet Power of an Autistic Heart

Autistic love is different — not lesser, not colder, just different. It’s a kind of love that sees what others overlook. It’s love that listens beyond words, that remembers small details, that holds space for the entire truth of who you are.

And while being misunderstood will always hurt, I’m no longer afraid of that pain. Because I know who I am now. I know how I love. I know that I’m not too much — I’m exactly enough.

And that’s what resilience really is.
Not hardening — but softening toward yourself.
Not pretending — but being fully, radically real.

If this story resonates with you don’t forget to follow my journey on FB & IG by following the links below.

and as always, Stay Resilient ❤️‍🩹