The Storm Beneath the Surface: How ADHD, Autism, and Military Moves Shaped My Girlhood

There are storms we see coming—dark clouds, heavy winds, the warnings that tell us to prepare. And then there are the storms that build beneath the surface, the ones no one sees, not even us, until the damage has already been done.

For most of my life, I didn’t know I was living through one of those storms.

Even in my storm, Jesus was there—ready to lift the cloud and be my daily strength, my steady brew of grace.

Tracing the Storms Within

In my most recent Daily Pour post this week, I reflected on the word juggernaut—a force so powerful it feels impossible to stop. I wrote about how storms, both literal and emotional, can sweep through our lives like that: relentless, consuming, and overwhelming. What I didn’t fully share then was how much that word—juggernaut—reflects the hidden storms I’ve carried since I was a girl.

As April came to a close, marking the end of the Month of the Military Child and Autism Acceptance Month, I found myself reflecting on how much moving, masking, and misunderstood struggles shaped my girlhood in ways I’m only now beginning to understand.

Then came May—bringing a new layer of awareness with Menstrual Health Month, Period Poverty Awareness Week, and Menstrual Hygiene Day. These conversations stirred something deeper in me, leading to the heart behind Pouring Into Her—an initiative born from a desire to restore dignity, offer grace, and support girls navigating struggles that often remain unseen. Because for girls like me, the struggle wasn’t always loud—but it was always there.

When ADHD Doesn’t Look Like What They Expect

I wasn’t the loud, hyper, bouncing-off-the-walls kind of kid. I was the quiet one. The one lost in daydreams, forgetting what the teacher said before she even finished her sentence. I was the sensitive one, the “spacey” one, the girl who always seemed like she was somewhere else.

No one thought I had ADHD. Not even me.

For girls, ADHD doesn’t always look the way it does in boys. It’s not always loud and disruptive. Sometimes, it’s just silent chaos—the inability to focus, the forgotten homework, the endless hours it takes to finish a simple task because your mind won’t stay still.

But no one saw that. And for years, I didn’t know how much I was masking—just to seem like I was keeping up.

Puberty Made the Storm Beneath the Surface Worse

By the time I hit puberty, everything got harder. My emotions felt out of control. My ability to focus, already fragile, seemed to fall apart completely before and during my period. I didn’t know that estrogen—a hormone that drops during menstruation—was tied to dopamine, the same brain chemical that ADHD affects.

All I knew was that every month felt like a battle I couldn’t win. One week I could barely function, and no one could explain why.

It wasn’t just hormones—it was hormones mixed with ADHD. A storm inside my body and my mind.

Autism: The Hidden Piece of the Puzzle

It took even longer to see the other side of my storm: Autism.

I didn’t understand why change was so hard for me, why loud noises made me want to run away, or why I hated certain clothes or textures. I didn’t know why I struggled to connect with people, or why I felt like I was watching life from behind a glass wall.

Looking back, I can see now that I was autistic. Level 1 Autism, they call it. But at the time, I just thought I was weird. I thought I was broken.

Autism made me crave routine, familiarity, and peace. ADHD made my world feel chaotic, forgetful, and unsteady. Together, they created a storm that I didn’t know how to survive.

The Cost of Constant Change: Growing Up Military

And then, just as I was trying to understand myself, we moved. Again and again.

Between the ages of 9 and 15, I moved to four different places. Four new schools. Four new sets of friends I had to try and make. Four times I had to start over.

Military life doesn’t wait for you to catch your breath. And for a girl with ADHD, Autism, and a body shifting through puberty, every move felt like another wave crashing over me.

Each time, I lost what little stability I had. Each time, I had to learn a new rhythm when I was already struggling to keep time. And each time, I felt like I was slipping further and further behind.

When It All Collided: A Storm With No Name

I didn’t get diagnosed with ADHD until I was 40 years old.

Forty.

For decades, I carried the weight of feeling like I wasn’t enough. That I was lazy, forgetful, messy, or just not trying hard enough. But as I researched ADHD, and later Autism, I began to see the truth:

There was a storm beneath the surface all along. And I had been surviving it without even knowing its name.

As I learned more, I started to reflect on all the pieces of my life—on how ADHD, Autism, puberty, and constant moves shaped me. On how I wasn’t just forgetful during my period—I was battling hormonal shifts that made my ADHD worse. On how I wasn’t just sensitive—I was neurodivergent, trying to make sense of a world that never made sense to me.

Period Poverty and a New Understanding

Recently, as I began learning more about period poverty, I found myself connecting the dots in ways I never had before. No, I didn’t grow up lacking pads or tampons—but I did grow up with a different kind of lack. I faced a poverty of understanding.

No one told me that estrogen levels drop before and during menstruation, which impacts dopamine—a key brain chemical involved in ADHD. No one explained why my focus disappeared, why I felt like I was falling apart emotionally, or why I couldn’t seem to function during that time of the month. I just thought something was wrong with me.

Layer that with undiagnosed Autism, and my periods became storms of sensory overwhelm, emotional shutdowns, and deep self-blame. I didn’t know that the pain from cramps, the feel of certain clothes, or even the sound of pads crinkling could trigger a sensory spiral. I just knew I felt different...broken. Looking back, I see that I was struggling through something very real, very disruptive, and very unseen.

There’s a kind of poverty that doesn’t come from financial lack—it comes from the absence of knowledge, compassion, and language. That’s the poverty I carried. The kind that told me I was lazy instead of dysregulated. Dramatic instead of in distress. Too much instead of misunderstood.

And for many neurodivergent girls, especially those in military families, the layers only deepen. Constant moves prevent stability. New schools bring unfamiliar expectations. And all the while, their bodies are changing, their brains are wired differently, and no one is helping them make sense of it.

That’s why my heart burns not just for ending traditional period poverty, but for pouring grace into the lives of girls walking through a storm they can’t yet name. That’s why Pouring Into Her exists—to meet girls in the middle of those unnamed storms. I invite you to learn more, support, or share the mission by visiting the Pouring Into Her page to join the movement.

Sunflowers in the Storm: Finding the Son’s Light

Like the sunflower, I’m still learning to follow His light—faithfully turning toward Him through every storm.

Like the sunflower, I’m still learning to follow His light—faithfully turning toward Him through every storm.

Sunflowers are known for something beautiful—they turn their faces to follow the sun. Even in cloudy skies, they instinctively seek out the light. But during storms, they don’t actively do anything. They’re subject to the weather, vulnerable to heavy winds and rains. Sometimes they bend. Sometimes they break. But they also exhibit a quiet resilience. If the conditions aren’t too severe for too long, they can recover. They rise again.

I wish I had known to do the same.

During the storms of my girlhood—ADHD, Autism, hormones, constant moves—I didn’t know I could turn my face toward the Son. I didn’t know that Jesus was there, even in the chaos. I didn’t know that His light could break through the darkest clouds.

If I had known then what I know now, I would have let His grace guide me, His presence steady me, His love hold me. But even now, looking back, I see that He was always there—waiting for me to lift my head, to turn, to seek His light.

And just like the sunflower, I may bend in the storm—but by His grace, I’m learning to rise again. Now, I see the storm for what it was...and what it still is.

It didn’t destroy me, though at times it felt like it would. It shaped me. It taught me that survival is holy work. That grace is not just something I need from others, but something I must give myself.

If you’re living through a storm of your own—whether it’s ADHD, Autism, hormones, moves, or just life—I want you to know: you’re not alone. And you don’t have to keep pretending you’re okay when you’re not.

The storm may rage, but you are not without an anchor.

Storms They Don’t Speak Of: A Note for Men’s Health Month

As I think about the storms I weathered in silence, I’m learning to look more tenderly at the quiet storms others might be carrying too...especially the men in our lives.

June is Men’s Health Month. And while my story centers on girlhood, womanhood, and neurodivergence, I can’t help but wonder how many men are also turning their faces toward the light, quietly, without ever saying a word. Some storms look different. Some don’t come with tears or breakdowns but with withdrawal, frustration, or silence. Many of our fathers, brothers, husbands, partners, and sons were never taught to name their pain. They were raised to believe that strength means staying quiet, pushing through, or pretending everything’s fine.

But storms don’t disappear because we ignore them. And silence doesn’t equal peace.

As women—especially those of us who are mothers, partners, or friends to men navigating invisible battles—let’s not overlook what may be brewing beneath their surface. Let’s ask deeper questions. Let’s pray over their healing. Let’s create safe spaces where they don’t have to hold it all together. Because they, too, deserve the freedom to turn toward the light.

And just like sunflowers, they too are worthy of warmth, healing, and grace.

Turning Toward the Light

If you’ve ever felt like you were weathering a storm no one could see, know that you don’t have to face it alone. The same light that helped me grow through the storms—Jesus—can guide you too.

Take a moment to reflect:

What storms have shaped your story?

Where do you need His light to break through?

I’d love to hear your heart. Share your thoughts in the comments or connect with me as we keep turning toward His grace, together.

To learn more about how I’m pouring grace into the lives of girls facing unseen struggles, visit the Pouring Into Her initiative here.

🩵 💜 As June continues, I’ll also be honoring the strength of those facing storms like PTSD and cancer survivorship—silent battles that deserve space, grace, and understanding. Look for a new reflection soon that continues this conversation on adversity and healing. 🩵 💜

Gracefully yours—Coffee🤎Sweat🤍Tears🩵

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Keep Pouring...

If this post stirred something in you—if you’ve been feeling overwhelmed by life’s momentum, facing battles that feel unstoppable, or carrying storms no one else can see—there’s more waiting for you.

This week’s Daily Pour dives deeper into the word “juggernaut” and how the powerful forces in and around us—grief, pressure, trauma, even expectation—can feel impossible to escape, yet never too strong for God to redeem.

📖 Read the full devotional for The Daily Pour: Week 5 – Juggernaut, and 🌪 Download the 5-day study guide to slow down, reflect, and remember the One who anchors you in the storm.

You may feel pushed, pulled, or run over—but God is not moved.He is your strength. Your stillness. Your steady. Let’s rest in that. Let’s pour into that. Because no matter the force, His grace is greater.