International Day of Happiness: Confessions from the Diary of a Neurodivergent, Chronically Ill Female

Diary of a Chronically Ill Neurodivergent Female: Week Eleven

Dear Diary,

It’s International Day of Happiness, and apparently, we’re all supposed to be radiating sunshine, dancing through meadows, and laughing like we’re at the Comedy Store.

Meanwhile, I’m in bed with my heat pad, wedge pillow, and trying to remember if I’ve already taken my pain meds or if I’ve just imagined taking them — again. My joints feel like they’ve been replaced with rusty hinges, my executive function has gone on a gap year, and my sensory system has gone into overdrive.

But hey, I’m happy. Kind of. Sometimes. In a chaotic, deeply unconventional way. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a neurodivergent, chronically ill woman, it’s this — happiness doesn’t always look the way it does in stock photos.

So, in honour of this international celebration of joy, let me take you on a whistle-stop tour of what happiness really looks like in my world — messy, mismatched socks and all.

Chapter One: The Joy of Cancelled Plans

People without chronic illness or neurodivergence often get excited about nights out, dinner parties, or networking events. Me? Nothing fills me with more euphoria than a text that reads “Sorry, can’t make it tonight.” I love you all, but, sorry, not sorry.

Sweet serotonin, thank you! The energy I was going to spend forcing my face into social acceptability can now be redirected into something deeply nourishing — like lying down in complete silence and staring at the ceiling while pondering the socio-political implications of the dishwasher hierarchy. Bliss.

Chapter Two: The Deep Pleasure of a Good Pyjama Day

Some people find happiness in travel, adventure, and five-day hikes through the Lake District. I find it in not having to wear a bra. Or trousers with buttons. Or anything that makes my skin feel like it’s being gently tortured by the Ghost of Sensory Aversion Past.

A good pyjama day — especially the kind that includes tea, toast, and zero expectations — feels like a spa retreat for my nervous system.

Bonus points if I don’t have to speak to anyone except the dog. Triple bonus if the dog also ignores me, because then we’re both living our best lives.

I wish I could wear my pyjamas at all times, I feel so much more comfortable and able to engage in life in general.

Chapter Three: Hyperfocus: The High-Octane Happiness

Ah yes, hyperfocus — the ADHD equivalent of falling down a rabbit hole, except you’ve also brought a notepad, a podcast, three books, and the entire Wikipedia archive on neuroplasticity and the nervous system.

When it hits, it’s euphoric. I’ve written an entire chapter for my PhD in a single sitting, reorganised my wardrobe (by emotional resonance, obviously), and suddenly discovered the true meaning of life via a YouTube video on the philosophy of Habermas.

Will I crash later? Absolutely. Will I forget to eat? Without question. But for those few hours, the dopamine is real, and it’s glorious.

Chapter Four: Finding Laughter in the Ridiculous

If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. Right? This is our family motto. Sometimes you’ll do both simultaneously, especially if you’ve got hormonal fluctuations, disobedient ankles, and a GP receptionist who thinks “have you tried yoga?” is a valid treatment plan for multi-system chronic illness. Jokes aside, I would love to do hot yoga, but since moving out of London I am limited to the local offering.

But genuinely — laughter has become one of my most dependable sources of happiness. I laugh when my legs give out mid-conversation. I laugh when I forget why I walked into a room, again. I laugh when my brain short-circuits because someone asked me to “just pop by the supermarket” as if that doesn’t involve seventeen logistical hurdles and a detailed mental flowchart.

Watching an episode of Friends is one of my go-tos.

Chapter Five: Micro-Joys: The Unsung Heroes

Let’s talk about micro-joys. These are the tiny, fleeting, seemingly insignificant moments that wouldn’t make a dent in most people’s happiness index, but for me, they are everything.

• A perfectly timed nap.
• Hug from my daughter.
• The satisfaction of a new notebook.
• A cuppa that’s exactly the right temperature.
• A GP appointment that doesn’t make me want to scream into a bin.

These joys are small but mighty. They are the breadcrumb trail back to myself on days when the pain, the fatigue, or the executive dysfunction threatens to swallow me whole.

Chapter Six: Rest as Resistance, Joy as Rebellion

There’s something radical about choosing joy in a world that pathologises your existence. About reclaiming rest as a right, not a reward. About saying “no” without guilt and “yes” without explanation.

Happiness, for me, often looks like refusing to be productive when my body is begging for stillness. It looks like resisting the pressure to mask, to perform. It looks like creating a life that’s gentle, spacious, and affirming — on my terms.

Some days, happiness means doing nothing. And not feeling bad about it. (Okay, still working on that last part.)

Chapter Seven: The Beautiful Mess of Connection

Despite my strong affinity for solitude and my lifelong ambition to become a hermit with broadband, I also find happiness in the weird and wonderful connections I’ve made with others in the neurodivergent and chronically ill community.

There’s something deeply healing about being understood without having to explain. Validated. Seen.

About finding people who just get it. Who know what it’s like to live in a body that malfunctions like a brain that ping-pongs from idea to idea like it’s been caffeinated by chaos itself.

The joy of feeling seen cannot be overstated.

Chapter Eight: Redefining Happiness

Here’s the thing — I’ve had to rewrite the definition of happiness so many times that it now resembles a doodle-covered post-it note stuck on my blackboard (yes I have one, and many whiteboards). And that’s okay. Maybe happiness isn’t a constant state — it’s a flicker, a glimmer, a “hey, this moment isn’t terrible” kind of vibe.

Maybe it’s not about perfection or achievement or some elusive Instagram-worthy life. Maybe it’s about softness. Acceptance. Finding moments of light in the murk.

And honestly? That’s more than enough.

So today, on International Day of Happiness, I’m celebrating from my bed-fort, surrounded by snacks, heating pads, noise-cancelling headphones, and a strong sense of boundary-setting.

I might not be skipping through meadows, but I’m still smiling. And that, dear reader, is its own quiet revolution.

If you’re also neurodivergent, chronically ill, or simply a human being who occasionally finds happiness in odd and unexpected places — welcome. You’re not alone. And your version of happiness is just as valid, just as powerful, and infinitely more interesting than whatever the algorithm is trying to sell you today.

Yours joyfully (and horizontally),

A Neurodivergent, Chronically Ill Female Who’s Just Trying Her Best xx

Originally published at .