I’m pretty sure your 30s are supposed to be great. Flirty. Thriving, even. I should know; I threw a 13 Going on 30 birthday party back in November as a cute lil “end of an era” celebration where I gathered some friends and waved goodbye to my youth.
And yes, it has only been roughly three months since then, but I’ll be damned if I’m not feeling the love that’s supposed to greet you in this highly anticipated decade (Thanks for the false hope, Jenna Rink…). I’m not saying I’m feeling entirely hopeless necessarily, but if hope was tangible—like a favorite sock or something (I don’t know, we’re just going with it…)—mine has gone missing. Like I’m going through all my drawers, random bags, and dirty laundry, and despite my best efforts and greatest intentions of finding the stupid sock, I keep coming back empty-handed.
***
It was around 11:30 am on a Friday in the beginning of January when I received an unprompted message from my boss asking if I was free to “hop on a quick call in an hour?” accompanied by an already-set-up Zoom link.
Without warning, my heart increased its beating frequency as I figured out how to respond – typing out a string of words only to overthink, delete it, and try again…wishing to situate myself in the best position possible. In my mind, it was February of 2023 all over again, sitting in that awful sterile office, receiving a similar Slack message to “come to the big conference room please…” knowing in my gut what was about to happen: I was losing my job. Again.
Only, this time, I wasn’t all that sure as to why.
Sure, I had my moments where a project would take me hours longer than it should’ve or I’d hyperfocus on a random task for too long and stretch myself beyond my capacity, but my work was solid. Quality. Good.
It didn’t matter: I was simply a casualty of a business decision. The place that had slowly healed my first (and unbelievably toxic) Corporate-America-Rat-Race-Office-Life-caused wounds with their people-first principles, had now created fresh, new gashes. I was back to square one—on my ass, without a plan, staring down the barrel of this “exciting” new year. And it was only January third.
***
I woke up with swollen eyes. It was probably the third day in a row that I’d peeled myself from the comforts of my bed after spending the previous evening sobbing through another tough “I’m-just-really-concerned-about-you-because-I-love-you-so-much” conversation with my husband. I had to get myself together and handle the morning dog duties before my therapy appointment, moving through the motions as quickly and accurately as possible to avoid being late (or any later than my normal five or so minutes) to my regular appointment.
When I sunk down on the plush couch and my therapist asked the standard, “So. How are things? How are you doing?” I felt the all-too-familiar rush of heat and prickle of tears sting the back of my throat as I met her eyes.
“I feel like I’m drowning,” I told her in between sobs. “Like, I have no idea what I’m doing and even though I can take a step back and intellectually see how absurd it is, I just don’t like myself. I’m actively hurting the people around me, and I want to change the things about myself that I don’t like, or at least understand them so I can accept it all fully and learn to work with it. I can’t keep existing like this.” A crumpled Kleenex held tightly in my hand, tears pouring down my cheeks.
Her eyes met mine with compassion when she said, “I’ve seen you go through a lot of ups and downs over the years. But, this is the first time that I’ve seen you really stuck. You’re so caught up in a loop of negative beliefs that you can’t see the positive, happy things. You may know you have all these strengths and attributes, but when you don’t find ways to reinforce or feel those good things, you truly start believing that all this bad outweighs all the good.”
And I had. I had come to believe it—like that disgusting mass of hair, leaves, dust, and god-knows-what-else that wraps around the wheel of a grocery cart, I was so tightly wound with self-doubt that I just couldn’t maneuver myself properly. Not surprising to anyone who knows me well, I was the one standing in my own way, making my twists and turns infinitely more frustrating and difficult with every step I took.
The problem was, I couldn’t figure out how to untangle all the gross shit and free myself.
***
At some point amidst all of this—the cyclical self-loathing, the repetitive deep conversations about my mindset and direction, the unmanageable overwhelm—I decided I had to do something different. I downloaded an audiobook about women with ADHD and how to fall in love with your brain, despite common gender expectations and the societal, neurotypical norms we all unintentionally subscribe to. And while I’d known about my ADHD and indeed done quite a lot of my own research and reflection over the past five years since my diagnosis, there was something about listening to a woman I didn’t know lay out the science and regale anecdotal experiences eerily similar to my own, that began to loosen my tangle.
Don’t get me wrong—I still have no idea what I’m freaking doing and yes, I am aware that “no one does!”, but when you’re neurodivergent and living in a world that’s already on fire and structured in a way to make you feel less than adequate or “normal,” it’s an indescribable pain. The essence of shame tints every thought, every decision.
If I’ve learned anything over the past few months, it’s that life is truly and utterly difficult. For everyone. It’s how you approach the difficulties that matters. And I’m just trying to do my best every day and make my approach as positive as possible.
Hannah Zwemer received her MA in Professional Creative Nonfiction Writing from the University of Denver in 2021. She works in marketing, helping local businesses establish and grow their online presence. Hannah lives in Orlando, FL with her husband, precious cockapoo, Rory, and a whole lot of plants and half-started craft projects.
Featured image by Madison Oren.
