When Did We All Agree to Carry So Much?
I have a theory that adulthood is one giant game of accidentally collecting things. Some of them make perfect sense. Keys, wallets, phones, reusable grocery bags that somehow multiply when nobody is looking, and that one drawer in the kitchen that appears to function as a museum of miscellaneous objects we are convinced will be useful someday. Humans are excellent collectors. We gather things, create systems around those things, and then promptly forget how they got there in the first place.
What fascinates me most, however, are the things we collect that cannot be seen. Responsibilities quietly find their way into our hands. Expectations settle onto our shoulders. Other people’s emotions become part of our daily inventory. Somewhere in the background, our brains decide that a mildly embarrassing interaction from 2013 deserves permanent archival status and should remain available for review at two o’clock in the morning whenever sleep is attempting to do its job.
The strange thing is that nobody ever formally assigns us these things. We simply wake up one day and realize we are tired in a way that sleep does not seem to fix. Not physically tired, necessarily. Soul tired. The kind of tired that comes from carrying so much for so long that your body has stopped recognizing the effort required to hold it all together.
The Difference Between Supporting and Carrying
Perhaps that is why I have always loved stories like The Lord of the Rings. Most people focus on Frodo, which is understandable because carrying a ring to Mordor is admittedly a rather significant undertaking. Personally, though, I have always had a soft spot for Samwise Gamgee. Sam had a remarkable ability to understand the difference between supporting someone and becoming responsible for them. Sam had a remarkable ability to remain present without taking over. He showed up consistently, offered steadiness in moments of uncertainty, and co-regulated before we even had language for co-regulation. Most importantly, he knew the difference between carrying someone for a season and carrying their entire existence forever.
Humans, on the other hand, have a fascinating tendency to interpret this assignment a bit differently. Somewhere along the way, many of us quietly decide that we should carry everything. Not just our own responsibilities, but everyone else’s too. We become responsible for moods, for harmony, for making sure nobody is disappointed, for remembering birthdays, for anticipating needs, for smoothing over awkward moments, and for ensuring every moving piece continues moving without interruption. If this sounds exhausting, that is because it is.
The Invisible Things We Learn to Carry
The nervous system, however, is a remarkably adaptive creature. Its primary job is not happiness, self-actualization, or helping us become beautifully evolved humans who have mastered work-life balance and remember to drink enough water every day. Its job is survival. Given enough repetition, enough incentive to belong, and enough experiences that teach us safety is conditional, the nervous system begins quietly building strategies.
At first, these strategies are brilliant. Being responsible becomes easier to repeat when it earns praise. A habit of anticipating everyone else’s needs can develop when it reduces conflict. Perfectionism often grows in environments where mistakes feel expensive, and hyper-independence tends to emerge whenever asking for help feels risky. The system works beautifully until one day it doesn’t.
The tricky part is that these adaptations rarely announce themselves as temporary visitors. They move into the house, redecorate the living room, and convince us they have always lived there. Society often applauds them too, which is particularly inconvenient because what gets rewarded becomes difficult to question. Dependability feels rewarding, productivity earns praise, and being needed can create a powerful sense of purpose. Until one day, somewhere in the middle of adulthood, we discover that being all of those things simultaneously has become unsustainable.
When Survival Strategies Start Feeling Like Personality Traits
This is often the place where many late diagnosed neurodivergent adults find themselves standing. They are not standing there because they are broken, lazy, or incapable. In fact, the opposite is usually true. They have become extraordinarily capable. They have become experts at adapting, over-functioning, compensating, and surviving. Their systems have become so efficient at carrying things that nobody, including themselves, notices the weight anymore.
Then something shifts. An ADHD diagnosis enters the picture. Therapy introduces a new language. Maybe a book, a podcast, or an unexpected conversation slips through the cracks of a story you have always believed about yourself. Whatever the catalyst, a rather inconvenient question quietly walks into the room and refuses to leave.
What if some of this was never yours to carry in the first place?
That question changes everything because suddenly the story shifts. The goal is no longer becoming better at carrying things. The invitation becomes something else entirely. We begin examining what is inside the bag. We start asking who put it there, how it protected us, and whether we still need it now. And perhaps that is the greatest plot twist of all. The journey was never about becoming someone new. It was about discovering that underneath every adaptation, every role, every expectation, and every story we built to survive, there has been a person waiting patiently to be rediscovered all along.
The Backpack Rarely Arrives All at Once
The frustrating thing about invisible burdens is that they are rarely dramatic. There is no singular event where someone walks up and says, “Congratulations. Here is a lifetime supply of self-doubt, overthinking, and an unhealthy relationship with productivity. Best of luck.” If only it were that obvious. Humans are much better at noticing avalanches than they are at noticing snowflakes.
Most of the things we carry arrive one tiny experience at a time, which is perhaps why they can be so difficult to notice in the first place.
A teacher circles “careless mistakes” in red pen. A parent tells you to stop being so sensitive. A friend jokes that you are “a lot.” An employer praises your ability to handle pressure. Somewhere else, life rewards you for being agreeable, dependable, and endlessly accommodating. None of these moments seem particularly significant on their own. They are ordinary moments, which is precisely what makes them so powerful.
How Tiny Moments Become Lifelong Patterns
Over time, the nervous system begins collecting evidence. It is constantly asking questions that have very little to do with becoming your most authentic self and everything to do with survival. The questions themselves are often surprisingly simple. What earns belonging? How do I avoid criticism? What helps me prevent disappointment? Which version of myself is easiest for other people to understand?
The answers gradually become strategies. Over time, those strategies turn into habits, and before we realize it, those habits begin masquerading as identities. That progression is so gradual that most people never notice it happening.
One day, you are simply trying to avoid getting in trouble for forgetting your homework. Years later, you have become the responsible one who cannot relax because your brain is perpetually scanning for the next thing that might be forgotten. One day, you are trying to avoid conflict at the dinner table. Years later, you have become the easygoing friend who cannot remember the last time they asked themselves what they actually wanted. One day, you are praised for your work ethic. Years later, you are sitting on your couch feeling guilty for resting while simultaneously wondering why you are exhausted all the time.
Humans are funny that way. We are forever turning temporary solutions into permanent architecture.
When the Flashlight Finally Turns On
I think that is one of the reasons so many late diagnosed neurodivergent adults experience a strange combination of relief and grief when new language enters the picture. An ADHD diagnosis, an autism diagnosis, therapy, or even stumbling upon a sentence in a book can suddenly illuminate patterns that have been operating quietly in the background for decades.
Nothing about you actually changed. Someone simply turned on the flashlight, allowing you to see patterns that had been operating quietly in the background all along.
The moment that happens, life starts looking a little different. You begin noticing that some of the things you considered personality traits may have actually been survival strategies all along. Being the responsible one, the overachiever, the helper, the easygoing friend, the planner, the peacekeeper, or the person who always has everything under control starts to feel a bit less like destiny and a bit more like adaptation.
When Identity Starts to Feel Different
That realization can feel surprisingly disorienting because society tends to celebrate these roles. Nobody is handing out awards for being wonderfully regulated and deeply attuned to your own needs. The applause usually goes to the person who can juggle seventeen tasks simultaneously, remember everyone else’s birthday, and somehow still answer emails with suspicious efficiency.
Unfortunately, applause can be misleading because what gets rewarded is not always sustainable, what gets celebrated is not always healthy, and what kept you safe in one chapter of your life may not be what you need in this one.
Perhaps that is why this process can feel so emotional. We are not simply unpacking a bag. We are gently examining the stories we have been telling ourselves for years and asking whether they are still true. That is vulnerable work because every item inside the backpack once served a purpose.
The goal is not to shame the backpack, but to become curious about it, because curiosity has a way of softening what criticism never could.
The Contents Might Surprise You
If this were an actual backpack, unpacking it would probably be a much simpler endeavor. We would unzip it, dump everything onto the floor, separate the useful items from the unnecessary ones, and move on with our day feeling strangely accomplished. Perhaps we would even reward ourselves with a snack because, quite frankly, any task involving organization deserves some form of compensation.
Unfortunately, humans are a bit more complicated than backpacks because the contents rarely arrive with labels attached.
The contents are rarely labeled, and they certainly do not arrive in any sort of logical order. Instead, they tend to disguise themselves as personality traits. This is where things can become a little disorienting because many of the things we have spent years describing as “just who I am” may have actually started as adaptive responses to our environments.
Adaptations Are Not Identities
Take being the responsible one, for example. At first, it might have looked like remembering homework assignments, keeping track of family schedules, or becoming the person who double-checks everything because forgetting something once felt disproportionately costly. Over time, responsibility stops being a skill and starts becoming a role. Then, before you realize it, everyone around you begins reinforcing that role until it feels impossible to step away from it. After all, if you are the responsible one, who exactly is everyone else going to depend on?
Perfectionism often follows a similar path. It rarely begins with a desire for flawlessness. More often, it starts with a nervous system that learns mistakes feel expensive. A forgotten assignment, a missed deadline, an overlooked detail, or a moment of criticism can quietly teach the brain that being exceptionally prepared might help prevent future discomfort. The strategy works beautifully, right up until you discover that you are spending more energy avoiding mistakes than actually enjoying your life.
Then there is hyper-independence, which I have come to view as one of the more clever tricksters in the backpack. Society tends to admire people who have everything under control. We praise their competence, celebrate their resilience, and tell them how impressive it is that they never seem to need anything from anyone else. Meanwhile, their nervous system is sitting quietly in the background saying, “I learned a very long time ago that needing people felt risky.”
When Adaptation Starts Feeling Like Identity
Demand avoidance also deserves a seat at the table because it is one of the most misunderstood experiences many neurodivergent adults encounter. From the outside, it can appear like procrastination, resistance, or a lack of motivation. Internally, however, it often feels more like a nervous system slamming on the brakes in response to pressure. Sometimes the pressure comes from other people. Other times, it comes from ourselves. Expectations, even for things we genuinely want to do, can suddenly feel heavy once they become obligations. Anyone who has ever enthusiastically planned a project only to lose all desire to do it the moment it landed on a to-do list knows exactly what I am talking about. It is not laziness. It is often a nervous system trying to preserve a sense of autonomy.
Even being easygoing deserves a second look. Many people wear this identity with pride, and there is certainly nothing wrong with flexibility, kindness, or cooperation. But sometimes “easygoing” is simply conflict avoidance wearing a friendlier outfit. Sometimes it is a nervous system that learned accommodating everyone else felt safer than expressing its own needs.
From Self-Blame to Self-Understanding
The interesting thing about all of these roles is that none of them are inherently bad. In fact, many of them are wonderful. They have helped you succeed, connect with others, and navigate environments that may not have always understood your wiring. The problem is not that these adaptations exist. The problem is that they have been working overtime for so long that they forgot they were ever temporary employees in the first place.
That realization can feel equal parts liberating and unsettling because it changes the question entirely. Instead of asking, “What is wrong with me?” we begin asking, “What was I trying to protect?”
That is both a gentler and more honest question, and if there is one thing I have learned over the years, it is that curiosity often opens doors that criticism never could.
The Strange Grief of Putting Something Down
I think this is the part nobody warns us about.
People often imagine healing as a process of gaining things. We picture ourselves collecting new tools, building better habits, learning new strategies, and finally becoming the version of ourselves we have always wanted to be. There is certainly some truth to that. Growth does involve learning. It involves experimentation. It involves discovering new ways of moving through the world.
What people talk about far less is the amount of letting go involved.
Because the moment you begin opening the backpack, another realization quietly emerges. Some of the things inside have been with you for a very long time.
They have been there long enough that they no longer feel separate from you. In fact, removing them can feel surprisingly vulnerable.
Imagine wearing a heavy coat every single day for thirty years. At some point, you would stop noticing the weight. Your body would adapt to it. Your movements would adjust around it. Then one day, someone gently says, “You know, you don’t have to wear that anymore.”
Relief might show up, but so might panic.
That is not because the coat was helping you. It is because it was familiar.
Why Familiar Does Not Always Mean Safe
Human beings have a fascinating relationship with familiarity. We often assume that what feels familiar must also be safe, even when it is exhausting us. The nervous system does not necessarily prioritize what is healthiest. It prioritizes what is predictable.
Predictability can be a remarkably persuasive storyteller.
Why We Grieve Things We Never Wanted
Perhaps that is why so many people feel unexpectedly emotional when they begin this work. There is something almost paradoxical about grieving things you never actually wanted in the first place. Anxiety. Over-functioning. The inability to rest without guilt. Perfectionism. Hyper-independence. The version of yourself that always had everything under control.
It sounds contradictory until you realize that we are not mourning the suffering itself. We are mourning the familiarity of what has accompanied us for so many years.
Not because we miss the suffering itself, but because those adaptations have been companions for a very long time. They have shaped decisions, influenced relationships, and helped us navigate environments that may not have always understood us.
The Adaptations That Stayed Too Long
Even the parts of ourselves that have exhausted us deserve compassion.
I think that is one of the gentlest shifts therapy can offer. We stop treating these adaptations as enemies to defeat and begin seeing them as old protectors that have simply been working overtime. They are not villains. They are employees who forgot to retire.
Quite honestly, some of them deserve a very long vacation.
Perfectionism can finally put its feet up. Hypervigilance can unclench its jaw. Hyper-independence can stop pretending it has everything figured out. The responsible one can discover that being loved is not contingent upon being endlessly useful.
Learning to Loosen Your Grip
The goal is not to throw these parts of yourself away, but to loosen their grip on the steering wheel.
That process takes time because this is not simply behavior change. This is identity work. We are gently untangling years, and sometimes decades, of stories that quietly taught us who we needed to become in order to belong.
Perhaps that is why this process can feel so emotional. It can be tender to stand in the middle of your own life and realize you have been carrying far more than anyone ever asked you to, especially when those burdens have quietly shaped the way you understand yourself for years.
Perhaps this is the moment where compassion quietly enters the story. It does not appear as a reward for getting things right, nor does it wait for you at some distant finish line after you have successfully unpacked every burden you have ever carried. Instead, compassion becomes a companion that sits beside you while you sort through the contents of the backpack, gently reminding you that this work was never meant to be completed perfectly and that you do not have to put everything down all at once.
The Courage to Travel Lighter
This process will take time, and there will likely be moments when practice feels more important than progress. Certain burdens may need to be picked up and set down several times before your nervous system begins to trust that it is safe to travel lighter. That is okay.
After all, this was never a race. It was always a homecoming.
Traveling Lighter Does Not Mean Becoming Someone New
I think this may be one of the greatest misunderstandings about healing, particularly for late diagnosed neurodivergent adults and the many humans who have spent years adapting themselves to fit environments that never quite fit them back. Somewhere along the way, we collectively decided that healing was synonymous with reinvention. We imagine emerging from therapy as a completely different person who suddenly loves meal prepping, responds to every text message immediately, enjoys maintaining spreadsheets, and has somehow become deeply enthusiastic about folding laundry.
Respectfully, I have yet to meet this mythical creature.
Perhaps that is because healing was never about becoming someone new in the first place. More often, it is about becoming less burdened. The responsible one may still be responsible. The helper may still enjoy helping. The planner may still love a good spreadsheet. There is nothing inherently wrong with any of these parts. The difference is that they are no longer operating from obligation, fear, or survival.
That distinction matters more than we often realize because the same action can feel entirely different depending on what is driving it. Planning because you enjoy creating structure is very different from planning because your nervous system believes forgetting one thing will unravel your entire existence. Helping because it feels meaningful is very different from helping because disappointing someone feels unbearable. Working hard because you genuinely enjoy your work is very different from working hard because productivity has become the measuring stick for your worth.
From the outside, the behaviors may look remarkably similar. Internally, however, they can feel worlds apart.
Why This Matters for Late Diagnosed Neurodivergent Adults
For many late diagnosed ADHD, autistic, and AuDHD adults, these invisible burdens can explain years of chronic exhaustion, masking, burnout, people pleasing, perfectionism, and the feeling that life has always required more effort than it seems to require for everyone else.
I think that is one of the reasons this work can feel so liberating. The goal was never to become less yourself. In many ways, the invitation is to become more yourself by separating your identity from the adaptations that have been quietly running in the background for years. Along the way, you may discover that you actually enjoy rest. You may realize you have preferences that were buried underneath decades of accommodation. You may even find yourself feeling angry, not in a dramatic or explosive way, but in a deeply protective way. It is the kind of anger that gently says, “That was a lot for one person to carry.”
When Emotions Become Information
Anger often gets a bad reputation, but in moments like these, it can be remarkably protective. Sometimes anger is simply grief wearing armor. Sometimes it is your nervous system finally acknowledging a cost that it did not have language for before. Rather than something to suppress, it can become another source of information about what mattered and what may need to change moving forward.
That anger is not a problem to solve. It is information. The same can be said for grief, relief, and every other emotion that emerges as you begin unpacking the contents of the backpack. Rather than viewing these emotions as obstacles, we might begin seeing them as invitations to become reacquainted with ourselves, to notice what fits, what no longer does, and what has been quietly asking to be set down for a very long time.
Perhaps that is the real hero’s journey after all. It is not about defeating dragons, collecting magical objects, or optimizing yourself into a shinier version of existence. Instead, it is about learning the difference between what is ours to carry and what we have permission to set down.
Because underneath every adaptation, every expectation, every role, and every story you built to survive, there has always been someone waiting patiently for you.
Neither a better, more productive, nor optimized version of you.
Simply you.
And that person has been worthy all along.
How Storm Haven Can Help
By the time many people arrive at Storm Haven, they are exhausted, not because they are incapable or because they have failed, but because they have become extraordinarily skilled at carrying things that were never entirely theirs to begin with.
Years of adapting, masking, over-functioning, people pleasing, perfectionism, and surviving can quietly accumulate until life begins to feel heavier than it was ever meant to feel.
Our work is not about taking your backpack away or telling you who you should become instead. It is not about fixing you, optimizing you, or transforming you into a shinier version of yourself who suddenly enjoys folding laundry and answers every text message immediately. Quite honestly, that sounds exhausting too.
Instead, we help people become curious.
Building a Life That Fits You
Together, we explore the stories that have shaped your relationship with yourself, the adaptations that helped you survive, and the ways your nervous system learned to navigate a world that may not have always understood your wiring. We gently untangle internalized narratives, build new ways of relating to yourself, and create space for a life that feels more aligned with who you already are.
For many late diagnosed neurodivergent adults, this process can feel both relieving and emotional. Grief may appear alongside clarity. Anger may emerge beside compassion. Relief may sit next to exhaustion. None of those experiences mean you are doing it wrong. In many ways, they are signs that your internal story is beginning to update.
At Storm Haven, we often talk about this journey through our Four Arc Framework: Diagnosis, Deconditioning, Design, and Thriving. Receiving language for your experiences is only the beginning. From there, we begin untangling inherited narratives, designing systems that honor your nervous system, and building a life that fits you rather than asking you to endlessly adapt to fit everyone else.
If this is your first stop in this series, know that this is only the beginning. In upcoming pieces, we will explore masking, burnout, rejection sensitivity, demand avoidance, and the many ways neurodivergent nervous systems learn to survive before they learn to thrive.
Perhaps that is the greatest realization hidden inside all of this. You were never the backpack. You were always the person carrying it, and your worth was never determined by how heavy it became.
Written by Jen Hyatt, a licensed psychotherapist at Storm Haven Counseling & Wellness in Temecula, California.
Disclaimer
At Storm Haven Counseling & Wellness, we provide neurodivergent-affirming therapy in Temecula, California, and throughout California via telehealth for adults exploring ADHD, autism, burnout, nervous system regulation, identity, and late diagnosis experiences.
This blog is intended for educational and informational purposes only and is not a substitute for psychotherapy, medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. While this article discusses common experiences related to late diagnosed neurodivergence, ADHD, autism, nervous system adaptations, and mental health, every person’s experience is unique.
The examples, metaphors, and stories shared are meant to foster reflection and understanding rather than provide individualized clinical guidance. Reading this blog should not be used to self-diagnose a mental health, neurodevelopmental, or medical condition.
If you are experiencing emotional distress or have concerns about your mental health, we encourage you to consult with a qualified healthcare professional or licensed mental health provider.
Storm Haven Counseling & Wellness is a neurodivergent-affirming psychotherapy practice based in Temecula, California, serving clients throughout California via telehealth. Our approach is rooted in curiosity, compassion, and helping individuals better understand themselves, their nervous systems, and the stories they have carried throughout their lives.
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