Here’s a sneak peek into my brain:

(Probably the most vulnerable post I’ve ever written here!)

I'm working on a client session when an idea for this newsletter strikes. Immediately, my mind fixates on it. I keep repeating it internally, promising to write it down later, but panic rises. "I'll lose this idea. I need to write this down now.”

My attention fractures—session forgotten, newsletter idea consuming everything. Even after writing it down, the anxiety persists: "How will I make sure this doesn't get lost among all my other notes?"

This pattern repeats endlessly across my life—work projects, personal tasks, big or small ideas. Important or mundane, urgent or not—my brain treats them all the same.

There's the brain lock, and then there's the panic. All the while, I’m not making progress on the thing I actually wanted to work on.

Does this sound familiar at all?

Maybe not the panic, but the inability stay focused on a task in front of you without having your mind constantly interrupted with unrelated thoughts?

If so… what I’ve learned about my brain might reveal some things for you too.

The neuroscience behind the struggle

Two years ago, my whirring, overactive mind was getting so exhausting that I started to wonder if there was something else going on. Maybe ADHD?

I went through the ADHD testing process expecting a clear answer—an explanation for why the inner voice is so vicious, why I need endless notes to stay organized, why simple tasks leave me mentally drained when others seem to handle them so easily.

But the results came back: sure, some ADHD-like traits, but no clear diagnosis.

For a moment, I was disappointed. But not for very long, because throughout this process, I had gone into research mode, hunting down books and personal stories—hoping they'd help me make sense of my spinning mind. As I read, it felt like others had crawled inside my head, putting words to thoughts and struggles I’d never fully been able to describe myself. (Yes, there were tears!)

I stumbled onto something that made everything click.

1) The interplay between the Default Mode Network (DMN) and Task-Positive Network (TPN)

The DMN is a network of brain regions that become active when your brain isn’t engaged in a specific task.

Those moments when you zone out during mundane activities and your mind drifts into an endless spiral of thoughts? That's your DMN working. It's responsible for mind-wandering, self-reflection, replaying past conversations, generating creative ideas.

The DMN is essential—it helps us make sense of our experiences, process memories, and plan for the future.

But here's the critical part:

In a neurotypical brain, the DMN is supposed to deactivate when you focus on an external task. When you start working, reading, or talking, your brain shifts gears, engaging the TPN—your brain's focus mode.

The TPN and DMN are meant to work together like a seesaw:

• When the TPN activates, the DMN quiets down

• When you take a break, the DMN reactivates

• They work in opposition—one up, one down

This seesaw mechanism allows most people to transition smoothly between focus and mind-wandering when necessary.

But in a neurodivergent brain—especially those with ADHD or ADHD-like traits—this seesaw is broken. The DMN doesn't switch off properly when the TPN activates. Instead of smoothly transitioning into focus mode, both networks compete for attention:

• You try to focus, but intrusive thoughts keep pulling you away

• You get locked in negative self-talk as the DMN continues analyzing everything

• Every task becomes a battle against your own brain's natural tendency to drift

I can’t even begin to describe how seen I felt when I learned about this seesaw. (Again, tears!)

That was exactly what it felt like in my brain.

I now understood what made focus so exhausting for me. I’m not just concentrating on the task—I’m simultaneously fighting my own mind. And if I pause for even a second—if I hesitate, get frustrated, or lose momentum—the DMN takes over, making it even harder to regain focus. Imagine trying to concentrate while someone sits right next to you, whispering into your ear: 'Are you sure this is good enough? You’re not good at this. Why bother trying? You should've finished by now. Why is this taking so long?'

I know. Not fun.

So that’s the brain lock. But where was the anxiety and panic coming from?

Let’s take another, deeper, dive into my brain.

2) The interplay between the Default Mode Network and Amygdala

As mentioned, the DMN is great for daydreaming and connecting of ideas, but it can easily get stuck in negative cycles and self-criticism. This happens when it gets triggered and hijacked by the amygdala—our brain’s threat detection center.

Over the past few months, through somatic coaching and extensive journaling, I've realized just how sensitive my amygdala is to anything related to my memory.

Digging deeper, I traced this back to my childhood—and one specific memory stands out:

It took me months to learn how to tell the time. (It’s a running joke in my family now—but clearly, it left a mark.) We had this small white plastic clock, and I’d sit at the kitchen table for what felt like hours, my mom beside me, moving the little red hands, asking me to read it. After an hour or so of intense concentration, I’d finally get it.

The next morning, we’d try again and it was gone.

I couldn't remember.

I’d feel this vague, fuzzy recognition—like having a word on the tip of your tongue—but I just couldn’t connect what I saw with what my brain had learned the night before.

Even now, I vividly recall the frustration, disappointment, and shame I felt. I remember my mom’s kind face, how patiently she’d try to encourage me. But I could hear the surprise in her voice. And inside, I was spiraling: "How can I not remember? I knew this last night. What's wrong with me?!"

This painful cycle repeated itself throughout my school years: memorizing the periodic table, math formulas, country capitals and flags. I would study, cram, know the material. But the next day, it’d be gone.

Can you imagine what that did to my self-confidence?

All throughout school—and honestly, deep into my twenties and early thirties—I genuinely believed I just wasn’t very smart. Sure, I made up for it with enthusiasm and diligence. But behind the scenes, I was pouring enormous amounts of energy into every little task, pretending that things came naturally to me, while silently feeling insecure and exhausted.

Thankfully, through reading, coaching, and journaling, I've finally released the idea that there's something "wrong" with my brain. Instead, I’ve come to accept—and even embrace—that my brain simply works differently, with ADHD-like traits like a weaker working memory and a slightly faulty seesaw. Rather than fighting against it, I’ve built personalized systems that work with my unique brain.

But here’s what’s so interesting:

My amygdala hasn't fully caught up with this newfound understanding of myself. It’s still hypersensitive—quick to jump at any hint of forgetting or self-criticism. Even the smallest thought about forgetting something can trigger my DMN, launching me into a spiral that makes focusing nearly impossible.

It took me a while to fully appreciate how such small events from your childhood can impact your adult life in this way. I found it hard to believe, but the more I observed and learned, the more it all made sense.

Research shows that our past emotional experiences can literally reshape the way our brain’s threat and default networks operate. Early-life stress or emotionally charged events (like my clock reading adventure) often sensitize the amygdala, making it more reactive to similar “threats” later in life.

That's why something as simple as “I have a great idea—I absolutely can’t forget it, I need to write it down right now” can spark anxiety in me.

And for years, this all happened outside of my conscious awareness or understanding.

But learning all of this stuff about my brain has truly changed my life.

Now, when my mind starts spinning and anxiety bubbles up, I have the tools and understanding to pause and observe what's happening. I don't get as lost in the loop, and—most importantly—I don't beat myself up about it anymore.

But here’s what has helped me the most

Everything I’ve shared so far has been conceptual—a cognitive understanding built through research, coaching and journaling. Note-taking systems and apps. And while all of that was incredibly helpful and necessary, the real shift didn’t come from my mind.

It came from my body, through changing how I breathe and how I move.

Slow and controlled breathing

The first time I ever paid any attention to my breath was during a freediving course.

In freediving, breath control is everything. Slowing your breath is the key to calming your nervous system, conserving oxygen, and extending your dive.

So before we ever entered the water, we sat completely still and focused on our breath.

Slow inhale. Slow exhale. Pause.

Within minutes, the noise of the world softened. My thoughts quieted. Everything narrowed to just the rhythm of my breath.

Since that moment, slow breathing has become a daily practice—and the difference in how my brain operates is undeniable.

The research backs this up:

When you slow your breathing—making it gentle and light—you send powerful signals of safety to your brain and body.

This activates the parasympathetic nervous system (rest-and-digest mode), which helps downshift the sympathetic nervous system (fight-or-flight mode). Under stress, the sympathetic system can hijack and dysregulate the DMN, leading to rumination, looping thoughts, and scattered attention.

But when we feel safe—physiologically safe—the DMN quiets down. The nervous system regulates. Focus returns.

There’s tons and tons of neuroscience research to back this up:

• Zelano et al. (2016) showed that rhythmic nasal breathing (especially slow inhalations) directly modulates the amygdala, reducing emotional reactivity and increasing cognitive clarity.

• Melnychuk et al. (2018) found that slow breathing (~6 breaths per minute) increases heart rate variability (HRV), a marker of parasympathetic activation—and HRV has been correlated with decreased amygdala activity and improved attentional control.

I’ve incorporated this slow breathing practice in two ways:

1. Daily practice of slow breathing. 10-20 minutes. To slow it down to 6 bpm, you can inhale for 5 and exhale for 5. Or inhale for 4 and exhale for 6.

2. In the moment, when the DMN starts spiraling, I immediately shift my attention from my mind to my breath, and slow my breathing down. Over and over. It’s almost impossible to have spiraling thoughts and count at the same time.

A lot more movement

During the pandemic, I started walking more, and I quickly noticed how much calmer my mind felt. So ever since, I’ve been forcing myself to hit 10-12k steps per day and this has done wonders for my brain.

Again, neuroscience to the rescue to tell us why:

There’s a phenomenon called "self-generated optic flow."

You can think of optic flow as the movement of your surroundings as you move forward through space—like trees and buildings passing by in your peripheral vision.

Research shows that this movement reduces activity in the amygdala. That’s why walking, running, or biking reduces stress and anxiety, and helps you think more clearly.

(There’s just one big catch: The movement has to be self-generated. A treadmill or Peloton won’t have the same effect on your amygdala because you’re not actually moving in relation to your environment.)

So I am now religious about this: mind is spiraling? Get up, go outside and move.

Some extra thoughts…

• This piece by one of my favorite bloggers is what kicked off this whole exploration process: “What ADHD is Like (for me)” 

• Books that have been instrumental: ADHD 2.0 (for general DMN understanding), Restorative Embodiment and Resilience (for understanding DMN and amygdala), Mind Magic (about visualization, but includes a deep dive into different brain areas like the DMN and TPN) and The Brain that Changes Itself (on how to get out of brain locks.)

• Last week was Neurodiversity Celebration Week. Neurodiversity is the concept that different types of brains, or “neurotypes”, are a natural variation between people. It builds off the idea of biodiversity to reframe neurological differences from disorders needing to be ‘cured’ to simply other ways of experiencing the world. I’ve seen the eye-roll comments of “everyone claims to have ADHD these days 🙄” to which I delightfully respond: “yeah, maybe they do! Amazing, isn’t it? All these people who are so wonderfully different and unique who are finally going on their self-discovery journeys. What a time to be alive!”

JOIN ME 🫁 YOUR BREATH: A GUIDED EXPLORATION OF THE SCIENCE, SUBTLETY AND POWER

On Thursday, April 10, I’m running a 75-minutes workshop where we'll explore the science, subtlety and power of your breath.

Now, this is not a typical breathwork session in the cathartic or spiritual sense.

It’s more of a guided exploration of the breath as a tool for self-awareness, resilience, and performance.

Here’s what you can expect:

• Experiential and educational

• Grounded in physiology and practicality

• Subtle, nuanced, and body-aware

• Oriented toward day-to-day application

• Time to share observations and ask questions

This is for you if:

• You’ve tried breathwork before but want something more practical, grounded, and sustainable

• You’ve never done any breathwork, but you are curious about the science behind the breath and nervous system

• You want tools you can use anytime, anywhere—not just on a mat or in a workshop

• You’re ready to feel more connected to your body, your focus, and your inner calm

What else I’m up to…