🪺Glimmer Nest: The Loop of Endless Wondering
A Day Inside My Spinning Mind
The alarm doesn't wake me because I'm already awake. 5 AM arrives like it always does, with my eyes already open, staring at the ceiling. I know I should get up and work at my desk, but there's something about the cocoon of blankets and pillows that makes the laptop feel nestled in with me… like a co-conspirator. Working from bed is supposed to be a productivity sin, but it works for me, and I'm done apologizing for things that work!
As I type, my mind starts its familiar wandering. Do I have autism too? Is that why this unconventional setup feels so right? My son and I share a love of burrowing. Pillow forts? Yes, please. The way I need specific textures and lighting to think clearly, the way I can hyperfocus for hours on a project but can't decide what to wear—these patterns feel so familiar when I watch my son navigate his day.
Two hours pass in what feels like twenty minutes. This is the hyperfocus everyone talks about, the dopamine-driven tunnel vision that makes me either incredibly productive or completely scattered. There's no middle ground, no gentle afternoon of casually checking emails. I'm either all in or all out, and sometimes I wonder if fighting this pattern is what's making everything feel so much harder.
By 9 AM, I hear my son start to stir. Usually he asks his tiny Squishmallow shark friend, Gordon, "What are you doing, Gordon?" That's my cue to respond. Time to switch modes. I am the voice of Gordon. I usually say, "I'm rolly rolling in the bed. Good morning, Tad! How'd you sleep?" This makes him giggle and then the usual questions about Disney/Pixar movies follow. The transition from work-brain to mom-brain used to feel smoother, but lately, the regression we're seeing makes every interaction feel like walking through a minefield I can't see. Making breakfast becomes a negotiation between his OCD rituals and the basic need for nutrition. Forty minutes later, we have his usual ready - waffles and sausage with chocolate milk, and I'm calculating whether this counts as a win or just survival.
I watch him arrange his food in patterns I don't understand but have learned not to question. Is this accommodating his needs or enabling avoidance? The line feels so blurry some days, and I wonder if the people who talk about that distinction so confidently have ever tried to parent a child whose brain works in ways that defy their textbook understanding. Will my parents ever understand what it's like to parent the way I must, or will I always feel like I'm translating my reality into a language they can't quite grasp?
Lessons start around 10, but "start" is a generous term. Today it takes us twenty minutes just to get him to transition from the ritualistic flossing that must happen after each meal. "Is there any waffle and sausage in my mouth?" he asks. "I think you got it all, buddy," I say. I pull up my client notes on my phone while he searches through his mouth for the umpteenth time. I no longer try to hurry him along as this causes more anxiety and questioning about time. "Are we rushed? Why is time so fast?" Believe me, sweet boy, I understand how time can feel "too fast"… I also understand completely how it can drag all at once. There’s me trying to work while homeschooling, trying to be present for both.
My phone buzzes with a calendar reminder: client call in two hours. How do other people make client calls when their teen might need to process emotions about "why is my head so fast" at any moment? I look at my son, now fixated on his pant leg, and wonder if today will be a day when math happens or a day when we just try to get through the morning relatively unscathed… no tears, no anxiety spirals.
"Mom, what is this?" he asks, pointing at one of the folds in his pant leg, and I see the frustration building in his shoulders. "Is that chocolate milk?" He points to a very faint line of what I'm assuming is the tiniest bit of chocolate milk. "Yes, I see it, buddy. Do we need to change your pants before we start our first lesson?" We do. The OCD is scary sometimes, the way it grips him and makes ordinary objects feel threatening. I have to meet this with calm and speed or it escalates, even when my own anxiety is spiking. Why can I make complex work decisions but completely freeze when trying to figure out how to help him through a moment like this?
We move to the couch for what I optimistically call "flexible learning." After we talk through some concepts that were new yesterday, I give him a worksheet to start while I balance my laptop on my knees, both of us working in our own worlds but together. He knows he can ask me anything, but lately he stares into space for a while before asking, so I definitely keep my eye on him and make sure he's doing okay. He assures me he still loves his worksheets, but I'm working to find ways to build upon his social emotional skills instead of subjects that, right now, seem like teaching a fish how to ride a bicycle. Math and science are not what he needs at this moment. This isn't how any curriculum suggests it should work, but it's working for us today.
By noon, I remember my client call in thirty minutes and feel the familiar guilt cycle start: Why do I feel guilty for working when he's struggling, but also guilty for not working when he's stable?
Lunch requires the same careful navigation as breakfast. Food has become another battleground where his need for control meets our need for nutrition. Forty-five minutes later, we have had food in front of us for 40 of those minutes, and he has taken maybe two bites while I've finished long ago, and I'm mentally calculating whether this meal timing will affect dinner, whether we can handle the grocery store later, whether I have enough energy left for the afternoon client call.
While he eats, I load the dishwasher, my mind spinning through the afternoon's logistics. This is when the bigger questions surface, in these mundane moments when my hands are busy but my brain is free to wander. Will my husband's myasthenia gravis flare up again, and how will we handle the physical demands of our life if it does? I find myself constantly calculating backup plans for scenarios that may never happen, but the planning feels necessary, like armor against uncertainty.
The client call goes well, surprisingly. I can hyperfocus when I need to, compartmentalize when the situation demands it. But afterward, I feel that familiar all-or-nothing crash. I either work with intensity for hours or can't string together a coherent thought. There's no gentle middle ground, and I wonder if this dopamine-seeking work pattern is sustainable or if I'm setting myself up for burnout by swinging between mental intensity and complete shutdown.
Afternoon lessons are more challenging. The regression we've been seeing lately shows up in ways that break my heart—skills he had last month that seem harder now, confidence that feels more fragile. How many times can I google "is this a phase" about the same behavior before admitting I have no idea what I'm doing? Is it normal to feel simultaneously proud and heartbroken about the same developmental milestone?
Dinner planning hits around 4 PM, and suddenly I'm paralyzed by choices that should be simple. Why do dinner decisions require a risk assessment of sounds, textures, and emotional capacity? Why can I make complex work decisions but completely freeze when trying to choose what to cook? The regression means foods he tolerated last week might be impossible today, and I feel the weight of needing to predict and accommodate needs I can't always see. Just recently, due more to wanting/needing to go on a diet myself, all three of us began having microwave meals at dinnertime. I realized this analysis paralysis about dinner could be solved if we could all just eat something different. It has really helped! If my son wants to eat his favorite meal every night, that's great! If he's eating pasta with broccoli and chicken every night, that is way better than not eating at all!
My husband comes home while I'm still staring into the refrigerator like it might offer answers as to which meal I'll pick. There are still choices, but at least it's narrowed down to what's on my shelf. He sees my face and suggests a hug instead. Luckily, he has good radar for when I need those.
Evening winds down in our usual way, with all three of us watching a fun show – Ghosts, Ted Lasso, and Maine Cabin Masters are all favorites. My husband starts getting sleepy around 9, but my brain is just hitting its second wind. Our different sleep schedules used to feel problematic, but now I wonder if this is just how we're wired. Is this dopamine-seeking work pattern a feature of neurodivergence or a bug I should try to fix?
Often, a before-bed shower is what happens as soon as I get everyone else to sleep. The hot water decompresses my shoulders while my mind simultaneously ramps up with all the worries I've been keeping at bay. Why do these worry spirals hit hardest when I'm trying to sleep, when my brain should be winding down instead of ramping up? Will I slip back into that fog of dissociation when things get overwhelming again? And if I do, will I recognize it this time?
I've finally migrated to bed, but my brain is just getting started with its late-night programming. Am I masking so much in my professional life that I'm losing track of who I actually am underneath it all? The questions that fuel my panic attacks are the same ones that sometimes lead to my most creative breakthroughs. Why does my brain feel like it needs constant stimulation to function, but then gets completely overwhelmed by too much input?
I think about the day's small victories and invisible struggles. Is it normal that I celebrate when breakfast only takes 90 minutes instead of two hours? Why does every parenting article assume your biggest challenge is limiting screen time rather than figuring out if today's autism meltdown is about sensory overload, anxiety, or just being fifteen?
The questions cascade now, one triggering another in that familiar late-night spiral. Will my husband notice if I start disconnecting from myself again, and will he know how to help? Why do I see myself so clearly in some of my son's struggles, and does that make me a better advocate or just more confused about my own needs?
These questions don't have neat answers, and honestly, I'm not sure they're supposed to. Maybe the point isn't to solve them all but to recognize that asking them means I'm paying attention, adapting, and caring deeply about doing the right things for my family and myself.
What I'm learning is that the same brain that creates these endless wonderings—the one that won't let me sleep sometimes, that swings between hyperfocus and complete overwhelm—might not be broken. It might just be wired differently. And maybe instead of fighting the intensity, I need to find ways to work with it.
The questions aren't the enemy. They're breadcrumbs leading me toward understanding—of my son, of myself, of who we’re becoming, and I have a choice to look at the future with curiosity over fear.
Spiraling alongside you,
P.S. One more wondering: When you see your own traits reflected in your child, do you feel more connected to them or more uncertain about who you actually are underneath all the coping strategies? I'd love to hear your reflections in the Glimmer Nest Chat. Join below!
P.P.S. Do you have a song you associate with the feeling of spiraling? For me it’s this…
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