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Hello, I'm Jane Marin—and I exist at the intersection of art and advocacy, where creation and understanding are inseparable. For decades, I've lived with what I call a neurocomplex mind—AuDHD (autism and ADHD combined) along with layers of intuition, empathic sensitivity, and pattern recognition that shape how I experience everything. My ADHD diagnosis came in the early 1990s; my autism diagnosis arrived in 2025. But the truth of who I am has been here all along, weaving through every part of my life. Art has never been just a creative outlet for me—it's my sanctuary, my compass, and the way I make sense of a world that often feels overwhelming. As someone whose nervous system runs hot and who lives daily with fibromyalgia and ME/CFS, my creative practice is how I self-regulate, find calm, and reconnect with myself when everything feels like too much. You may know me for my Oracle card illustrations or my portrait paintings of strong, resilient women—figures who carry quiet messages of strength, love, and wisdom. Sometimes a gentle masculine energy steps forward too. These characters often feel like messengers from another time, whispering stories that want to be remembered. Bookbinding has become just as vital to my creative rhythm. There's something profoundly grounding about stitching pages into form, about turning discarded materials into something meaningful and beautiful. Each journal I make becomes a vessel for someone else's story—a safe place for reflection, mess, and magic. This repetitive, tactile work quiets the constant motion in my mind. But my work extends beyond my own creative practice. For years, I've been supporting ADHD and autistic people in my regional community of Bundaberg, Queensland. I've run support groups, brought specialists to our town, and walked alongside hundreds of neurodivergent individuals as they discover their own paths to understanding and self-acceptance. Currently, I'm writing a book about my neurodivergent journey—one that explores the complexity of living with a neurocomplex mind while teaching coping skills to others. I share regularly through my monthly newsletter and fortnightly blog, and create educational Instagram content about the lived reality of AuDHD experiences. Here's what I've learnt: my art and my advocacy aren't separate. They both flow from the same source—a mind that sees patterns others miss, feels deeply, and knows things intuitively before words can catch up. I experience what I call "the download problem"—thoughts arrive fully formed but scatter like startled birds when I try to express them. My creative work gives those thoughts form. My advocacy work gives them purpose.
Through my Gather and Create workshops, these worlds meet beautifully. These gatherings aren't just about making art—they're about reconnecting with creativity, with community, and with the parts of ourselves that need care and expression. They're neurodivergent-friendly spaces where regulation happens through creation, where there's no "right way" to be or make. In the months ahead, I'll continue to share more about what it looks like to live, create, and advocate from a neurocomplex mind. The behind-the-scenes reality of running a creative business when your brain works differently. The joy and challenge of supporting others while navigating your own journey. The ways art becomes medicine, and understanding becomes art. If this resonates with you—whether you're neurodivergent yourself, love someone who is, or simply recognise that creativity and self-understanding are deeply intertwined—I hope you'll join me. Here's to finding beauty, healing, and meaning in the everyday—and to honouring all the ways our minds make magic.
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AuDHD and Auditory Overload
I'm in my sixties, and I can hear like a twenty-year-old. My children used to get annoyed because I could hear their whispered conversations from one end of the house to the other. Sounds like a useful thing to have. BUT My AuDHD wiring means I can't filter sensory input the way neurotypical brains do. Where others can tune out background noise and focus on a single conversation, my brain pays attention to everything at once - every conversation, every scraping fork, every footstep, every hum of fluorescent lights. All of it. Simultaneously. At full volume. Restaurant Overwhelm Imagine that you are sitting in a restaurant trying to have a conversation with someone across the table. A typical brain can focus on that person and let everything else fade into pleasant ambient noise. My brain doesn't work that way. |
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