Meditation. Ugh. Another shiny trinket from the allistic self-help industrial complex, polished to perfection and peddled as the answer to all our woes.

Forgive my cynicism. Decades of trial and [mostly] error will do that to a person. I’ve run the gauntlet of talking therapies, dutifully swallowed the pills, and spent far too many hours in offices with professionals nodding sagely while offering insights that felt about as useful as a chocolate teapot. I’ve considered the permanent exit more times than I’d care to admit, but love has always kept me tethered. Then someone, well-meaning of course, suggested meditation.

The very word conjures up an image: someone impossibly serene, cross-legged on a cushion, radiating inner peace while the universe hums approvingly around them. Meanwhile, the rest of us are wondering where we left our keys, why we walked into the kitchen, and whether we actually sent that email or just hallucinated the whole thing.

In theory, meditation is about being fully present. Sounds great, doesn’t it? Except when the present moment consists of a blaring TV, fluorescent lights burning holes in your retinas, and the creeping certainty that you’ve left the oven on. For those of us with autistic and ADHD brains, “just be present” is both a revelation and a trap. Yes, it can help with focus, anxiety, and self-awareness. But have you met our brains? The kind that, mid-meditation, will abruptly serve up an unskippable, high-definition replay of that mortifying thing we said in 1997, complete with surround sound and director’s commentary.

And yet… it can be a useful tool in our armoury.

Meditation has a bit of a PR problem in neurodivergent circles. It’s often lumped in with yoga retreats, overpriced candles, and people who say things like, “Just manifest positive energy!” while you’re actively trying not to scream. But that’s a shame because meditation — done in a way that actually works for our brains — can be a game-changer.

One major roadblock is that trying to meditate when you’re already overwhelmed feels about as achievable as calmly assembling IKEA furniture while it’s on fire. The idea of “emptying your mind” is particularly laughable when your brain is running 57 tabs at once, half of them playing theme music. But here’s the thing: you don’t actually have to clear your mind. Meditation isn’t about deleting thoughts like old emails; it’s about noticing them, observing them from a distance, and crucially, not letting them drag you into a full-scale existential crisis.

Another common misconception is that meditation is impossible for a neurodivergent brain because, well, we already have too much sensory input to process. But in my experience, stepping back and just letting things be without trying to make sense of them can be incredibly freeing. Imagine your thoughts are rowdy children on a sugar high. Instead of trying to wrestle them into submission, you just… let them run around in the background while you sip your coffee and wait for the chaos to burn itself out.

The good news is that meditation doesn’t have to mean sitting in stillness, trying to silence a mind that wasn’t designed for silence. There is no ‘one size’ approach; it’s flexible to the individual, and that makes the world of difference. It works by our engaging with the world in a way that makes sense for us. Walking, rocking, listening to the same song on repeat, focusing intensely on a special interest — these are all valid meditation practices. It’s about grounding yourself in the here and now, but without the pressure of pretending to be a Zen monk on a mountaintop.

I have a personal favourite, for when my brain is spiralling and the world feels too much, without requiring deep breathing, a yoga mat, or a guru. I won’t pretend that it’s the answer for everyone, or when you should employ the technique.

I was taught the technique whilst training to be a Mental Health First-Aider, and it’s so simple it’s effective — the 5–4–3–2–1 Grounding Technique can help pull me back to reality. It works by making me focus on a different number of items, making use of my hyper-senses, as I count down from five-to-one very slowly, only moving onto the next number once I complete each task in turn:

1. 5 things you can see — A crack in the ceiling, your coffee cup, the cat giving you judgmental side-eye.
2. 4 things you can touch — The fabric of your shirt, the smooth surface of your phone, the item on which you’re seated.
3. 3 things you can hear — The hum of the fridge, birds outside, your own breathing (even if it’s a bit annoyed right now).
4. 2 things you can smell — Coffee, fabric softener, the lingering scent of that thing you burned three days ago.
5. 1 thing you can taste — A sip of water, gum, the last remnants of whatever snack you just inhaled.

It’s a ridiculously simple exercise, but it works. It gives my brain something structured to do instead of spiralling into existential dread or sensory panic. I just react out, and experience the world around me in that moment.

For those of us navigating a world that seems engineered for an entirely different operating system, anxiety isn’t just a passing visitor — it’s the default setting. Sensory grounding, like the 5–4–3–2–1 method, can be a lifeline when everything starts to spin out. Focusing on one sound, one texture, one breath at a time helps cut through the chaos. Traditional advice tells us to “tune out” sensory input, as if that’s even an option. That’s like telling a fire alarm to stop overreacting. Meditation offers an alternative: instead of drowning in sensory overload, it encourages active engagement. One sound. One texture. The cool rim of a coffee cup against your fingertips, the deep weight of a blanket pressing down, the steady rhythm of your own breath.

Emotions have a habit of showing up uninvited and all at once. Meditation doesn’t make them disappear, but it does create a moment of separation between feeling something and being consumed by it. Shifting from “I am frustrated” to “I feel frustrated” might seem like a small trick of language, but it’s enough to remind your brain that emotions are visitors, not permanent housemates. ADHD throws another layer of chaos into the mix — focus either evaporates entirely or locks onto something completely unrelated to the task at hand (because obviously, learning about 18th-century shipwrecks at 2 a.m. is more important than doing the thing you were supposed to do). Meditation, when done right, acts as a gentle pull back to the present. A body scan, a shift in breath, or even just fully immersing yourself in something enjoyable rather than forcing productivity can help reset a runaway brain.

When the world feels like a constant source of unpredictability, small mindful rituals offer a sense of control. Maybe that’s pacing in the same familiar pattern, looping a favourite playlist, or wrapping yourself in the softest, most comforting hoodie you own. Predictability is its own kind of meditation, even if self-help books written for allistics never seem to mention it.

Sensory anchoring can be just as simple — holding onto a smooth stone, curling up under a weighted blanket, focusing on a single texture that feels safe. Hyperfocus isn’t a failure of attention; it’s meditation with a different name. Losing yourself in a special interest, a puzzle, a repetitive task — that’s presence. That’s focus. Guided imagery works, too, if focusing on breath feels like a trap. Thinking about a favourite fictional world, a comforting memory, a place you long to visit — anything that grounds you. And mindful stimming? That’s just allowing movement to be the thing that brings you back instead of something you’re told to suppress.

At the end of the day, mindfulness isn’t about becoming some enlightened, stress-free version of yourself. It’s about finding small ways to exist in the world without constantly feeling like you’re about to short-circuit. If that means sitting still and meditating, great. If it means stimming, hyper-focusing, or taking a walk while blasting the same song on repeat, that’s great too.

My experience suggests that the trick isn’t forcing yourself into someone else’s version of meditation. The trick is letting meditation fit you.

Zen and the Art of Overthinking was originally published in The Unexpected Autistic Life on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

One year ago, I shared a Christmas memory from 2018 that defined how much I was struggling without knowing I was autistic. It still gives me chills to remember how desperately I cried in the early morning hours of that night. A time when, as a kid, visions of sugarplums used to dance in my head. This year will end with me being in a much more difficult situation than when it began. In February, I was forcibly discharged after requesting accommodations I felt I needed to finally integrate into society. I lost all of my mental health care and all hope I had for salvation. All the more reason to take this opportunity and create a new Christmas memory. Let me take you back through my life to show you something special that is helping me today.

Back when I was just a young boy, I reveled in the joy of Christmas. The sights, the sounds, and, of course, the presents. One part of the holidays literally stood above the rest: the Christmas tree. I marveled at the size and splendor of it from an early age. The first I remember my family having was a real one bought from a local tree farm. My, how beautiful it was, but a terrible mess from all the needles that it shed. No more than a year or two of real trees ushered in the era of the ceiling topper. To avoid the mess, my dad bought a great big artificial tree that nearly touched the ceiling in our family room. All the room left on top was fitted with either an angel or, in later years, a star. It took a few years before I was tall enough to measure up to it.

Then, during junior high school, I was no longer a passive bystander. Driven by years of marveling at its splendor, I asked my dad if he would let me decorate the tree. His eyes lit up with pride. I felt just the same. I wanted to take on the mantle of decorating the Christmas tree as a father-son thing. I had a lot of respect for how well he decorated it while I was growing up. Part of me wanted to do the decorating as a gesture of respect for him. We both went down to the basement, where the true scale of the task before me quickly became clear. Not only was this an artificial tree, it consisted of ten levels and over 70 branches. My eyes were as big as saucers, but I was up to the task. Once we got the trunk and all of the branches upstairs, I set to work.

Although I was not aware of it at the time, how I assembled the tree’s branches was as good an indicator of being autistic as any I have known. If you are going to do it, do it right. Over the course of several hours that evening, I took each branch and painstakingly bent it into the proper shape before placing it into the trunk. The bottom branches had as many as a dozen stems each. I cared not for the effort. My mind was fixated on getting each one right. I was driven. By the time I was finished, my heart was bursting with pride. A few days later, my dad dutifully checked and then strung up the tree lights around it in a spiral pattern. Over the next few days, with painstaking attention to detail, I added a whole host of Christmas ornaments.

The thing to know about this part of the process was how meticulously I placed each of the ornaments. The largest bulbs were at the bottom because of their size. Smaller ornaments were put at or near the top. Many of them came in old ornament box sets of four or more. So, depending on their number, I spaced them out evenly as well. I have since come to recognize that this logic-driven approach is especially indicative of an autistic mind. In fact, this is why perfectionism is so often correlated with being autistic. We do what makes logical sense to us and are driven by a natural inclination towards intelligence. Once the decorations were placed, my dad added gold garland beads, and at last, the Christmas tree was finished. It was beautiful.

In the years after I graduated high school, the magic of Christmas faded until, finally, my parents gave away the tree to a family friend with younger kids. For a time, I took no part in decorating a Christmas tree. Coincidentally, after 2010, I started getting increasingly isolated. I watched everyone I grew up with move on. Many of my friends moved away, established their careers, got married, and had children. Except for me, and for what reason, I did not know. My life seemed disconnected from everyone, including my own family, which is why Christmas in 2018 was so dismal. I felt as if I was being left behind. That is, until everything changed. Ask the average person what year in recent memory was a living hell to endure. The answer is 2020.

Pandemic lockdowns and social distancing restrictions tore loved ones apart. As many drew their last breaths in hospitals and nursing homes, they were allowed only one person to be at their side. That is, if they had anyone to be there at all. It was heartbreaking. Millions more inundated emergency rooms and were forced to separate. Suicide rates also increased. Then, the George Floyd riots tore across the country, leaving charred remains of burned city buildings and dead bodies in their wake. It was a fearful time. In large part, because of all this chaos, an idea came to mind that would set the tone for the years ahead. I lacked the integration needed for a normal life as an adult. So I turned to the one comfort I knew of as a child: the Christmas tree.

What if I decorated a Christmas tree? Could I recapture the same magic in spite of how the end of the year was so very depressing? I went down to the basement and was fortunate to find a four-foot tree my older brother gave up because he did not want it. This might work, I thought. I took the tree up to my bedroom, where I had been spending much of my time. The branches were all bent and misshapen. So, I worked around the tree and carefully reshaped each one. I plugged it in to make sure the lights worked. I was swiftly greeted by a splendid array of colors. I went back downstairs and gathered dozens of the old ornaments I used on the family’s old Christmas tree. A few days later, I had my first decorated tree in 15 years. Did it help?

From an autistic perspective, an object like a Christmas tree does not improve your life by simply being there. Nor can you feel happy by forcing yourself to feel that way. You have to find something, or someone, that creates genuine feelings of peace and happiness from within. In my case, it was a decorated Christmas tree that reliably brought me joy during my childhood. I turned my rocking chair away from the bedroom door so it would face the tree. I sat there and relished in the feelings of wonder and joy it helped me feel inside. Keep in mind that I had every reason to feel as bad as everyone else. I endured the same trauma. We all did. Of all the years, and at the most depressing time of the year, it was a Christmas tree that helped me feel at peace.

After 2020, I knew in my heart that I had accomplished something important. During the previous two years, I actually cried myself to sleep. All I wanted for Christmas was not to wake up. The tree in my bedroom became my rock to cling to for stability. Over the next few years, I continued this tradition as my life depended on it. As early as Thanksgiving, as late as March, night after night, I sat by that illuminated Christmas tree. Thankfully, it did continue to help me. Sad to say, earlier this year, I tested the tree lights to see if they still worked. None lit up. I used it so much that I wore out the lights in only four years. I needed to wait months for the holiday season before I could shop around to buy a new one. However, time ran out just before I did.

In mid-October, my stress increased tenfold. Since my February discharge, I had been waiting for someone who planned to pool resources for autistic adults. Unfortunately, it ended up not happening. Plans changed. I found out in September. It was sought to connect me with a well-known life coach. But on October 14th, I was informed that the earliest for contact would be six months to a year — an eternity after all I had been through. As I was told, they were only going to give me ‘a talk’ to try and help. Nine months of promises evaporated all hope that I had to move on with my life. What had been a paper-thin margin for stability was overtaken by a surge in post-traumatic stress. My heart felt like a rock as it dropped to hit the soles of my feet.

Because my autism was diagnosed late, I never integrated socially or economically into society. This continued lack of a path forward caused considerable strain at the worst possible time: near the end of this year and with no mental health support. On November 9th, my stress peaked. Just then, a familiar idea came to mind. I looked again to the one thing that brought me peace and comfort at the end of recent years. Two days later, I bought a new Christmas tree and set it up in my room where the old one stood. That night, I started using the lights earlier than ever before. Fortunately, my mental health stabilized. In the days after, my stress continued to peak more than two dozen times, including right now. I just stared harder at the tree I decorated.

Mental health is not as simple as many insist that you believe. Wake up and choose to have a positive attitude. Just be happy. That is not how human minds work. Millions of people worldwide have endured deeply painful traumas that have altered how they think and feel. For example, as a suicide attempt survivor, it took me over 20 years before I realized it was actually traumatizing. By being neglected, suicide changed the way I felt about wanting to live. Since being autistic was neglected for so long, too, I see much of my life with a bleeding heart for all I have lost. I cannot just be happy. Wellness must be genuine and come from within. Alongside my trauma is something important — the brilliance of self-discovery. Of finding my true self.

I know more about who I really am than I have throughout my entire life. What I have said on Twitter is true. I am more than my autism, but I am me because of it. Autism is a people, a way of life. It is who we are on the inside. With autism being so suppressed, I was forced to mask and believe that I was my own worst enemy. I am not. Now that I take autism seriously, I can further strengthen my coping skills. I recognize that Christmas trees go back through years of my life to genuinely positive memories. I can use that because it comes from within. It is not forcing myself to use inauthentic coping methods that will fail. I am empowered by what works. For me. I can decorate and find faith in a new Christmas tree to light the way into a New Year.

No matter who or where you are, the possibilities and power of this moment are always here for you to help enrich your life. All it takes is a simple act of creativity.

Creating A New Christmas Memory was originally published in The Unexpected Autistic Life on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

For many years, I felt insecure about understanding how I coped with my mental health. I had endured distinct anxiety issues, symptoms of long-term severe depression, and multiple suicide experiences. During my youth, I was already diagnosed with attention deficit disorder. Due to numerous factors, such as stigma and being born in the early 1980s, I faced much of my mental health on my own. Concerns about anxiety were trivial or imaginary. Stop worrying so much.

Depression problems stemmed from a lack of self-esteem. Put on a smiley face. What kept me balanced? I expected few, if any, positive reasons for maintaining my mental health. After attending a local mental health conference in 2017, I discovered a positive source of strength I had unknowingly been utilizing for years. By sharing what I have learned about mindfulness, I hope to help you find the remarkable potential that is all around everyone.

In its simplest form, mindfulness is awareness of yourself and your surroundings. It is best described as a perception rather than a state of mind. In practice, there are two common forms: formal and informal. Formal mindfulness is often attained through physical activities such as yoga and meditation. These require time set aside to engage in them efficiently and concentration to channel your thinking through awareness of your body.

Informal mindfulness involves focusing your attention on anything you perceive so you can become more aware of it. This includes abstract elements such as ideas that have no real-world form. Thanks to my natural autistic ability to think outside the box, I have discovered a vast potential for positivity by paying closer attention to all the life around me. Long before I knew what mindfulness actually was, though, a problem with one of my senses forced an insightful change in my life.

At the age of ten, while I was in fourth grade, my vision unexpectedly degenerated from normal to 20/1000. I was diagnosed with myopia because I could not focus on seeing objects at a distance. My visual acuity is considered legally blind, the category closest to actual blindness. As a result, I instinctively started to rely more on my other senses. Studies have shown the same can happen when one of a person’s five senses becomes impaired. This created some of my first subtle opportunities for better awareness, particularly of sounds.

I did like music as much as the average person during this time. I recall recognizing sounds in general. Some were positive. Some were negative. The sound of a professional hunter slowly stalking through dry African grass was strangely fascinating to hear. The sound of howling winds, amplified by the valley where I lived, incited anxiety and fear. Unknowingly, mindfulness was enriching my life.

The soothing sound of George Harrison’s song “Cloud Nine” playing over the radio. The sweet smell of marigold flowers on a summer day. The soft touch of a satin-trimmed blanket between my fingers. The mouth-watering taste of a traditional Italian Stromboli. Or the vibrant color of green I would see during springtime. While I paid closer attention to these simple and positive sensory experiences, I became more aware of myself and my feelings. There is no better example than when I was in fourth grade.

I was singled out and repeatedly bullied by a classmate. I specifically remember recognizing the disruption he caused in my life. Anxiety, fear, and frustration. I could not understand why other kids would be so mean for little or no reason. As early as elementary school, I also felt sad and unwanted from being the last person picked for teams in gym classes. As a result, I was increasingly receptive to positive emotions.

For special occasions, like holidays and my birthday, I wrote thank you cards to my elder relatives. Awareness of negativity compelled me to care about how I treated others. So, I put extra effort into expressing how grateful I was for my relative’s thoughtful attention. The praise I received was very rewarding, such as from my grandmothers, whose admiration was especially heartfelt. Mindful awareness of this praise reinforced my behavior and served as an incentive to develop my talent for self-expression.

I had no idea my undiagnosed autistic trait of oppositional defiance helped my expressions to be increasingly unique. As a teenager, I recognized which emotions I valued because it mattered to me how I felt. I embraced compassion and cared about how negative emotions made others feel simply because I was aware of them. After junior high, though, I was not prepared for just how painful negative emotions could be.

The bullying I experienced only got worse. More classmates my age and older targeted me with dehumanizing behavior. I was oddly unable to ignore it. As a result, I caused conflicts that should have been avoided. Rejection from girls had left me feeling ugly and lonely. Dating became nearly impossible due to a failure to recognize social cues. I had a small group of respectful friends I valued spending time with. Yet, peer pressure still made me feel like an outcast who did not belong.

My underlying autistic neurodivergence also intensified the social isolation I felt. My first classmates and family members died when I was in high school. I was ill-prepared to grieve for them. Personality conflicts at home afforded little relief. Even the specialist treating my attention deficit disorder alienated me. Thankfully, a growing awareness of sounds offered useful sources of enjoyment when I struggled with my problems.

Popular science fiction series, such as Star Trek and Star Wars, offered a way to escape daily stress through the use of imagination to explore fiction. To expand my experience, I found myself often listening to music by composers Jerry Goldsmith and John Williams. Hearing the Star Trek: The Next Generation rendition of Alexander Courage’s original theme still gives me goosebumps. Other music genres were similarly invigorating.

Musicians like Billy Joel, Richard Marx, Enya, and Rob Zombie, followed later by bands such as Linkin Park, Shinedown, Mesh, and Rammstein, each gave me an empowering sense of identity and fulfillment. My autistic neurodivergence of doing things differently led me to create my own compilation CDs because it was efficient, creative, and fun. A few years after high school, I became aware of a specific personality trait that was increasingly difficult to cope with.

I was pushing myself too hard to accomplish tasks with precision. I felt trapped between a rock and a hard place. Except I knew what was causing the stress and exactly where it came from. Perfectionism was instilled in me during my upbringing. Stress got to the point where I distinctly remember feeling a need to correct it. I thought to myself, “If something is very negative, then why not try the opposite and see if there is a positive effect?” So, I put more effort into appreciating nature.

This revealed interesting opportunities for more relaxed thinking. My dad drew my attention to beautiful sunsets and scenery, which was helpful and visually refreshing. If a precise route into town was the fastest and I had extra time, but the weather was fair, I took a different route to enjoy the experience. The more unstructured my thinking was, the more I valued the positive difference in my personality. I actually tamed perfectionism.

I learned how I reacted to positive and negative influences and chose to care about what negativity did to other people. I preferred the endearing nature of compassion and forgiveness over senseless bullying and unpleasant behavior. I instinctively gravitated towards instrumental and lyrical music for positive self-expression and identity. Less-structured thinking helped me lower stress by appreciating different forms of art and the beauty in nature.

Unfortunately, mindfulness alone was not enough to stop my suicide attempt in 2003. Life took on a whole new meaning with a different perspective on everything. I moved on by trying to live my life one day at a time. In 2008, when I finally overcame the denial of that attempt, something important happened. My stagnant depression finally weakened. I started experiencing more enthusiasm and noticed a creative outlet for my feelings through a familiar medium: movies.

I discovered more realistic heroes who became empowering sources of self-motivation in Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight Trilogy and Marvel’s early Cinematic Universe films. For the first time, I could cope with my suicide experiences by relating them to something. When the teaser trailer for Star Wars Ep. 3 was released, I identified with the tragic character of Anakin Skywalker because the film series already portrayed his redemption. Thanks to trailers for the film Avatar, I discovered a genre of music called neo-classical.

Production music companies, such as Audiomachine, and modern-era composers, such as Thomas Bergersen, created unique instrumental music I found remarkably stimulating. As a result, the inspirational value of music literally doubled for me because I valued it more. For the first time in my life, I could see that inspiration was all around me. The more I could find, the stronger I could feel.

Now, by 2023, I will be exploring a boundless source of positivity from awareness achieved through informal mindfulness. No gimmick or scheme, and not just with physical objects. Imagine enjoying your favorite food more because you pay attention to how delicious it is or if it has nostalgic value. Socialize with a dear friend to share stories and jokes because this person treats you with respect. You can recognize how important genuine friendships are in your life and try to cultivate more.

What if life feels like a struggle? You are only just getting by each day, but music is very important to you. By paying attention to and valuing that love of music, you could draw greater strength from an ordinary pastime to improve your mental health. Despite dealing with some of the toughest life issues, such as suicide, mindfulness can still avail positive feelings for use at any time. Simple things in your life are now tools of empowerment.

In early 2017, I discovered how mindfulness helped me balance my mental health through adversity, thanks to a local conference presentation. One of my recent counselors even said I became my own support person because I faced it on my own for so long. The sympathy in the look on her face was unmistakable. Now, I know where my inner strength came from. Informal mindfulness is not a tangible object. It is a way of perceiving who you are as a person at this moment of your life.

Through self-awareness, I can counter tougher negativity with stronger inspiration. Positive influences, such as music, movies, appreciating nature, and valuing friendly people, have been and can continue to be an essential part of my life. Although for me, mindfulness alone could not replace seeking proper treatment, I now value it as one of the most important parts of my life. Mindfulness truly is the gift that keeps on giving.

The Gift That Keeps on Giving was originally published in The Unexpected Autistic Life on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.