HoneyBee Unmasked: Neurospicy, OT-ing, and Still Showing Up
Reflections from an Occupational Therapist who sometimes cries in her cave, but still cares deeply
About This Blog
This is a space for truth, tenderness, and the occasional meltdown behind closed curtains. I write as a neurodivergent Occupational Therapist, a mum, a granddaughter, and a human-in-progress. Here, you’ll find reflections that blend lived experience with professional insight—sometimes messy, often meaningful, always honest. I believe healing begins with emotional safety. That care should feel like connection, not correction. And that showing up—especially when it’s hard—is a quiet kind of courage worth celebrating. If you’ve ever felt too much, too tired, or too invisible, I hope you find something here that feels like home.
Language I Use
Words matter. But so does intent. In this space, I use language that feels warm, playful, and true to my own lived experience. Some of it is clinical. Some of it is quirky. All of it is chosen with care.
From Banter to Boundaries
I grew up in a world of banter and bluntness. I now live in a world of authenticity and choice. This page is my way of saying: you’re safe here, even if our words are different.
Neurodivergent & Beyond
I work with and write for neurodivergent folks—those whose brains and bodies move through the world differently. You’ll see terms like:
Neurodivergent: A respectful umbrella term for conditions like autism, ADHD, sensory processing differences, and more.
Neurobright / Neurospicey / spicy-brained: Playful words I use to describe intensity, creativity, and difference. They’re not clinical—but they feel true for me.
Masking / meltdown / shutdown: Words that name survival strategies and nervous system responses. I use them with compassion, not judgment.
Why I Use Playful Language
Because care should feel human. Because difference isn’t a diagnosis—it’s a story. Because sometimes, a silly word can soften a hard truth.
I know not every term will resonate with everyone. That’s okay. I aim to meet people where they are, and I welcome gentle conversation if something doesn’t sit right.
A Note on Respect
I never use language to label others—only to describe my own experience or invite connection. If you use different words to name your journey, I honor that. This is a space for connection, not correction.
First Blog Post: Unmasking in Real Time. Not broken. Just busy becoming.
17/09/2025
When I was growing up, we always sat down at six for dinner and watched The Simpsons. Same time. Same sofa. Same routine. I did not have the words for it then, but that little ritual was a kind of safety. It was predictable and familiar. It helped me feel steady when the rest of the day felt a bit too much.
I have always felt things deeply. I cry easily. I go quiet when I am overwhelmed. I get sharp when I feel misunderstood. It usually happens only with the people I trust most, like my husband, even when he is the one who has misunderstood me. For years I thought these reactions meant I was too sensitive. I have been called dramatic, weird, aloof and even narcissistic. Now I can see that these reactions were not flaws. They were signals. My nervous system was speaking long before I knew how to listen.
I am a newly qualified occupational therapist and a mum to two brilliant girls who are each being assessed for neurodivergence in their own ways. My mum was diagnosed autistic in her fifties. My uncle is autistic too. The threads are there. They run through my family and my childhood and the way I move through the world. I am dyslexic and I suspect further diagnoses but I have not been formally assessed for these yet, but I recognise the patterns and I recognise myself.
Last November, while I was starting my dissertation, my Nana died. She was not just a grandparent. She was a second parent. Creative, eccentric and completely herself. She loved things with her whole heart. Looking back, I see traits in her that feel familiar. She was often misunderstood and easily overwhelmed, yet she never stopped being who she was. She believed in me long before I believed in myself. She taught me that being different wasn’t something to hide, it was something to celebrate and she lived that every day of her life! I wish she had seen me finish my degree, but I carry her with me into this work every day.
I have spent years studying neurodivergence, masking and emotional regulation. I have done this both professionally and personally. The more I learn, the more I understand the parts of myself I used to dismiss as me being “weird” or “difficult”. I am beginning to see that unmasking is not a single moment. It is a slow and ongoing process and it's not easy, it doesn’t just happen one day like magic It is a gentle peeling back of layers I did not know I was wearing.
I am writing this blog because I know there are parents raising neurodivergent children while quietly wondering about themselves. There are children who feel too much and do not know why. There are professionals who care deeply but do not always feel safe enough to say me too. Stories like mine are not dramatic or unusual. They are simply real. Real stories help people feel less alone.
I am scared to share this. I worry people will judge me or think I am looking for attention. I worry about hurting people I love. Especially my mum, who gave us everything she could while navigating her own challenges. This is not about blame. It is about understanding. It is about healing. It is about making space for love and difficulty to sit side by side.
As I step into my career as an occupational therapist, I want to help shift the culture of care. I have seen how professionals, including myself, can feel pressure to hide their humanity in the name of being professional. I believe emotional safety matters just as much as clinical skill. I want to help create spaces where honesty is not punished. Spaces where families feel supported by people who truly understand. Spaces where being human is not something we have to apologise for.
This blog will not be perfect or polished. It will not follow a neat timeline. But it will be honest. I will write about what I am learning, what I am remembering and what I am still figuring out. If you have ever felt too much, too tired or too invisible, I hope something here feels like home.
Let us build a gentler kind of care, together.
—HoneyBeeOT
When Travel Is Not What You Expect: A Reflection from HoneyBeeOT
11/10/2025
I did not expect luxury. I did not expect perfection. I only hoped for safety and softness and a bit of fun. I wanted a moment of rest after four years of studying.
This was the first time I had been abroad in seventeen years. It was the first time I had taken my daughters abroad. It was also the first holiday my husband and I had ever shared together. We used a small inheritance from my late Nana. It felt like her final gift to us. I wanted healing and connection and a gentle adventure. I wanted culture and warmth and all the things she loved. Instead, we found ourselves in a situation that felt unsafe.
The hotel was not what had been advertised. There was no play park even though the holiday provider said there would be one. The air conditioning did not work. Towels were only available if you paid extra. Loud music played until late at night and our room was right beside the outdoor party area. My youngest daughter could not settle easily. My eldest felt uncomfortable in the pool area. We all slept, but for me it was anxious sleep. Light and fractured. I cried every day at least once.
The worst part was not the broken facilities. It was the way we were looked at. My daughters were stared at constantly by male staff. On the second day, a security guard made a sexual comment about my youngest in Arabic. My partner understood it and told me. I felt sick. When we reported it, the receptionist shrugged and said that this was normal.
We were not physically harmed, but we were not safe. I felt exposed and hypervigilant. I felt like prey.
My husband stayed close to us the entire time. His presence was steady and protective. His youngest brother was with us too. It was the first time we had met him and he watched over us with the same quiet strength. I will never forget that. We were held by the men who cared for us and that mattered. My husband even lost his brand new phone in a taxi. He did not get angry. He did not panic. He stayed focused on keeping us safe.
The WiFi barely worked. There was no support and no way to reach out. I shut down. I went into survival mode. I saw a doctor and was prescribed Bromazepam.
I do not mind sharing that. I believe in transparency. Even those of us trained in emotional regulation sometimes need help taking the edge off. That does not make us weak. It makes us human. My nervous system was overwhelmed and I did what I needed to feel safe enough to function. There is no shame in that.
Since coming home, I have felt burnt out in a way that is hard to describe. Not just tired. Hollow. My nervous system feels frayed. My sleep is broken. My sense of safety has been shaken.
Both of my daughters are neurodivergent, although they do not have formal diagnoses yet. They experience the world with deep sensitivity. They thrive in environments that feel predictable and emotionally attuned. This holiday offered none of that.
As an occupational therapist, I understand how trauma lives in the body. I also understand how neurodivergent families often carry extra layers of vulnerability. Sensory overload and unpredictability and perceived threat do not just cause discomfort. They can shut us down completely. This was not just a stressful trip. It was a rupture. My window of tolerance collapsed. My coping strategies disappeared. I am still rebuilding.
Even in the middle of all of this, we tried to hold onto joy. We splashed in the pool. We rode camels and quad bikes. My daughters rode horses. I could not because I am allergic. We shared ice cream and good food and silly stories. We took photos and made jokes. We reminded each other that we were okay. Joy does not disappear. It flickers even in the dark. My daughters deserve to remember that too.
We all wanted to keep having fun. To salvage something. To protect each other from the weight of what was happening. And in those moments, we did. We made memories. We laughed. We loved.
This was not just a difficult holiday. It was a reminder that travel is not carefree for everyone. For some of us, it is layered with risk and vigilance and the hope that maybe this time we will be okay.
I have submitted a full complaint. The holiday was misrepresented and I am pursuing it through the proper channels. But this post is not about blame. It is about truth. It is about protection. It is about naming what often goes unnamed.
Coming home and returning to my regular routines has helped me feel like myself again. The familiar rhythm of daily life has been grounding. Making breakfast. Responding to messages. Planning resources. These small acts of presence are powerful. They remind me that I am still here. Still me. Still capable of care.
As HoneyBeeOT, I speak often about emotional safety and sensory comfort and dignity. I am learning that these principles do not stop at the edge of our homes. They travel with us or they do not. The environments we enter shape our nervous systems. When those environments betray us, recovery takes time.
I am not sharing this to name names. I am sharing it because someone else might be packing their bags right now and wondering why their chest feels tight. Why their stomach flips at the thought of airports. Why they feel guilty for not being excited.
You are not broken. You are not dramatic. You are someone whose nervous system deserves care and preparation. If travel has hurt you, you are allowed to name that. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to heal.
This is not just a story. It is a reflection. It is a prayer. It is a reckoning. It is a promise.
—HoneyBeeOT
Keeping Up Appearances .....At What Cost?
25/11/2025
Some words carry more than their dictionary meaning. Professional is one of them. For many people it brings to mind confidence and authority and perfection. For me it has always carried fear. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of not being smart enough. Fear that I would be exposed. That is why I want to talk about it. The words we use shape how we see ourselves, and sometimes they teach us to hide.
Have you ever sat in front of a GP and held something back. Not said everything you meant to say because you felt nervous or worried about being judged. Professionals are there to do a job, and not judging is part of that job. So why do we still get nervous. Why do we feel we have to act strong even when we do not feel strong at all.
It is strange that we rarely imagine our GP or teacher or therapist getting sick or struggling or feeling weak. Professionals are human too. I have been on both sides of this. I have felt intimidated as a patient, and now I hold the professional role. That is why it matters to me that clients do not feel they have to hide.
When I was a child, I was intimidated by professionals. They seemed to know everything, and I was terrified of looking stupid. That fear taught me to mask. I stayed quiet. I presented a version of myself that felt safe but was not real.
For neurodivergent people, masking often begins as survival. Fear makes the mask tighter until it becomes automatic. The cost is high. Energy drained. Honesty lost. Connection weakened.
During my third year placement, when my Nana was very ill, I kept up appearances. I thought professionalism meant composure at all times. Inside, I was exhausted. That was when I realised the true cost of keeping up appearances.
Professionalism matters. We have standards and codes and responsibilities. But professionalism is not perfection. It is not pretending. It is not ignoring our own wellbeing. If our mental health suffers to the point it affects our practice, that is not fair to clients. That is why supervision and support systems exist. They help us stay safe and human and effective.
Keeping up appearances might make for good comedy on TV. Hyacinth Bucket comes to mind. In real life it comes at a cost. When we spend all our energy looking composed, we risk losing honesty and connection and wellbeing.
I never thought I would be a professional. Even now it feels strange. That does not make me less knowledgeable or less confident. It simply means I refuse to pretend to be perfect.
I do not want to be the kind of professional who makes people nervous or guarded. The more honest my clients can be with me, the more I can hopefully help, and the more difference we can make together. My ethos is connection, not correction. I am not here to judge you or fix you or tell you that you are wrong. I am here to listen and understand and work alongside you.
At HoneyBeeOT, I hold the standards and the humanity. We create spaces where children and parents and families can show up curious and imperfect and real. I aim to do the same. Trust grows when we stop keeping up appearances and let people see the human behind the role.
I used to fear I was not good enough or smart enough. Now I know I am. I believe we all are, with the right support. That is what occupational therapy is. Helping people reach their potential without having to keep up appearances.
Appearances might look neat. The cost of maintaining them is too high.
Disclaimer: These are my personal views and experiences. I always invite conversation. If something resonates or challenges or sparks curiosity, I would love to hear your perspective.
—HoneyBeeOT
Did You Know There’s More Than 5 Senses?
And no — not in a spooky way.
A personal and professional reflection on sensory processing
24/03/2026
Most of us grow up learning about the five senses, but in occupational therapy we recognise that the body uses several more. Alongside sight, sound, touch, taste and smell, we also rely on senses that help us understand movement, balance, pressure and what is happening inside our bodies. These additional senses, vestibular, proprioception and interoception, play a huge role in how we feel, how we move and how we cope with the world around us.
For many people, these senses work quietly in the background. For others, including me, they can be louder or quicker or more sensitive. My sensory system does not sit neatly in one place. I can be overwhelmed by the world one moment and under connected to my own body the next. It shifts depending on stress, transitions, sleep, hormones and how regulated I already am.
Understanding this has helped me make sense of reactions I used to blame myself for, and it has shaped the way I support children and families in my OT practice. This is not about having it worse or better than anyone else. It is simply how my nervous system works. Many people, adults and children, will recognise their own version of these experiences.
Visual (Sight)
Sight is one of the senses that can drain me quite quickly. Bright lights or visually busy spaces make my brain feel like it is trying to take in everything at once without a filter. This is why you will often see me wearing sunglasses even in the rain. It is not painful. It is just tiring. Many people feel this without realising it is sensory. Places like supermarkets can be especially hard because there is so much happening all at once.
Auditory (Sound)
Sound is the sense that hits me the hardest. Sudden noises make my whole body jump. The kind of jump where your heart is in your throat before you even know what happened. Sharp sounds like sirens can feel almost like someone has pushed knitting needles into my ears. A sudden and intense pressure that my whole body reacts to before I can think.
I also get frights very easily. Sometimes the shock of a sudden noise brings tears to my eyes before I have even worked out what happened. Even the suspense of a possible fright can be overwhelming. I have been scared of balloons since I was little because the idea they might pop was enough to make birthday parties feel like a minefield.
And here is the funny part. I love loud heavy rock. It is predictable and rhythmic so my nervous system can prepare for it. It is the sudden and unexpected sounds that send me into full alert.
Raised voices or conflict are especially hard for my nervous system. Even if it is not directed at me, it scares me and takes a long time for my body to settle again. Like many people, when I am overwhelmed, I can react more sharply than I mean to. I always try to recognise that and learn from it afterwards. Sensory overwhelm is fast and automatic and often invisible.
Tactile (Touch)
Touch is a mixed sense for me. Sudden or unexpected touch can make my whole body tense before I have had time to think. A light brush or someone grabbing my arm without warning can feel far more intense than it might for other people.
At the same time, I often seek out certain kinds of touch or pressure without realising I am doing it. When I am anxious or concentrating, I might dig my nails lightly into my palm or pick at my nails or thumbs. It is not something I choose on purpose. It is a small and automatic way my body tries to regulate itself.
Vestibular (Balance and Movement)
Movement is one of the ways my body naturally regulates itself. I pace when I am on the phone. I shift my weight. I gently rock when I am standing or sitting. These movements are not planned. They are automatic. I usually only notice them afterwards. And yes, I still feel a bit awkward when I notice them.
Even when I was wee, my family noticed this. I have always eaten with my feet off the ground because I like moving them while I eat. We used to joke that I was burning off my food before I had even eaten it. Now I know it is simply sensory. My body using movement to stay regulated and comfortable.
Many people do their own version of this without realising it is sensory. For me, movement is grounding.
Proprioception (Body Position and Coordination)
Proprioception works quietly in the background for me with most things. It can feel a bit glitchy when I am behind the wheel. I still have not passed my test. My brain does not always receive feedback about my body’s position or the force I am using. I have to work really hard to coordinate the steering and pedals. This small sensory gap makes driving feel quite unnatural for me.
Interoception (Internal Cues)
Interoception is the sense that tells us what is happening inside our bodies. Hunger, thirst, temperature, emotions. When I am deeply focused, those cues can go quiet until they suddenly become very loud. I can miss hunger or thirst for longer than I mean to because my attention is elsewhere.
I also notice that if I sense someone might be upset or annoyed with me, even when they probably are not, my whole body tenses. It is not a thought. It is a nervous system reaction. My body reacts to the possibility of conflict long before my brain has any evidence. Many people experience this without realising it is part of interoception. The internal alarm system that tries to keep us safe.
Gustatory (Taste)
Taste is not a huge sensory challenge for me, but certain textures can be off putting. It is not enough to tip me into overwhelm. It is more of a quiet no. I do go through phases where I get stuck on one food and eat it over and over, and then suddenly I cannot face it for ages.
Olfactory (Smell)
Smell does not bother me much day to day. I notice strong scents, but they do not overwhelm me the way sound or visual input can. For me, smell is a background sense. Something I am aware of, but not something that usually affects my regulation.
How My Sensory World Shapes the Way I Support Others
Understanding my own sensory system has changed the way I work as an OT. It has helped me see that behaviour is almost never the starting point. The nervous system is. When a child is melting down or shutting down or running away or snapping or clinging, I do not see challenging behaviour. I see a sensory system doing its best to cope with something that feels too big or too fast or too unpredictable.
Because I have lived this in my own body, I never assume what a child is feeling. I look for the small signs. The fidgeting. The zoning out. The pacing. The sudden stillness. The change in breathing. The shift in tone. Those tiny cues often tell the real story long before the behaviour does.
I also know how quickly overwhelm can happen and how long it can take to come back down. That is why I focus on safety and connection and co regulation first. A regulated child can learn. A dysregulated child cannot. And that is not their fault.
What I Have Learned About Sensory Processing
Over the years, both personally and professionally, I have learned a few things that help people make sense of their own experiences or their child’s. Most people already understand a lot of this instinctively. Sometimes it just needs language wrapped around it.
-Sensory reactions happen fast and automatically.
-What looks like behaviour is often a nervous system trying to cope.
-Children are not being dramatic.
-Their body is reacting before their words can.
-Adults have sensory needs too. We just get better at masking them.
-Regulation looks different for everyone.
-Predictability and safety and connection make a huge difference.
Most families and teachers already know these things in their bones. My role is often helping them name what they are already seeing so everything feels less confusing and more compassionate.
How I Support Children and Families in Practice
My approach is relational and sensory aware and grounded in compassion. This includes:
-Co regulation
-Environmental adjustments
-Movement and deep pressure
-Sensory permission
-Spotting early signs of -overwhelm
-Working closely with families
It is never about fixing a child. It is about understanding them and supporting them and giving them the tools and environments they need to participate in daily life with more ease.
Living with a sensitive nervous system has taught me to move through the world with softness. Toward myself and toward others. The more I understand my own sensory patterns, the more compassion I have for the children and families I support. We are all doing our best to feel safe and connected and steady in a world that can be a lot. There is something beautiful in learning how to do that together.
—HoneyBeeOT