 Why my six page CV feels emotionally hollowI stand in my home, looking at twenty certificates mounted on my wall. Qualifications, awards, distinctions. A 99% average in child psychology. Creative artist of the year. Business awards. My CV runs over six pages.
I feel nothing. They're pieces of paper now. I didn't put them up to celebrate myself - I put them up to remind me what I've achieved in life and so that other people could see what I'd done without me having to tell them. Another form of hiding in plain sight. I've seen others on social media celebrating their wins, their achievements. When I try, it feels performative, presumptuous - like I'm showing off. So I post occasionally, brief and humble: "So proud and grateful to have won this award." And I'll even agree to newspaper articles and interviews. It's a compromise. Public enough to be seen, but modest enough not to trigger the danger signals that have lived in my nervous system for decades. I used to think this was just me. That I was ungrateful, or broken somehow. But then I realised - my son does exactly the same thing - so I researched.
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 Aged 13 with my cat Snippy Of all the traits that come with being neurodivergent, Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD) is one of the hardest for me to deal with. It's taken me years to understand what it is, and even longer to learn how to manage it. I only discovered that RSD was "an actual thing" recently - and suddenly, so much more of my life made sense.
What is RSD? RSD isn't something you're born with - it develops over time, particularly in children with ADHD. Here's a statistic that stopped me in my tracks: ADHD/AuDHD children receive an estimated 20,000 more criticisms than neurotypical children by the time they reach high school age. Twenty. Thousand. More!!  Aged 7 at Pompeii in 1970 The Weight of Hours: My Lifelong Battle with Time
I was six years old when my grandmother died, and someone told me that people usually live to about 70. I remember lying in bed that night, doing the math—64 years left—and feeling an overwhelming sense of panic. It wasn't enough. How could 64 years possibly be enough time to figure out why I was here? What my purpose was. Most children that age are worried about losing teeth or learning to ride bikes. I was lying awake at night, gripped by existential dread, convinced I would run out of time before I'd even started.  Have you ever had the experience of knowing exactly what you want to say, but the moment you pick up a pen or sit at a keyboard, pick up a paint brush, or even open your mouth to speak, your thoughts scatter like startled birds and disappear? You're not alone, and it's not incompetence or lack of intelligence. For many of us with dysgraphia and or AuDHD, this "download problem" is a daily reality that goes far beyond messy handwriting and failure at school.
What Is the Download Problem? I call it the download problem because it feels to me, like trying to transfer files with a broken connection. The information is all there in the mind—complete, detailed, vivid—but when I attempt to write it down, the transfer fails. It's as if the act of writing, speaking, or otherwise expressing creatively, causes interference that scrambles the signal between my thoughts and my ability to 'download' them. This isn't like writer's or artists block in the traditional sense. That type of block suggests you don't know what to write or paint or say. With the download problem, I know exactly what I want to say, or paint, or dance, but the pathway from brain to hand, mouth or body, seems to short-circuit the moment I try to access it.  In a world that often focuses on deficits and challenges, I want to share some of the strengths that come with my neurocomplex mind. My neurodivergence includes AuDHD (Autism and ADHD),
2e giftedness, mirror touch synesthaesia and heightened existential awareness (plus a few more I could add)—a combination that shapes how I experience and interact with the world in ways that I've come to deeply value. “A perspective on living with ADHD, Autism, and the harm of casual comparisons” "Everyone is a little bit neurodivergent." If you're AuDHD—living with both ADHD and Autism—you've probably heard this phrase more times than you can count. It's usually said with good intentions, meant to be reassuring or inclusive. But here's the reality: this statement minimises and dismisses the profound ways neurodivergent people navigate the world differently.
Being neurodivergent isn't about having quirks or occasional struggles that everyone experiences "a little bit of." It's about fundamentally different neurological wiring that affects every aspect of daily life—from how we process information to how we interact with our environment and other people. Discovering that I’m autistic as well as ADHD and 2eGifted has been like finding that long-lost puzzle piece that finally completes the picture of who I am. For more than 60 years, I’ve carried an unshakable sense that something was missing—like I was navigating life without the full manual. The best way I can describe it is this: it’s like suddenly realising the reason I could never “run on Windows” was because I’m actually a Mac. I was built differently, but beautifully, and that difference was never the flaw I believed it to be. This discovery hasn’t erased the struggles, but it has changed how I see them. I look back at the child I once was—the misunderstood little girl who tried so hard to fit in, who believed she had to be like everyone else—and my heart aches for her. She carried the weight of feeling “wrong” for so long. Today, I want her to know: you have been heard. We are free now. Free to just be. Free to embrace the wonderful, unique person we were always meant to be. Of course, the journey hasn’t been without scars. Along the way, I’ve gathered CPTSD, Fibromyalgia, ME/CFS and anxiety. These challenges are part of my story, but they no longer define it. I’ve adapted, learned, surrendered, and risen again, time and time over the decades. This late diagnosis doesn’t make those years wasted. It gives them meaning. It allows me to honour my younger self for surviving in a world that never fully understood her. Now, together, we can move forward—healing, thriving, and living authentically as the person we were born to be.   Navigating life as an AuDHD artist can feel like a dance between two contrasting worlds, each demanding its own rhythm and attention. Much of this I am only just learning to understand myself. At the heart of this journey lies a complex interplay of traits: autism’s need for structure, routine, and deep analysis, and ADHD’s thirst for novelty, spontaneity, and the struggle to form lasting habits.
For instance, my autistic brain finds peace in predictability, needing things organised in a certain way to feel secure. Each morning begins with the same familiar routine, a foundation that keeps me grounded. However, my ADHD can throw a curveball, easily distracted by the allure of something new—a project that pops into my head suddenly, or someone demanding my time during those crucial morning moments. One stray disruption, and my carefully crafted routine unravels, leaving me overwhelmed and struggling to regain stability for days. Social interactions present another contradiction. My autistic brain overanalyses every detail, seeking clarity in social cues and instructions. I crave meaningful connections, yet find myself drained by the effort of deciphering social nuances. Meanwhile, my ADHD gets overly excited, can over-share, and struggles to stay focused on conversations or follow through with tasks that require sustained attention. Balancing these dual forces goes beyond daily routines. I often feel the urge to say yes to every opportunity, fueled by my passion for exploration and creativity. Yet, the fear of overcommitting looms large, a constant reminder of past burnouts. Structure provides a sense of security, but too much structure can feel stifling. I crave excitement and spontaneity to keep my creativity alive and thriving. As an AuDHD artist, my journey is one of resilience and adaptation. It’s about embracing the strengths each trait brings—meticulous attention to detail, seemingly boundless creativity, and a unique perspective—while navigating the challenges they pose. It’s a delicate balance of honouring my need for structure and routine, while allowing room for the unpredictable bursts of inspiration that define my artistic expression. But it is in this dance of contrasts that makes me who I am as an artist— shaped by the interplay of autism and ADHD, weaving together moments of clarity, creativity, and constant growth. I continue to learn how these two parts of me work themselves together to allow me to be who I am.  At 61, I finally got an official autism diagnosis. After decades of navigating ADHD, Giftedness, childhood trauma, anxiety, and that constant feeling of not quite fitting in, I discovered that ADHD, Giftedness, and Autism CAN coexist. I had spent years running support groups for ADHD and Autism, but it wasn’t until recent research made it clear that they can be diagnosed together that everything started to click into place.
Looking back, it’s clear to me now how much of my life was spent in pain, without even really knowing why. As a young adult, I became obsessed with psychology, past life therapy, life coaching, and Motivational Kinesiology... I was trying to understand people and myself, but something always felt like it was missing. I thought I was broken, and I spent so much energy covering it up, masking, overcompensating, and trying to fit into a world that never seemed to make sense to me. But why now, after all these years, you might ask? Well, it took a while for me to find the courage to b e assessed and finally seek a diagnosis. But when I did, everything began to fall into place. And the best part is the weight lifted from my shoulders: I can now say with confidence that I’m not a “broken horse,” (to borrow a well known cliche) I’m a zebra. I’m wired differently, and I can now start to be proud of everything I’ve ever achieved. For so long, I have felt like the odd one out, constantly out of sync with everyone around me. But learning that I’m autistic was a revelation. It felt like finding my tribe, discovering that I wasn’t quite the misfit I always thought I was. I’m so grateful for my autism diagnosis, even though it came later in life, but I’m also incredibly grateful that I was diagnosed with ADHD 30 years ago, as it allowed me to guide my children, who are both ADHD, and offer support to other neurodivergent people during those years. That said, not recognising my own autism for so long does leave me with a sense of grief, that I didn't expect, for the "missed" life, opportunities, and experiences that could have been different if I had understood myself sooner. Living with AuDHD, Giftedness, and dysgraphia in a neurotypical world isn’t ever going to be easy though. We unfortunately live in a society where our differences are often viewed as a “disorder” that needs to be fixed or hidden away. So being AuDHD is still going be tough, sometimes painful, and for those of us who didn’t know we were autistic until later in life, it can be especially isolating. After all, we have spent years feeling like we were missing something fundamental, like everyone else was part of a Circle we never got invited to join or never wanted to join. It’s hard not to feel like an outsider. For me, finding the autistic and especially the AuDHD community has been a healing journey. It reminds me that even though my brain is complex, lonely, and exhausting at times, there are others out there with similar brains. This connection is what I’ve longed for—people who understand what it’s like to feel like you don’t quite belong, but who also understand that your divergence from the “norm” is not a flaw, but a different way of existing. Even if I ultimately do have to deal with my brain alone, it’s comforting to know that there are others who share this level of complexity and divergence too. Feel free to reach out if you are part of this tribe of "zebras". There are more of us than you'd think.  It’s been a while since I properly introduced myself, so here we are. I’m Jane Marin—artist, illustrator, bookbinder, and creative guide behind Jaaneman Art.
Art has always been more than 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 who is neurodivergent, I’ve come to understand that my creative practice is also how I self-regulate, find calm, and reconnect with myself when everything feels a little 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 grounding about stitching pages into form, about turning discarded materials into something meaningful and beautiful. Each journal I make becomes a little vessel for someone else’s story—a safe place for reflection, mess, and magic. Through my ‘Gather and Create’ workshops, I invite others into this process of remembering and rediscovery. These gatherings are not just about making art, but about reconnecting—with creativity, with community, and with the parts of ourselves that need care and expression. In the months ahead, I’d like to start sharing more about my journey as a neurodivergent artist—what it looks like behind the scenes, and how it shapes the way I create, teach, and live. If that resonates with you, I hope you’ll join me. Here’s to finding beauty, healing, and meaning in the everyday. |
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