🧠 Why “Just Try Harder” is Not a Strategy (and What to Do Instead)

Let’s play a quick game.

Have you ever:

• Forgotten something the exact moment you were supposed to remember it?

• Told yourself you'd do it later... and “later” turned into “whoops, it’s next week”?

• Stared at a messy room or inbox and felt so overwhelmed you just shut down?

Now—have you ever been told to “just try harder” in response to all that?

Spoiler alert: “Just try harder” is not a strategy. It’s a guilt grenade wrapped in a command. And for neurodivergent folks (and honestly, most humans), it’s completely useless.

🚫 Why “Trying Harder” Doesn’t Work

“Trying harder” assumes that success is just a matter of willpower. But if willpower were a rechargeable battery, many of us are running on 1%. Not because we’re lazy or broken—but because our brains are wired differently.

Executive function challenges—like difficulty with starting tasks, remembering steps, shifting focus, or managing time—aren’t solved by shame. They're solved by support.

Here’s what “just try harder” doesn’t account for:

• Working memory struggles (aka forgetting mid-task what the task even was)

• Time blindness (when “10 minutes” feels like “soonish” or “never”)

• Emotional overwhelm (hello, shutdown and avoidance)

• Rejection sensitivity (criticism doesn’t motivate—it paralyzes)

✅ What Actually Helps

Real strategies look like this:

• Chunking tasks: “Write the paper” becomes “Make a messy outline,” “Find sources,” “Write intro,” etc.

• External supports: Alarms, visual checklists, body doubling, or co-working with someone you trust.

• Permission to rest: Productivity isn't a moral value. You’re still worthy on your low-energy days.

• Compassion over criticism: You can’t shame yourself into success. But you can coach yourself forward.

And that’s where coaching comes in. Not as a drill sergeant—but as a teammate. Someone who helps build systems, strategies, and self-trust that don’t rely on brute force or burnout.

🌱 Bottom Line

Trying harder might work for short bursts. But if you're tired of white-knuckling your way through life, maybe it's time to try smarter instead of harder.

And if you’re ready to explore that? You don’t have to do it alone.

If You’re Drowning in “Whys”… Let’s Talk.

“Why?”
“Okay, but… why?”
“But why though?”

If you’re a parent or caregiver floating in an ocean of “whys” with nothing but a flimsy raft made of “because I said so” — this post is for you.

First: I see you. I am you.
And second: You’re not going to win this one.

See, your child isn’t trying to fight you. They’re not trying to drive you to the edge of your sanity. They’re looking for understanding. And if your answer doesn’t make sense to them, they may still not comply.

And I know what you're thinking:

“They should just listen! I shouldn’t have to explain everything!”

But here’s the truth — especially if your child is neurodivergent or justice-driven — obedience without understanding can feel like betrayal of self.

As a strong-willed adult who remembers being a strong-willed kid, I wasn’t trying to be “difficult.” I just needed to know.
What if what I was being asked to do went against my morals?
What if there was fine print no one mentioned?
What if I was unknowingly agreeing to… I don’t know… puppy murder? (Okay, that’s extreme, but you get the point.)

The more someone demanded, the more I resisted. Not to be rebellious — to feel safe.

Now as a parent of strong-willed kids, I’ve learned this:
Sometimes they ask “why?”
…and I don’t know.
And when that happens, I pause.
Sometimes I take the task off the table.
Sometimes I explain anyway, even if it feels “obvious.”
Because what feels obvious to me might not be to them.

Even if the answer is,

“Because it’s kind.”
That still deserves to be said out loud.

Because understanding builds trust.
And trust is worth more than blind obedience.

Want to keep the convo going? Drop a 🙋‍♀️ if this resonates with you — or if you’ve ever been outmatched by a kid’s “why” game.

#Parenting #StrongWilledKids #NeurodivergentParenting #DaydreamAndDo #GentleParenting #WhyWhyWhy #ExecutiveFunctionSupport

To whoever needs this—maybe that’s just me

To whoever needs this—maybe that’s just me:

My whole life, people have told me I’m too sensitive. That they have to walk on eggshells just to be around me.

That really fucking stings.

It’s something I’ve carried deeply, and it’s hard to sit with.

I cry a lot—over things other people don’t think are worth crying about.

But maybe what I have that they don’t is this:

I know that tonight, I’ll cry.

I’ll hurt.

I’ll struggle to do the things most people consider just… living.

I’ll wish I could tuck and roll right out of life.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow I’ll wake up.

I’ll dust myself off.

I’ll probably cry some more.

And it’ll be a little lighter.

I’ll show my kids what it looks like to keep going when the sky feels like it’s falling.

I’ll show them how to feel their feelings and release them.

How to be strong and soft at the same time.

How to get through the turbulence—and if they crash, how to rebuild.

Because I know there are others like me—people who deserve a soft place to land when they don’t have the strength to fly.

And maybe I’m just writing into the void.

But if you’re out there: I see you.

You deserve to be loved without condition.

The world is already hard enough.

It’s time to lean into the softness.

You Deserved Better. You Still Do.

Trigger Warning: Abuse, exploitation, trauma

This isn't the kind of post I ever imagined myself writing publicly. It’s personal, it’s uncomfortable, and honestly, it’s painful. But I’ve learned that the things we avoid talking about are often the things someone else needs to hear most. So I’m going to try, piece by piece.

This is going to be an ongoing conversation. I won’t be able to unpack everything all at once, it’s just too much. But if this resonates with you, or if you ever have questions or need someone to listen, I’m here. Truly.
And just to be clear: this is not about my husband. I’m safe now, and I’m thankful for that. I just know how easily people can assume, and I want to honor the safety I do have.

Did you know that neurodivergent people are three times more likely to be victims of abuse?

It’s not just a statistic. It’s a lived experience for far too many of us. And if you’ve been there, if you are there, please know you’re not alone.

I didn’t always understand what was happening to me. I just knew I didn’t quite fit. I struggled socially, so I learned early on to adapt. To “go with the flow.” To be agreeable. And most of all, to make myself useful. Because if I was helpful enough, maybe I’d be accepted. Maybe I’d finally belong.

But what I didn’t understand back then is that when you spend all your energy just trying to be a person people can tolerate, you make yourself easy to take advantage of, without even realizing it.

I did people’s homework. Gave them rides. Laughed at jokes that made me feel small. Let them cross boundaries I didn’t even know how to set. And sometimes, even my body was part of the performance. I thought that’s what it meant to be liked. I thought that’s what friendship or connection looked like.

But it wasn’t connection. It was survival.

And I’ve come to understand that what I was experiencing wasn’t just a few bad relationships or toxic friends, it was abuse. It was exploitation. It was people recognizing a vulnerability I hadn’t learned to protect, and taking full advantage.

That’s a hard thing to admit. But I think it’s important.

Because if you’ve ever felt like your worth depended on what you could do for other people, if you’ve ever confused being used for being loved—I want you to hear this:

You deserved better. You still do.

There is no shame in being someone who wanted to be loved so badly you forgot to ask yourself what it cost you. There is no shame in not knowing. The shame belongs to the people who took advantage of your kindness, not you.

And now? Now I’m learning what boundaries look like. I’m learning that being liked isn’t worth being harmed. That love isn’t something you have to earn by sacrificing yourself.

I still have a long way to go. This won’t be the last time I talk about this, but this is where I’ll start.

If you or someone you love needs support:
📞 National Domestic Violence Hotline: 800-799-7233
📱 Or text START to 88788
🌐 thehotline.org

Different Language, Same Planet: What a Game of Telephone Taught Me About Autism

I grew up in West Texas—a beautiful place, but not exactly known for being ahead of the curve on mental health. When I started school at Texas Tech (Wreck ‘em, Raiders!), I had heard of autism, but only through a very narrow, biased lens. So when the school counselor mentioned that she thought I might be autistic, I was… honestly almost offended.

At the time, I only knew one little boy with autism, and I didn’t see myself in him at all. (I know—I’m rolling my eyes at past me too. Thank goodness for growth.)

But the more I thought about it, the more interesting it became. And I did what any good student would do—I wrote papers. Lots of them.

My degree was in communication, and that background gave me a unique way to think about autism. Not just as a different brain structure—but as a different language.

There’s a small study I came across (I’ll link it if I find it again) that really stuck with me. Researchers formed three groups: one entirely neurotypical, one entirely neurodivergent, and one mixed. Each group played the game “telephone”—you know, where someone whispers a phrase like “I like French toast” down a line, and by the end it turns into “I let friends host.”

What they found was fascinating. The neurotypical group and the neurodivergent group were both able to pass the message down fairly accurately. But the mixed group? The message fell apart every time.

This study was small, but it sparked something in me. It made so much sense.

Autistic people don’t literally speak a different language—but it can feel like it. I’ve seen this first-hand, in the most unexpected place: a game of Heads Up.

My husband and I were on a team (he hasn’t been formally diagnosed with anything, but you know what they say: birds of a feather). We crushed it. We got almost every word right, even with the vaguest hints. My family was baffled. They kept saying it was like watching two people who spoke a completely different language that only they understood.

That’s when it clicked. This isn’t about being broken or wrong. It’s about being wired differently—like speaking dialects of the same human experience.

So next time you meet someone whose communication feels a little “off” to you—whether they’re neurotypical or neurodivergent—give them some grace. They might just be speaking a different language.

Curious about the double empathy problem?

I’d love to hear how you’ve experienced this in your own life—whether you’re neurodivergent, neurotypical, or still figuring it out. Leave a comment or share your story with me!

Stated study:

“The Double Empathy Problem” by Damian Milton

🧠 Isolation Will Not Improve Behavior

We’ve all seen it—or maybe even done it ourselves:
“Go sit by yourself.”
“No recess today.”
“You can’t be with your friends until you behave.”

The message is clear: connection is conditional. And that’s a problem.

When a child is struggling with behavior, what they most often need is more support, more regulation tools, and more connection—not less. Yet in many classrooms, homes, and even therapeutic settings, the go-to response is isolation. Timeout. Detention. “Think about what you’ve done.”

But here’s the thing: you can’t punish a nervous system into regulation.

Many behaviors that adults label as "defiance" or "disrespect" are actually signs of a child in distress—overwhelmed, dysregulated, or unsure how to get their needs met. When we remove them from the social world, we’re not teaching them anything except that they’re only welcome when they’re easy.

And for neurodivergent kids especially, isolation isn’t just ineffective—it can be deeply harmful.

🔁 What if, instead of isolation, we offered co-regulation?
What if we taught kids how to notice what’s happening in their bodies, gave them tools to calm themselves, and walked alongside them as they practiced those skills?

That doesn’t mean there are no boundaries or consequences—but it does mean we stop pretending that loneliness teaches lessons.

Behavior is communication. Let’s start listening.

Permission Slip Friday

Today’s permission slip is simple:

You don’t have to earn your rest.

You don’t have to clean the whole house to deserve stillness.

You are allowed to slow down, breathe, and just be.

If you needed a sign to take a break—this is it. 💛

#PermissionSlipFriday #RestIsProductive #NeurodivergentRest #DaydreamAndDo

Why I went into Education

Why I Went Into Education (Even Though School Was Never My Thing)

Honestly? I feel a little embarrassed when people ask me why I went into education. Because, truthfully, school was never my thing. I wasn’t the straight-A, girl-next-door type. I was more the “crying at the kitchen table because what the heck does ‘cosine’ mean?” kind of kid.

When I was a freshman, I was placed in the gifted and talented program, which landed me in Biology and Geometry. My biology teacher? Chef’s kiss. She made learning feel like an adventure—like she was the conductor of a train and we were all invited to hop on. She recognized that students learn differently. Our tests weren’t always multiple choice—we could choose how to demonstrate what we knew. I loved making PowerPoints, so I thrived. Traditional tests, though? My brain would just blank.

Geometry was… different. And not in the fun way. To be fair, my geometry teacher wasn’t a bad teacher—she was actually a favorite for some of my friends. But her style and I never clicked. She used a student-led approach with group work. As someone who already felt like an outsider, that kind of setup just added pressure. I wasn’t just trying to understand the math—I was trying to prove I belonged.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t feel like I did.

The further behind I got, the harder it became to even ask questions. Everyone told me, “Just ask! It’ll make more sense!” But I didn’t even know what to ask. Math felt like a different language, and I was already so lost I couldn’t even find the entry point. I was terrified to reveal I didn’t understand because that would’ve confirmed I was, in fact, different.

It got so bad that, during a parent-teacher conference, my geometry teacher asked if I even knew how to read.

That moment has stuck with me. And it’s shaped everything about how I work with others. I truly believe everyone has the capacity to learn—we just need the right environment and the right strategies. I still get excited to learn biology, because it was taught in a way that made me feel safe, smart, and seen. Math? Even now, it makes me hold my breath. I don’t trust myself with it, even when I get the answer right.

So if you’re a teacher, a parent, or anyone supporting a learner—please remember: education is not one-size-fits-all. Believing it is doesn’t just make learning harder for some—it can make it feel impossible.

To the ones who sit with us when the world spins—thank you.

To the ones who sit with us when the world spins—thank you.

To the friends, the family, the partners who hold space, who love us not in spite of our differences but because of who we are.

To the ones who help us take just one more step forward, again and again.

Your role is often quiet, often thankless, but never unseen.

You carry so much weight as a support person—gently, patiently, and often with a smile.

I see you.

I see the effort, the care, the deep love behind every moment of calm in the chaos.

You are so appreciated.

Even when the words don’t come easily, even when it might feel invisible—your support is felt, deeply and wholly.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for being a safe place.

Heres The Thing

Here’s the thing.

I’m starting this business—and truthfully, I’m still figuring out what that even means. But what I do know is that I want to stay open to all the wonderful people who’ve supported me, and to those still looking for someone who gets it.

I’m not a miracle worker. I can’t promise quick fixes, perfect solutions, or linear progress. What I can offer is something I think is a little different: I know what it’s like.

I’ve struggled for a long time (I know, real confidence booster here). I’ve tried a million and one things—some worked, some didn’t, some worked and then stopped, and some didn’t work until I tried again three years later. I’ve cut my hair short to deal with sensory overwhelm. I’ve masked so much and so often that I forgot who I was underneath it. I’ve thrown fits (literal ones). And I’ve had people—sometimes even people I love—ask, “Why can’t you just be normal?”

And the thing is... I thought I was.

It’s like people could see something in me I couldn’t see in myself. That “otherness” followed me for a long time. Maybe you know that feeling too.

I feel things deeply. Sometimes, just being near someone, I feel their emotions so strongly I lose track of which feelings are mine. I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out what I want. And right now? I want to help. Maybe that just looks like saying: you’re not alone.

Honestly, I feel silly even writing this. My brain is screaming, “No one’s going to read this. No one will care.” But my therapist would tell me to reframe that. So here it is: Maybe someone will. Maybe that someone is you. Maybe we were meant to cross paths. I don’t know for sure.

But if you’ve read this far, and any of this feels familiar—please, say hi. Drop in. Share something. Maybe we can help each other feel a little less alone

Why I started DayDream & Do

I’ve always been a daydreamer. The kind of person who sees potential everywhere, especially in people. But dreaming doesn’t always come with a roadmap. And for a long time, I struggled to figure out how to turn my ideas, my heart, and my very full brain into something that felt helpful and real.

I spent years working in education—earning my master’s in special education with a focus on autism, diving deep into what helps kids learn, and more importantly, what gets in their way. I loved connecting one-on-one, problem-solving, and seeing the spark when a student realized they could do something they didn’t think they could.

But I also saw how often kids (and parents, and teachers) were being asked to mold themselves into systems that didn’t fit. There wasn’t enough room for difference, or slowness, or softness. Everything was urgent, standardized, and pressure-filled—and the people who needed the most support were often met with shame instead.

That didn’t sit right with me.

I didn’t want to spend my energy trying to force people into boxes. I wanted to build something that met people where they were.

Something that said:

• You’re not lazy.

• You’re not broken.

• You don’t have to go it alone.

So I started Daydream and Do—a space for executive function and academic coaching that’s practical, compassionate, and neurodivergent-affirming. It’s built on the belief that every brain works differently, and that support should feel less like pressure and more like a breath of fresh air.

Here, daydreaming is welcome. And so is doing—but only when it feels doable.

This isn’t about fixing people. It’s about helping them find what actually works for them—and creating systems, habits, and rhythms that support that.

Whether you're a parent trying to help your kid stay afloat, a teen feeling overwhelmed by school, or an adult who’s never really been given the tools that make life feel manageable—you're welcome here.

Let’s figure it out together.