The Things You Think Are Easy

AWRYTE | Weekly Post “You’re so good at X—how can you not do Y?” That line haunts more of us than you think. I’ve had adults say it, teachers say it, boyfriends say it, coworkers say it, my own brain say it. You can memorize scripts. You can explain complex systems. You can write whole chapters in one sitting. But you can’t open a jar. Can’t handle a group text. Can’t follow directions to a party you’ve been to five times. You want to know what breaks me? The “easy stuff.”

The things you think should come naturally. The things that come with a shrug for you. The things you do while talking, walking, multitasking. That’s where I unravel.

And then the voice kicks in: This shouldn’t be hard. What’s wrong with you? Why are you like this? Not a meltdown. Not a tantrum. Just... shut down. Because when the world tells you, over and over, that your struggle is imaginary, you stop trying to explain it.

It’s not about being lazy. It’s not about being dramatic. It’s that my brain can do some things with precision and fluency— and it stutters through others like it’s stuck in a loop. One of my kids can do fourth-grade algebra in their head but needs help buttoning a coat. I can lead a classroom or run an event blindfolded, but I will fully forget how to use the oven timer if there are more than two people talking at once. I’m not faking. I’m not resisting. I’m trying. And it’s still hard.

It took me years to admit this out loud. Because I thought people would roll their eyes. Or worse—try to “help.” God, the panic that sets in when someone says, “Let me show you—this is easy.” That sentence is my exit cue. My brain shuts the door. I’m not learning—I’m bracing. Because what comes next is always the same: The slow talking. The exaggerated demonstration. The impatience when I don’t get it right away. The sigh. The shift in tone. The feeling of failure.

I’ve had to explain to grown adults that I’m allowed to be smart and still not know how to do something. That I can be articulate and still forget where I parked. That I can be capable in one moment and fully dysregulated in the next. And if I have to choose between your respect and my peace, I’m choosing peace.

What I need isn’t fixing. What I need is patience. Permission to struggle without shame. Support without smothering. Space to say: “This is hard for me,” without you needing to argue.

AWRYTE is where that space exists. We don’t sort people by strengths and deficits. We don’t rank worth by function. We don’t decide that struggle = weakness. We recognize the extra. The brain that shines in one place and shorts out in another. That’s not dysfunction. That’s truth.

More AWRYTE blog posts coming—want me to expand the next one now?