A Letter from the Edge of Emotional Overload
Hello My Friend,
I want to share an experience I had recently.
PART ONE: The Tightrope
The more I learn just how much my AuDHD is responsible for the difficulty I have regulating my emotions, the more grace I give myself.
(You proud of me? I kinda am.)
Every day feels like walking a wobbly tightrope.
One micro-scoot or shuffle at a time—just trying not to fall into the flood of emotions waiting below.
It takes a ridiculous amount of effort. And it’s exhausting.
So what’s the solution?
If life were perfect, I’d avoid the stuff that overwhelms me.
Not the stuff that upsets me—overwhelms me.
Upset is spilling wine on your shirt.
Overwhelm is being thrown into a pool of wine with no bottom and no clue how to swim out.
But that’s not an option in a world where just getting your basic needs met means wading through rivers of noise, navigating surprise alarms, and pretending you’re fine when you’re running on fumes.
And then you’re supposed to somehow have enough left over to build a life?
So I do what I can with what I’ve got.
I follow a messy process that sometimes looks like pacing, pausing, asking weird questions, or going completely silent while I find the thread.
Because it’s either that or shut down.
My brain’s not wired for emotional delays. The feelings show up first. Loud. Complex. Untranslated.
And unless I can find a way to give them shape, I drown in them.
Which brings me to...
PART TWO: About the Time I Almost Lost It
It was one of those days where it felt like everything had sharp edges.
One of my kids made a sound that felt like an airhorn to my brain. I asked him to stop. He didn’t.
Then came a second noise. A third. I could feel myself reaching the edge.
I was ready to snap. To yell. To say something I’d regret.
Instead—I opened my notes app and typed:
"I want to scream right now because it feels like no one’s listening and I don’t matter."
And then I wrote:
"I know that’s not true. But it’s what I feel."
I didn’t explain or analyze. I just named it. Word by word, I emptied it out. Until the volume in my body dropped. Until I could hear my own thoughts again.
That’s what writing does for me. It lets me breathe again. It’s not about fixing the emotion. It’s about letting it move.
See, I experience emotional flooding often—like a rush of experience too big and too heavy to hold.
And when that wave hits, the urge to lash out comes fast. But if I can put words to it—early—I can keep it from taking me under.
Writing helps me feel like I’m with myself instead of fighting myself.
That’s the part no one sees. The behind the scenes of emotional regulation. The clunky, imperfect, lifesaving practice of pausing long enough to listen to what’s happening inside.
That moment was almost a disaster. But it became a doorway. A chance to get honest with myself and re-center.
All because I wrote.
Here Are Tools for When You’re Flooded but Frozen
Want a few tools that help when your body is overloaded and your brain is offline?
Name it fast. Even one word (“loud,” “pressure,” “done”) is a start.
Use your thumbs. Notes app. Text to yourself. Voice memos. Doesn’t have to be pretty.
Set a timer for 3 minutes. Let yourself brain-dump without editing.
Anchor your body. Sit against a wall. Hold something cool. Drop your shoulders.
End with this sentence: “Something about me in this moment is worth protecting.”
Because you are. Even when you feel like a tangled mess of thoughts, emotions, and unfinished sentences. Especially then—because that’s when you need the most care, not the most fixing.
Thanks for being here with me.
Thanks for being you,
Brian
P.S. If you’re ready to turn the emotional noise into momentum, come sit with me in a Power Hour. It’s one focused hour to write, think, feel, or just be—with someone who gets it. You don’t need to do it alone.
What people say about working with me…