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 ❤️‍🩹

When Words Don’t Translate: Understanding Autistic Communication

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

People heard the words I said, but not always the meaning. I’d replay conversations in my head, wondering how something said with love came out sounding cold, or how silence meant indifference when it really meant careful processing.

For years, I thought I was broken — too blunt, too literal, too intense. I learned to script my sentences, to soften my truth, to smile when I didn’t understand the joke. But masking that way came at a cost: I lost my voice trying to sound like everyone else’s.

Autistic Communication Isn’t a Flaw

Autistic communication isn’t a flaw in social ability — it’s a difference in wiring, rhythm, and intent.

Where neurotypical language often revolves around implied meaning and social choreography, autistic communication thrives on precision, sincerity, and shared focus. We speak to connect, not to perform.

For many of us, words are weighted — they carry texture, pattern, and truth. We might communicate through patterns, through written words, through parallel play, or even through silence. Our language isn’t missing something; it’s simply built differently.

The Myth of Lack of Empathy

One of the most painful misconceptions about autistic people is that we lack empathy.

That couldn’t be further from the truth.

Many of us feel so deeply that it can be overwhelming. We notice micro-expressions, shifts in tone, the smallest change in someone’s energy. Sometimes we feel others’ emotions so strongly that it’s hard to know where theirs end and ours begin. But the way we express empathy doesn’t always fit what the world expects.

When someone we love is hurting, we might offer solutions instead of comfort because our brains jump straight to fixing the problem. Or we might go quiet — not because we don’t care, but because we’re processing every word carefully to make sure we respond authentically.

In the military, that difference in expression often made me feel misunderstood. My directness was mistaken for coldness, my silence for defiance, my honesty for disrespect. But beneath every blunt statement was a genuine desire to help, to protect, to connect in a world that often felt too loud and too fast.

Autistic empathy isn’t absent — it’s just a different dialect of the same emotional language. One built on truth over performance, presence over pretense, and understanding over small talk.

What Autistic Communication Actually Looks Like

Autistic communication doesn’t always fit inside the social “scripts” most people expect.

It’s not small talk or polite filler — it’s intentional, sincere, and often deeply focused. When we communicate, we’re not trying to impress; we’re trying to connect through truth, accuracy, and shared meaning.

For me, that means saying exactly what I mean — without the softeners or social detours that neurotypical people often use. I don’t nuance things. I speak the truth as I see it, even when it’s uncomfortable, because authenticity feels safer than pretending.

Because of hearing loss, auditory processing challenges, memory issues, and cognitive changes after brain injury, phone conversations are especially difficult for me. I can miss pieces of dialogue or lose context entirely, which makes written communication far more effective. Writing gives me time to process, reflect, and ensure that my message matches my intent.

Still, there are times when even a message sent with love and concern is perceived as “too much,” “too blunt,” or “overstepping.” But to me, truth isn’t harsh — it’s grounding. It’s how I build trust.

Autistic communication can be direct, pattern-based, or written — but above all, it’s rooted in sincerity. We may not speak the same social dialect, but our intention is rarely ever to harm; it’s to connect honestly, without masks.

When Communication Breaks Down

The hardest part about communicating differently is knowing your heart’s in the right place — and still being misunderstood.

I can spend hours choosing my words carefully, making sure every sentence reflects both truth and care, and somehow it still lands wrong. People hear tone before they hear intent. They interpret directness as hostility, silence as avoidance, or passion as anger.

In the military, that misunderstanding carried real consequences. I was expected to communicate within a strict chain of command — clear, concise, and respectful — but even when I followed those rules, my straightforwardness was often read as insubordination. Later, in friendships, that same honesty was seen as “too much” or “too intense.” I’ve learned that some people want comfort, not clarity — and for someone like me, that’s an impossible ask.

When communication breaks down, it’s rarely about the words themselves. It’s about the translation gap between two very different processing systems.

Neurotypical communication tends to rely on subtle cues, body language, tone, and social intuition.

Autistic communication depends on patterns, logic, and sincerity. Both are valid, but when they collide without understanding, it can lead to deep emotional fallout on both sides.

For me, it often results in guilt and exhaustion — that crushing feeling of,

Still, I remind myself: communication isn’t just about being understood — it’s about staying true to who you are while finding ways to bridge the gap.

Learning to Bridge the Gap

I’ve spent years trying to find balance — the space between speaking my truth and being understood.

For a long time, that meant masking. I’d rehearse conversations, soften my delivery, or rewrite messages three times before sending them. It wasn’t about deception; it was survival. But over time, masking chipped away at my confidence.

Learning to bridge the gap hasn’t been about changing who I am — it’s been about learning when and how to clarify my intentions. Sometimes that means saying, “I’m not trying to be harsh; I just care deeply.” Or explaining ahead of time,

I’m also learning the importance of asking for permission before starting a difficult conversation — not because I’m afraid to speak, but because I’ve learned that sometimes the other person isn’t ready to hear it.

Miscommunication or a lack of communication can easily turn good intentions into conflict. Asking, “Is now a good time for a serious talk?” gives both of us a chance to be emotionally ready and prevents misunderstandings before they start.

We work so hard to accommodate neurotypicals — to make them comfortable in our presence, to adjust our tone, our body language, and even our natural rhythms so they don’t misread us.

I don’t think it’s too much to ask that others try to meet us halfway — to communicate with us in a way that works for us, too. We just want understanding, acceptance, and accommodation.

When something happens to a non-autistic person — when they experience a crisis or receive life-changing news — it’s taken seriously. There’s compassion, urgency, support.

But when an autistic person is in crisis — when we’re facing a life-threatening diagnosis or, worse, a life sentence like dementia — it’s often minimized or misunderstood. Our pain or crisis doesn’t seem to register the same way, even though it’s every bit as real.

All we’re asking for is to be heard with the same empathy that’s so easily given to others.

Why I’m Writing This

I’m not chasing followers, likes, or validation. I’m not here to make public statements about my truth as a weapon to expose or humiliate anyone close to me.

I’m writing this because these words have lived in my body for years — building pressure behind every misunderstood moment, every conversation that went sideways, every time I felt too much and said too little.

I’m writing this to share my internal world — to make sense of it, and to open it to others who might be living quietly in their own. I want to meet people who communicate like I do, who love differently but deeply, who have spent their lives trying to explain themselves in a world that keeps asking them to translate.

Because truthfully?

I’d sure like to feel a little less fucking alone.

This isn’t about performance. It’s about connection.

It’s about reminding every autistic, neurodivergent, chronically ill, or misunderstood person out there that your voice matters — exactly as it is.

It’s layered, patterned, and deeply human. It may not always fit the world’s expectations, but it’s ours — and it deserves to be understood on its own terms.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to bridge the gap between worlds — between neurotypical and autistic, between what I mean and what people hear. What I’ve learned is that the bridge can only stand if both sides are willing to meet in the middle.

If you’ve ever felt misunderstood, unheard, or “too much,” I hope this makes you feel a little less alone.

Your way of communicating, connecting, and existing is valid — and it’s beautiful in its truth.

Thank you for reading, for listening, and for being willing to understand.

✨ If you’d like to keep walking this journey with me — through autism, chronic illness, healing, and resilience — you can find me on Instagram and Facebook at @thechronicallyresilient.

And as always,

Stay Resilient ❤️‍🩹