I f I'm really honest, I'm struggling at the moment. A lot of things are hard, things that I used to be able to do easily. Day-to-day stuff. Getting organized. Getting moving. Even writing. It may be days before this story appears.

It feels like functionality in a whole lot of things is slipping away; the gap between what I want to do and my capacity to do it ever widening. I'm constantly disappointed in my inability to achieve anything or even see any evidence that I'm getting closer to it.

It's hard not to beat myself up about it. For not being productive. For not having anything to show for my efforts. For comparing unfavourably to those I see around me. For not measuring up to some mythical standard I cling to.

It's not until I get to the end of the week exhausted to my bones that I'm forced to stop. It's only then that I realise what I'm up against that is making everything so hard.

What's called for is self-compassion, but it's easier said than done.

Podcasts are my best friend these days. There's usually one I can turn to when I'm looking for guidance about something that is going on in my life. I've been listening to a few about perimenopause and menopause, in addition to my usual stream of neurodivergent-themed podcasts.

At 52 years old, it's no surprise that menopause has come for me now and I've been keeping an open mind about it. It's not all bad — I'm relieved to be free of the debilitating headaches and pre-menstrual dysphoria that each monthly cycle brough me. But I'm not off the hook quite yet.

Over and over, the podcasts confirm the physical, mental and emotional upheaval that this life transition involves for people with female bodies. It's great that we're hearing so much about it now, but equally appalling that we've heard so little about it previously.

As with so many things in life, women have just been expected to suck it up and suffer in silence. Or afraid to speak up lest it be used against us, playing into ancient narratives of female biology by painting us as irrational and unreliable.

But it's real and I'm glad we're no longer pretending that it's not. It's especially real for neurodivergent women because hormonal fluctuations magnify many of the difficulties we're already dealing with. Executive function, emotional regulation and sensory processing are all hit hard by changes in brain chemistry.

There's emerging research on the experiences of women with ADHD and to a much lesser extent, autism — and plenty of anecdotal evidence for both. What's clear is that perimenopause and menopause can bring us undone when the coping mechanisms of a lifetime are no longer enough.

I was deep in perimenopause when the pandemic struck and it dawned on me how much effort I had been putting into a heap of external demands that I was suddenly relieved of. It was one of the things that prompted me to seek an autism diagnosis.

Three years later, teetering on the edge of menopause, and the world returning to "normal", I was struggling to keep on top of my life. It feels like my executive function has been hit by a truck I told the GP. I was desperate for help and a referral to a psychiatrist led to an ADHD diagnosis.

A key part of the help was being prescribed ADHD medication. I honestly don't know how I would cope without it, yet for the first fifty years of my life, I did. For those years I was able to rely on a system of compensatory measures to hold things together. Basically I just worked harder. Until I couldn't.

I t seems that a feeling of overwhelm is a regular visitor to my life these days. It doesn't take a major event — or even anything externally visible to turn my brain to jelly. Sometimes I skip meals because I can't make a decision about what to eat. I stay home because I can't work out what I want to do.

There is no such thing as an easy day. If I'm lucky, there are days I get through slightly more intact than others.

I've set my life up to be burnout-resistant by dispensing with conventional employment and a whole lot of other demands. But I'm still vulnerable to burnout because of the expectations I place on myself. The tendency to push through and ignore signs that I need to stop doesn't go away.

And it seems like the burnout cycles are getting shorter. A few hectic days and things start to falter. My inner reserves aren't what they were.

While it's easy enough to identify perimenopause and menopause as reason for life ramping up in difficulty, it's not the whole story.

It's quite diabolical the way that menopause coincides with major things that tend to happen in women's lives at mid-life around work, relationships, parenting and extended family.

And there is the weight of everything that has come before. The effects of trauma, sometimes submerged for decades; the accumulated stress of life's demands and just generally having a lower threshold for putting up with people's shit.

And for neurodivergent women, there's an additional layer of effort that comes with having masked and compensated just to get through life. There's the often-unacknowledged trauma of exclusion, bullying and rejection; of being misunderstood and invalidated; of feeling inadequate, unworthy and just plain wrong.

And when we finally get a handle on what's happening for us, there's the effort involved in recovering, unlearning and rebuilding because the life we've led up until now is no longer possible.

Healing is hard work. I was recently listening to a podcast where Dr Devon Price was explaining the mental energy required in trauma recovery. It's not surprising that it leaves less for other things.

I need to remember that on any given day, there's a lot going on for me. I'm working hard even if when it seems as though I'm not doing anything. And not producing tangible results does not equal failure.

Women between 45 and 49 are at higher risk of suicide than at any other age under 85. People who are autistic are up to nine times more at risk than the general population and the risk is also elevated for ADHD. So putting all that together would make middle-aged neurodivergent women an extremely vulnerable group, right?

You'd think there would be services to support us through this extremely challenging stage of life, wouldn't you? Perhaps research funded to investigate the issues and policies developed to respond to them?

Yet this group represents one of the biggest unmet needs in support services. We're overlooked, disregarded as dried up old crones who have outlived their usefulness to capitalism and patriarchy.

We're more likely to attract attention when we snap because we're placed in situations that push us to our limits and deprive us of empathy and understanding. We're crazy, unhinged and disruptive. Or any other judgmental response that compounds rather than alleviates distress.

Or we're dismissed as privileged, entitled individuals who have done alright for ourselves in life and have no business complaining. When we try and advocate for ourselves, we're made to feel guilty for taking up space that's been colonised by those who claim to speak on behalf of those who are "more autistic" and therefore more deserving of support.

We're expected to be capable and manage not only our lives but other people's. It's taken for granted that we're the ones holding it all together and swift judgement awaits anyone who drops the ball.

It's not like I'm asking for a free-pass or to let go of responsibilities. The reality of my life is that I need to do a bunch of things to function as an adult in the world. I just want to be supported to support myself. And as someone who has spent many years working harder than I should, I deserve a break.

If a group disproportionately at risk of poor mental health and suicide and going through a physiological process that impacts on every facet of their lives doesn't need support, I don't know who does.

Aconsistent theme in many of the podcasts I listen to is the importance of self-compassion and I'm all ears.

Yet it can be hard to exercise compassion for myself when it's not forthcoming from the world around me. Where the prevailing message is to pull myself together and push through because there are others worse off. But living my life by that hasn't worked out all that well for me.

Exercising self-compassion is a radical act that flies in the face of all the programming we have internalised through our lives as women. It says that we are worthy of our full attention and demands that we prioritise ourselves.

It takes enormous resolve to resist the guilt about wasting time on non-productive activities or indulging in something that I hadn't earned and didn't deserve. Self-compassion have always felt like a luxury that I couldn't afford.

While I can't eliminate life's realities, I can find pockets for self-compassion in my life. If can't make things less hard, I will at least acknowledge that they are hard and account for the work involved.

Instead of bashing myself over the head with I've fallen short again and I will never get this right, I will ask why am I doing this to myself and do I need to feel this way?

I will ask what do I need to do to help me get through this? I will take breaks. I will give myself permission to step outside of whatever chaos is swirling in and around me. I will reheat a meal from the freezer. I will go to bed with a cup of tea and watch a few episodes of a favorite show.

I look forward to the day when acknowledgement and understanding of the realities of life for neurodivergent women is widespread and we no longer have to carry the load or constantly have to justify our need for help.

But until society gives me a break, I will give it to myself as though my life depends on it.