I'm staring at a spreadsheet that doesn't matter yet.

A department might want to rent a building. They might want renovations. We don't have plans. We don't have an architect. We don't even know the real scope. But they need numbers.

So I built them a conceptual budget—a ballpark to help them decide if they want to move forward. That should have been the end of it. Get the architect, flesh out the design, then we'll know what this actually costs.

Instead, I'm in my third week of email chains about who's paying for what. The department and the funding source are negotiating over estimates that will change the moment we have real plans. They keep asking me to revise line items. Break things out differently. Add contingencies for work we haven't defined.

I've been sitting here for twenty minutes and I haven't typed a single word.

My brain feels like a car engine revving in neutral—loud, hot, going nowhere.

On my bad days, I tell myself I'm terrible at this job. That I'm not built for oversight and planning. That I should be out directing jobsites instead of trapped behind a desk managing hypothetical projects for hypothetical buildings.

Then the sewer line breaks.

It happened two weeks ago in the dining hall—the only one on campus, so it's running nonstop. Students, staff, food service, the whole rhythm of the university flowing through that building.

The call comes in mid-morning. Sewer line cracked under the kitchen. Water backing up. Sections of the building need to close immediately.

I don't feel panic. I feel clarity.

My attention sharpens. The scattered noise in my head goes quiet. I can sense the weight of every decision—which areas to shut down first, who needs to be called, how to keep food service operational while we dig into the foundation of a building that never stops moving.

I'm on site within twenty minutes. The scene is chaos: facilities crew setting up barriers, kitchen staff rerouting prep work, students confused about where they're supposed to eat. My phone won't stop buzzing.

But my mind isn't scattered anymore. It's locked in.

I coordinate closures by section. Redirect foot traffic. Work with the plumber to figure out how much of the line we need to replace and how fast we can do it without compromising the repair. Every conversation is sharp. Every decision is immediate.

I work straight through lunch. Then dinner. By the time we stabilize the situation, it's after nine at night and I'm still wired. Not tired—energized. If they needed me to work another twelve hours, I could do it.

It's one of the best days I've had at this job all year.

So here's what I've figured out: I'm built for chaos, but the job rewards predictability.

My work is 90% planning and oversight. Consensus-driven. Risk-averse. It's about managing people and processes that move with the speed of policy, not instinct.

I like the people. I like being part of something that serves students. But the structure runs opposite to how I'm wired.

When a project is real—when there are tangible problems to solve and I can see the results of our work—I come alive. My ADHD, my auditory processing issues, the wiring that scatters my focus in meetings and makes me avoid vague tasks—all of it snaps into alignment when the stakes are clear.

But most of my time isn't spent there.

It's spent in meetings about timelines that will shift. In email chains about budgets that don't exist yet. In slow-motion negotiations over who's responsible for what before anyone knows what needs to be done.

That's where my brain rebels. Not because I'm lazy. Because nothing is real yet. It's all outline, no substance. And my wiring finds energy in action, not possibility.

I've had to build workarounds.

Mornings are when I survive. I get to the office before anyone else arrives. The quiet is everything. No voices, no phones, no interruptions.

I open the task that's been sitting in my inbox for three days—the one I've been avoiding because it feels abstract and endless. The hypothetical budget revision. The planning document no one will read. The meeting prep for a project that might not happen.

I force myself to do it first. Before email. Before coffee. Before my brain has time to invent reasons why it can't be done today.

When I win that first hour, I usually win the day.

I've also learned that my brain needs visible progress to stay engaged. So if a project is stuck in planning limbo, I create micro-movement. Draft one email. Update one number. Sketch one option. Something that shifts the project from theoretical to slightly-less-theoretical.

It's a small trick, but it keeps my system running instead of stalling out completely.

And when that restless energy hits—the itch for motion, the feeling that I'm wasting time sitting still—I've stopped fighting it. I use it. I stand up. Walk the site. Find someone to talk to in person. Clarify a problem face-to-face instead of through email.

It resets my focus faster than anything else I've tried.

The uncomfortable truth is this: I'm not going to change the system.

It will always move slower than I want. There will always be meetings that could've been emails. Decisions that need twelve approvals. Projects that live in planning purgatory for months before anything real happens.

But that doesn't mean I can't change how I operate inside it.

I used to think my neurodivergence made me bad at this work. Now I think it just makes me different at it.

In a slow-moving world, my intensity feels uncomfortable. But it's also what makes me valuable. When systems break, I bring order. When emergencies hit, I don't freeze—I focus.

The trick isn't fixing my wiring. It's learning to design around it. Build systems that create clarity when the work is vague. Find motion when everything feels stuck. Channel the chaos-brain into problems that actually need it, instead of letting it churn on tasks that don't.

Because here's what I've realized: the question isn't whether neurodivergence is an asset or a handicap at work.

It's whether you understand your wiring well enough to put yourself in situations where it helps instead of hurts.

That's the work beneath the work.

And some days I'm better at it than others.

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