I find myself with more time for writing again. Not in the way I imagined years ago when I first started this blog, but once again the figurative pen has hit the paper in my mind.

At 84 WPM, my typing speed sits in the top percentile, even without formal training. Unless you count all the rage-typing in League of Legends during my college days. Side tangent aside, even at that output, my hands can never keep up with the thoughts constantly floating and bouncing around my head. Fast fingers don’t help when your brain is faster.

And on other days, the opposite happens.

You stare at a blank document, and ideas evaporate. Nothing lands. Nothing sticks. The mind that once overflowed suddenly feels empty.

Since my last published post, I’ve moved countries, started a job, left that job, and navigated some heartbreak along the way. Life has a way of delivering good and bad surprises in equal measure. I was even surprised to see that my website had any traffic at all. Most of it is probably bots, but regardless, I won’t be changing my writing style or content to chase whoever might be reading.

If anything, the low readership has always been freeing.

The Power of Invisibility

I’ve never felt pressure to edit myself for an audience. I don’t write to maintain a following. I write to shape my thoughts into something more cohesive — more like an arc in a chapter book or manga than a scattered collection of random events.

Any meaning I extract from my life is simply me trying to make sense of it.

Writing is a tool for self-reflection. For self-discovery. For authoring your own story.

But what story are we telling ourselves?

Doctors Orders

I wasn’t diagnosed with Autism until college. I didn’t love the diagnosis at first, but accepting it moved my life in a better direction. Maybe not happier — but certainly less frustrating. It’s like playing a game without knowing the rules. Of course you’re going to be frustrated. Once you understand the mechanics, even if they’re difficult, you can at least strategize.

With understanding came tolerance. And with tolerance came improvement. I learned skills, built workarounds, and found ways to function in a world that never felt naturally intuitive to me. Ten years later, I pushed to see a psychologist again. After an ADHD evaluation, I found out I had another neurodivergent badge to add to my vest. No one was surprised. Not my friends, nor my sister, nor mom. . . Not even me.

Understanding the Ruleset

But receiving the official diagnosis felt like permission.

Permission to stop pretending.
The Right to stop blaming myself.
The autonomy to ask, “Okay — how do these conditions interact, and how do I build my life around that reality?”

I consumed hours of content from adults who had been diagnosed later in life. Their stories mirrored mine:

“I felt like I had to work harder than my peers to get to where I was.”

Executive dysfunction makes balancing responsibilities, careers, and hobbies uniquely challenging. Without immediate feedback — like you get in video games — it’s difficult to prioritize and execute long-term goals. For years, I thought I was simply failing at “basic life functions.”

Now it felt clearer.

But clarity raises another question:

What do I try next?

Medication?

When I Get Back on Solid Ground

When life stabilizes again, I’d like to try Concerta, as recommended by my therapist. But only after I rebuild some semblance of normalcy — whatever that means now.

For now, that means routine.

I have a stable job. Insurance. A place to live. Food. A 401k for the first time in my life. I used to separate surviving, living, thriving, and existing into different categories — but maybe they’re all just variations of the same thing. The goalposts keep moving anyway.

Still, I felt like I needed direction.

For a while, I was tumbling in zero gravity — no clear identity, no clear trajectory. My college therapist used to describe life as steering a boat in the ocean. But this didn’t feel like drifting at sea.

It felt like floating in the void.

Front and Center

I took a job as a concierge for a property management company in the Pacific Northwest. I’m the first smiling face tenants see when they walk in. I handle deliveries, questions, and day-to-day building support. My previous title — Marketing Manager — sounds more impressive. And yes, I was handling more complex systems, data, and projects in that role. I probably would have grown into the KPIs and analytics with time.

But I’m too old — and too emotionally aware — to tolerate screaming, manipulation, and constant interrogation of how I spend every second of my day. Leaving was the most mature decision I could have made. My new job is calm. Structured. Respectful. There are clear expectations and real benefits that come with working for an established company.

The schedule is unique: two fourteen-hour shifts and one seven-hour shift. The rest of the week is mine. Even during work, there are pockets of time to read, write, draw, or research. And that brings me to something unexpected.

There’s only one problem with freedom.

Freedom is intimidating.

The Worst Part About Freedom

The worst part about freedom is that if things go wrong, there’s no one to blame. When you look for accountability, the only person staring back at you is in the mirror. I could let this free time dissolve into distraction. Or I could use it deliberately. Learning Japanese properly. Redesigning my homepage. Studying something meaningful. Going back to school. Building something tangible while maintaining stability and benefits.

Now the question isn’t, “What’s stopping me?”

  • The question is:
  • What do I want to put my time toward?
  • Is it realistic to pursue the creative industry at this stage of my life?
  • I’m not chasing Twitch fame.
  • Not grinding ranked ladders in LoL or Apex.
  • But would studying DaVinci Resolve seriously?
  • Earning certifications?
  • Pursuing computer science?

Would that pay off?

Inaction has a cost.

They’re Counting on Me

But so does investing in the wrong direction.

Every day unused shrinks possibility. And yet, I’m reminded of something Spider-Man told Miles Morales:

“How will I know when I’m ready?”
“You won’t. It’s a leap of faith. That’s all it is.”

That line isn’t just for Miles. It’s for all of us.

The problem is — it’s hard to have faith in someone who keeps letting themselves down.

Maybe faith and trust are closer than I thought.

Trust is built on what you can see.
Faith is built on what you can’t.

That’s why it’s called a leap of faith — not a trust fall.

So the real question is:

Am I ready to leap toward something?

I Don’t KNOW Yet

And maybe that’s okay?

Much Love,
LaidbackMarco

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