She’ll grab her fluffy blanket, take herself to one of two spaces in the house (generally on ‘her’ beanbag), sit herself down and suckle. It’s her way of saying: “I need to regulate. Give me a few moments.”

And honestly? She’s better at recognising when she needs a reset than I’ve been for most of my life.

These days, I’m learning to pay attention to those signals too — in myself, not just my dog.

The Early Days: Trying to “Fix” Myself

When I was diagnosed with ADHD and autism at 45, I did what a lot of newly diagnosed people do.

I went into an information deep-dive.

I researched “ADHD-friendly routines.” I read about sleep hygiene, nutrition hacks, planning tips and time management systems. I bought books, downloaded apps and enrolled in courses. I followed the algorithm which delivered me so much ADHD content. And I told myself if I had ‘all of the information and knowledge’ I’d have everything solved.

Spoiler: You can’t out-plan your neurology.

What I’ve learned since then is that building a healthier life with ADHD isn’t about fixing yourself or forcing your brain into neurotypical systems — something I spent years doing pre-diagnosis.

It’s about finding what actually works for your brain and body — even when it looks different from what you “should” be doing.

And sometimes, it’s about giving yourself permission to stop things that aren’t working, even when you’ve already invested time, money, or effort into them.

The Pilates Story (Or: When “Healthy” Isn’t Actually Healthy)

Last year, I started reformer Pilates.

It seemed like a good idea. Everyone said it would help with core strength, posture, alignment. I wanted to feel stronger in my body after years of burnout.

For a while, I enjoyed it.

But then I started noticing something. I’d leave class feeling… off. Shaky. Sometimes tearful. One day, I found myself crying during a session, and not being able to stop — not from exertion, but from something deeper. This happened a few times.

My body was trying to tell me something.

It turned out that Pilates was making me stronger in some ways, sure — but it was also triggering my PTSD, aggravating my hypermobility, and ignoring my body’s actual needs around proprioception and regulation.

And so I stopped.

And it felt like failure at first. I’d paid for the classes. I’d committed. I’d told people I was doing it. I kept getting told ‘it will be good for your stability’.

But here’s what I know: Just because something is “good for you” doesn’t mean it’s good for YOUR body.

I’ve gone back to basics.

Gentle movement. Walking. Yoga stretching.

Working with a physio and an exercise physiologist who’s teaching me foundational things — like how to actually walk and move my body through space in ways that work with my hypermobility and neurodivergent brain, not against it.

Plus, they show me the exercises, provide me with tactile cues, and videos to follow at home, plus regular check-ins and tailoring.

It’s slower. It’s less impressive. But it’s what my body needs. And that’s what matters.

What’s Actually Helped (The Non-Prescriptive Version)

I don’t have a perfect system. I don’t have 10 steps that will transform your life. What I have is a collection of things I’ve learned through trial, error, and a lot of self-compassion.

Here’s what’s made a difference for me — not because they’re “right,” but because they fit my brain and my body.

Protein and hydration (especially with electrolytes)

This was a game-changer I didn’t see coming.

Protein at breakfast — especially for my ADHD brain — makes everything clearer. Without it, I’m foggy as hell. It’s also good for perimenopausal women, which, surprise, I am.

Hydration with electrolytes has been fairly new for me, but it packs a punch.

I’m learning I’m hypermobile and likely have POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome — something that’s becoming more recognised in ADHDers).

Electrolytes help.

So does a good water bottle that makes drinking water easier and more pleasurable. (I got a Yeti for New Year’s that can go in the dishwasher to accompany my other water bottles on cleaning rotation. It’s one of those small things that actually works.)

Eating all the colours (and fibre)

This isn’t about rigid meal plans.

It’s about nourishing my body in ways that support my energy, mood, hormones and gut health.

Colours. Fibre. Real food when I can manage it.

And when I can’t? That’s okay too.

Cooking and meal prep (simplified)

Cooking is challenging. Executive dysfunction is real.

So I simplify. Batch cooking. Body doubling with my husband. One-pot meals. List of easy-to-go-to meals to ease decision fatigue.

Sometimes, frozen curries or delivered gluten-free ready meals.

The goal isn’t perfection. It’s feeding myself in ways that don’t drain me.

Movement — my way

I’m not a “class girl” for fitness. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work for me.

What does work:

• Walking with Freya (though I’ve learned to say no when my body is too tired — which makes me sad, but my body matters too)
• Practising walking my new way on my new treadmill at speed 5 or less instead of 6
• Gentle yoga, rotation and stretching
• Working with a neuro-affirming exercise physiologist who understands hypermobility
• Not pushing myself to walk 1-2 hours every day just because I “should” or because Freya wants it or because I love it but I just can’t drive today!

Movement matters. But so does listening to my body.

Capacity planning and energy management

This has been one of the biggest shifts.

I’ve gone back to spoon theory and capacity planning — asking “What do I actually have capacity for today?” instead of “What should I be doing?”

I plan in quarters now, not years. I time-block with flexibility built in. I schedule rest and space first, because if it’s not in the calendar, it doesn’t happen.

And I’ve learned that my capacity fluctuates. Daily. Weekly. Monthly. That’s not a failing. It’s just how my nervous system works.

Understanding my sensory profile

Learning about my sensory needs has been life-changing.

Why fluorescent lights drain me. Why open offices feel overwhelming. Why soft textures, flowy pants, and fluffy blankets aren’t indulgent — they’re regulation tools.

Freya suckles her fluffy blanket to regulate. I have my own version. Comfort isn’t optional. It’s essential.

Building a support team

For years, I tried to do it all myself.

Now, I have a mostly neuro-affirming team: my psychologist, chiropractor, physiotherapist, exercise physiologist, hormone doctor, GP, and my ADHD coach supervisor.

It’s not a sign of weakness. It’s a sign that I’m taking my health seriously.

And honestly?

Having people who understand my brain and body has made all the difference.

The INCUP Framework (Or: Why Things Stop Working)

Here’s something I wish I’d known earlier: If something stops working, it’s not because you’re not trying hard enough.

ADHD brains need novelty. Interest. Challenge. A sense of urgency or purpose.

That’s where the INCUP framework comes in:

• Interest — Does this feel engaging?
• Novelty — Is there something new here?
• Challenge — Is it the right level of difficulty?
• Urgency — Is there a reason to do it now?
• Purposeful — Does it align with what matters to me?

When something stops working — a routine, a system, a habit — it’s often because one of these elements has shifted.

The answer isn’t to push harder. It’s to be curious and experiment. Mix things up. Gamify. Try something different. Or give yourself a break.

Don’t judge yourself. Be curious.

Structure, Systems, Supports, and Strategies

For ADHD, AuDHD, and autistic people, these four S’s are essential:

Structure — Not rigid, but enough to feel held
Systems — That work with your brain, not against it
Supports — People, tools, accommodations
Strategies — Flexible approaches you can adapt

They’re not about fixing yourself. They’re pillars that support a healthier, more sustainable life.

And they’re allowed to change as you change.

Permission to Do Things Differently

If there’s one thing I want you to take from this, it’s this:

You don’t need to do it the way everyone else does.

You’re allowed to:

• Say no to things that don’t work for your body (even if they’re “healthy”)
• Need a support team
• Have routines that look different from week to week
• Rest without earning it
• Mix things up when something stops working
• Build a life that fits your brain, not someone else’s idea of what you should be doing

This isn’t about lowering standards. It’s about setting standards that don’t cost you your health.

What Freya Taught Me

Back to Freya and her blanket.

She knows when she needs to move. She knows when she needs to rest. She knows when her energy is off and what helps her regulate.

She doesn’t judge herself for it. She just… does it.

I’m still learning that lesson.

But these days, when she grabs her blanket or drops that ball at my feet, I pay attention.

Not just to her needs — but to mine too.

If you’re navigating your own journey of building a life that fits your brain — with all the trial, error, and messy reality that comes with it — you’re not alone. Coaching can be a space to figure out what actually works for you. No pressure. Just support when you need it.

The post What I’ve Learned About Building a Healthier Life with ADHD (The Messy, Real Version) appeared first on Janine Defontaine.

The “new beginnings” energy that’s meant to feel refreshing can land differently if you’re neurodivergent.

Instead of clarity, there’s pressure. And instead of excitement, there’ ‘s the loop:

How do I make this year different?
Where do I even start?
What do I prioritise out of all the things?

And underneath it all — exhaustion before you’ve even begun.

I’ve never been someone who loves resolutions. The idea of setting big goals or mapping out year-long plans has always felt more overwhelming than helpful.

The idea of setting big goals or long-range plans has often felt more overwhelming than helpful — like being asked to map out a future I can’t quite picture yet.

Some years, I’ve leaned hard into planning. Other years, I’ve avoided it altogether — quietly hoping things would just work themselves out if I kept my head down.(Full ostrich mode. Head in the sand. You get me?)

Last year, my business went well. Really well. But by the end of it, I felt strangely unmoored.

Busy. In demand. Pulled along by momentum. And also not fully in control of my time, my energy, or the direction things were heading.

That feeling — of being pulled along rather than choosing — is subtle, but it matters. Especially if you’re already navigating a busy brain, fluctuating capacity, sensory overload, and the mental effort of holding a lot together.

The problem wasn’t a lack of ambition or discipline. It was a lack of regular pause.

And so I’ve come back to something that once worked well for me: quarterly reflection and planning.

Neurodivergent time moves differently

If you’re ADHD or AuDHD, your relationship with time is… complicated.

Some seasons feel expansive and energising. Others feel foggy, heavy, or strangely stalled. You might do a month’s worth of work in a week — and then need several weeks to recover.

This isn’t a failure of consistency.
It’s a nervous system reality.

Traditional planning assumes steady capacity, consistent energy, and linear progress.

Many neurodivergent people don’t experience life that way. It’s more of an ebb and flow. Periods of ease, then a hard slog.

Quarterly reflection works with this reality rather than against it. It creates moments of pause long enough to actually notice patterns.

Reflection isn’t about fixing yourself

Done well, reflection is about sense-making, not self-improvement.

It can help you notice things like:

• When your energy naturally rose or dipped
• What kinds of work felt nourishing versus draining
• Where you over-committed, people-pleased or comprimised your values (often with good intentions)
• What quietly worked, even if it didn’t look impressive
• How you felt — physically and mentally

This kind of reflection can be regulating. It reduces the constant mental load of trying to hold everything in your head. And it interrupts the urge to reinvent your entire life every January.

(Ask me how I know.)

Why quarterly — not monthly, not yearly

Monthly reflection can feel too close to the action. Plus, a month goes by just like that.

Yearly reflection can feel overwhelming and emotionally loaded — especially if the year included burnout, change, or grief.

A quarter sits in a gentle middle ground.

It’s enough time to see patterns without requiring you to summarise your entire existence. It creates a natural checkpoint — a place to pause, rest, and recalibrate if needed.

For ADHD and AuDHD brains, this matters. Quarterly reflection offers:

• a container
• a rhythm
• permission to pause

It’s structure that doesn’t feel like rigidity.

Planning from capacity, not aspiration

One of the biggest shifts quarterly reflection has offered me is this:

I no longer plan according to who I think I should be on my best day. I plan from capacity.

Reflection grounds planning in reality:

• Where did I feel stretched too thin?
• When did I feel stressed or overwhelmed?
• What supported me to function — not just produce?
• When did I feel more easeful?
• Where did I need more space, not more effort?

For me, that’s meant blocking time off each quarter — and even planning a holiday to Japan in May. Not as a reward for productivity. As part of the structure that supports my capacity.

(Because I’ve also realised: if I don’t plan my time off, it doesn’t happen.)

How do you want to feel this season?

When I sit down to reflect now, I don’t start with goals. I start with a simpler question:

How do I want to feel this season?

Not in an aspirational, “best version of myself” way — but in a grounded, nervous-system-aware way.

My overarching intention this year is exactly that: to be intentional.

And when I get specific, the feelings I’m orienting toward are simple:

• healthy — in my mind and body
• connected — in ways that feel meaningful, not rushed
• joyful — not constantly, but savouring more moments

Those become my filter. They guide how I schedule my time. What I commit to. How much structure I need, and where I need more space.

Instead of asking, “Is this the right decision?”

I ask, “Does this support how I want to feel this season?”

That shift alone has helped me start the year feeling more regulated — with space to actually play.

You don’t have to figure this out alone

I don’t love rigid plans. I resist anything overly prescriptive.

But quarterly reflection has given me something I was missing: a sense of agency.

I’m no longer a rudderless boat, pulled along by momentum and other people’s needs.

There’s structure now — with flexibility built in.
Direction — without pressure.
Space — for pause and purpose.

One thing I see again and again is how much easier reflection becomes when it’s externalised.

Thinking out loud.
Being witnessed.
Having someone help you name what you’re noticing — without rushing to solutions.

Quarterly reflection doesn’t have to be a solo journaling marathon. Sometimes it looks like a conversation, a brainstorm, or just space to think with someone who gets it.

If you’re curious about creating a more intentional quarterly rhythm — through reflection, structured thinking space, and planning that actually fits your brain — this is work I support.

The post Why Quarterly Reflection Matters (Especially If You’re Neurodivergent) appeared first on Janine Defontaine.