Living at Full Volume: Being Neurodivergent and Gen Z in a World That Can’t Keep Up

Why ADHD, anxiety, and OCD shape my life — and how I'm learning to thrive, not just survive.

Growing up neurodivergent as a Gen Z kid has felt like navigating a high-speed rollercoaster with no seatbelt — equal parts exhilarating and exhausting. Having ADHD, anxiety, and OCD is like living with a “triple threat” brain. It pushes me to perform at a level that’s sometimes impressive, sometimes unsustainable. I’ve learned how these parts of me work together in weird, often conflicting ways — my ADHD makes me dive into uni assignments with hyperfocus, my anxiety keeps me striving for perfection, and my OCD makes me obsess over finishing one thing before even thinking about the next. But if I miss a step, or lose momentum for even a day, the whole system can crash. I’ll procrastinate for the rest of the week until I hit the mental “reset” of a new Monday.

That said, I’ve never been one to fall behind academically. I actually enjoyed school, even though I bounced around to different ones and even moved countries. The only real bump came in Year 12, when I transferred to a new school and clashed with the principal over a nose piercing. That experience said a lot about how some people treat visible self-expression — especially when it’s tied to neurodivergence.

My university journey has been a bit of a maze. I’ve changed degrees more than once (at one point even juggling five at once!) — not because I don’t care, but because I care too much. I’m deeply invested in everything I do… until I’m not. I get bored easily, feel unsatisfied even when I’m doing the most, and often think I could be doing ten more things at once. It’s hard not to feel defeated when I can’t master every skill, open a business the second I think of it, or travel to every country tomorrow. My mind doesn’t want to work to live — it wants to live to chase every creative spark the second it hits. Unfortunately, the world doesn’t always move at that pace.

One of the biggest blessings in all of this has been my family. I grew up in a household where neurodivergence was never a dirty word. Both of my parents are proudly neurodivergent, which created an environment where I’ve always felt free to be myself. Every phase of mine — whether it was short hair and baggy clothes, piercings and tattoos, or bouncing between ideas and passions — was met with support, not judgment. Even when I took three years to figure out what I wanted to study or brought up new business plans every few weeks, they always believed in me. It’s a kind of support that not everyone gets, and I don’t take it for granted. They’ve always pushed us to be our best, but never made us feel like we weren’t enough.

Socially, being neurodivergent hasn’t held me back — it’s actually helped me filter through people and find those who genuinely vibe with me. I’ve got a wide variety of friends now: people who dress like me, friends I met in science classes or while learning Spanish, friends I met years ago in high school, and even friends I clicked with through random interactions. I’ve always found it pretty easy to talk to people — I’m extroverted and love being around others — but I do mask sometimes, especially when meeting new people or entering a new space. It’s kind of like emotional armour: I’ll tone myself down just enough to “pass” until I know whether I can be my full self around someone. Eventually, though, I always want to drop the mask.

That mask, though, does take its toll. Uni life especially can wear me down — not just because of assignments, but because of how much effort it takes to constantly present a more digestible version of myself. Around midterm, I usually hit a wall — not because I can’t do the work, but because I’m tired of pretending. Still, the masking isn’t something I regret; it’s part of how I’ve learned to navigate different environments. If anything, it adds to the richness of my experience, even if it’s sometimes draining.

Romantic relationships haven’t always been easy, but I don’t think that’s because I’m neurodivergent — I just think dating in general (and especially in Brisbane) feels like a social experiment that no one’s winning. I’ve had my fair share of situationships, and while none of them exactly restored my faith in humanity, they’ve taught me a lot — mainly what not to do. But if there’s one thing I’ve realised, it’s that being with someone who’s also neurodivergent can be a game-changer. There’s something really comforting about not having to explain every weird brain moment — why you suddenly need silence, why you have to cancel plans for the third time, or why your nervous system just short-circuited over a missed text. Neurodivergent people kind of speak this unspoken language. We don’t have to give a TED Talk every time we’re having a weird day: we get that silence isn’t awkward, that routines can be sacred, and that emotional overwhelm doesn’t always give you a heads-up. Being with someone who doesn’t expect you to constantly mask or translate yourself into “normal” makes everything feel a little less performative.

Online, I’ve noticed that neurodivergence is way more visible and talked about than it used to be. There’s a lot more acceptance — sometimes. Social media has made it “trendy” in some circles, especially when it comes to ADHD and OCD. But it’s weirdly conditional. If you’re attractive or funny, being neurodivergent is “quirky” and cool. If you’re not, it can quickly become something people mock or side-eye. Autism in particular gets picked apart a lot. People love to meme it, but also seem to decide who’s allowed to have it and still be “normal,” and who gets labeled as weird. It’s not always malicious, but it can definitely feel like representation is only palatable when it’s pretty, packaged, and marketable.

Living in a neurodiverse family has shown me that even in supportive environments, there are layers to this. Everyone processes things differently, everyone reacts in their own way. I’ve noticed that I tend to pick up social cues more easily than some, and that’s helped me navigate friendships or public spaces a bit more smoothly. But that also means I’ve had to learn empathy over time — it wasn’t something that came naturally. I had to understand that not everyone communicates the same, and that patience goes both ways.

At the end of the day, I wouldn’t trade my neurodivergence for anything. It makes me me. Sure, it means I sometimes feel like I’m sprinting in three directions at once, or starting over every Monday. But it also means I experience the world intensely — every passion, every meltdown, every deep conversation, every strange idea. I’m constantly learning how to live with it, not fight against it. And honestly? That feels like a pretty Gen Z thing to do.