I Have a Train to Catch in 45 Minutes and I Still Haven't Brushed My Hair: A Neurodivergent Thanksgiving Travel Story

When you're excited to go, your stuff is "sort of" packed (read: piled on top of a suitcase), and your body still won't cooperate.

It's happening again.

I have a train to Portland in approximately 45 minutes. I'm excited to go. I WANT to go. I've been looking forward to this trip. And yet here I am, writing a blog post instead of brushing my hair, my belongings scattered on top of a suitcase like some kind of packing abstract art installation, and I genuinely cannot explain why I'm not moving faster.

My hair? Unbrushed chaos.

My suitcase? A pile of items that are technically IN the vicinity of luggage.

My brain? Running seventeen simultaneous programs, none of which are "get ready to leave."

If you're neurodivergent, you already know exactly what I'm talking about. If you're not, let me explain: this is what executive dysfunction looks like in real time.

The Paradox of Wanting To Go But Not Going

Here's the thing that makes absolutely no sense to neurotypical people: I am genuinely excited about this trip.

This isn't avoidance. This isn't dread. This isn't "I don't want to go so I'm procrastinating." I actually want to be on that train. I want to get to Portland. I've been anticipating this.

And YET.

My body is acting like I have all the time in the world. My brain keeps finding other things to do (like, say, writing a blog post about not getting ready). The urgency that should be propelling me toward the door is just... not connecting to my limbs.

This is the cruelest trick of autistic inertia and ADHD executive dysfunction: it doesn't care what you WANT. It doesn't care about your feelings about the task. It's not a motivation problem—it's a signal transmission problem. The "GO" message is getting lost somewhere between intention and action.

The "Sort Of" Packed Situation

Let me paint you a picture of my current packing situation:

Everything I need for this trip is currently sitting ON TOP of my open suitcase. Clothes? On the suitcase. Toiletries? On the suitcase. Chargers? You guessed it—on the suitcase.

Technically, this is progress. These items have been gathered. They are in one location. They are adjacent to their final destination.

But the actual act of placing them INSIDE the suitcase and CLOSING it? That's apparently a bridge too far for my brain right now.

This is executive dysfunction in action. It's not that I can't pack. I clearly CAN—I've identified what needs to go, I've collected it, I've brought it to the packing location. But somewhere between "items on suitcase" and "items in suitcase," my brain just... stopped generating instructions.

And the wild thing? If someone walked in right now and said "let's pack together," I could probably do it in 3 minutes flat. The task isn't hard. My brain just can't initiate it alone.

Why Transitions Are So Hard (Even Good Ones)

Here's what I've learned about my brain: it doesn't distinguish between good transitions and bad transitions. A transition is a transition, and transitions require an enormous amount of cognitive energy.

Going from "home mode" to "travel mode" involves:

• Mentally leaving one environment
• Anticipating a different environment
• Gathering all necessary items for the new environment
• Remembering everything you might need
• Physically preparing your body (hair, clothes, etc.)
• Getting yourself out the door
• Navigating transportation
• Arriving and adapting to the new place

That's like eight separate executive function demands, and my brain is looking at all of them at once and going "...no thank you, I'll be on the couch."

The excitement about the destination doesn't reduce the cognitive load of the transition. If anything, it adds to it—because now there's also anticipation and emotional activation happening alongside the task demands.

The Time Blindness Factor

45 minutes feels like plenty of time. It also feels like no time at all. It feels like a concept that doesn't quite map onto reality.

ADHD time blindness means I genuinely cannot intuitively sense how long 45 minutes is or how it relates to the tasks I need to complete. I know intellectually that I need to: finish packing, brush my hair, probably change clothes, get to the station, and board the train. I know each of these things takes time.

But my brain is treating 45 minutes like it's simultaneously infinite (plenty of time, no rush) and also like time doesn't exist at all (what even is 45 minutes, what does that MEAN).

This is why I'm always either way too early (anxious overcompensation) or cutting it dangerously close (time blindness won). Today is apparently a "cutting it close" day.

What's Probably Actually Happening

If I'm being honest with myself (and you, internet stranger reading this while maybe also not doing the thing you're supposed to be doing), here's what's probably going on:

Transition resistance: My autistic brain likes where it is. It's comfortable. Home is predictable. Leaving requires change, and change is hard regardless of whether the change is wanted.

Task overwhelm: "Get ready to leave" isn't one task—it's a hundred tiny tasks, and my brain is frozen trying to figure out which one to do first.

Dopamine confusion: I'm excited about Portland, but that excitement isn't translating into action-oriented dopamine. The anticipation is actually making it HARDER to do the boring prep work because my brain wants the reward NOW, not after packing.

Inertia: I'm at rest. Objects at rest stay at rest. My brain isn't generating the activation energy needed to shift states.

Time blindness: 45 minutes doesn't feel urgent yet. It will feel urgent in about 38 minutes when I suddenly realize I have 7 minutes and haven't put on shoes.

What I'm Going to Do About It (After I Post This)

Okay. Public accountability time. Here's the plan:

1. Post this blog (happening now, this is my transition activity)
2. Stand up (movement creates momentum)
3. Put things IN the suitcase (not organized, just IN)
4. Close the suitcase (done is better than perfect)
5. Brush hair while walking to door (multitask the panic)
6. Leave (just physically exit, figure out the rest later)

Notice I'm not aiming for perfection. I'm aiming for "on the train." My hair will be acceptable. My packing will be chaotic but functional. I will probably forget something. And that's fine. I can buy a toothbrush in Portland.

If You're Also Stuck Right Now

Maybe you're reading this because you're also avoiding something. Maybe you're supposed to be getting ready for your own Thanksgiving travel or family obligation or thing you actually want to do but can't seem to start.

Here's your permission slip: You're not lazy. You're not broken. Your brain just works differently, and transitions are genuinely hard, even when—especially when—you want to make them.

Do one tiny thing. Just one. Stand up. Move one item. Put on one shoe. The first action is the hardest. After that, momentum might kick in.

Or it won't, and you'll do everything