You know what’s wild? The fact that something as seemingly mundane as routine can actually improve your health. I had to go and do a deep dive as to the details on the why, not just know that this is important. So in a way welcome back to part two. Who knew that waking up at the same time every day and remembering to do basic human things could turn me into a slightly less chaotic mess? Spoiler alert: it’s true, and honestly, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. But let’s dive deeper into this, because routine isn’t just the “eat your veggies” advice of life—it’s actually the secret weapon for surviving both the world and my neurodivergent brain.

First things first: let’s talk about the physical health benefits of routine. My body, bless its dramatic tendencies, is a bit like a demanding toddler. It thrives on consistency. When I manage to stick to a routine—say, eating meals at regular intervals—my digestion doesn’t feel like it’s competing in an extreme sports competition. My stomach isn’t staging protests at 3 a.m. because I forgot to eat dinner. And when I actually go to bed on time (a rarity, let’s be honest), my sleep isn’t a dystopian nightmare of tossing, turning, and existential dread. Routine helps me avoid the sheer chaos that comes with treating my body like a feral raccoon scavenging for scraps.

But the real kicker? Mental health. Oh boy, let me tell you, routine is like a lifeline for my ever-spinning brain. My ADHD and ASD often feel like they’re hosting a never-ending carnival, complete with clowns juggling self-doubt, anxiety on stilts, and procrastination running the ferris wheel. Routine, though imperfect, gives me something solid to cling to. It’s a tiny bit of calm amidst the chaos—a way to tell my brain, “Hey, look, we’re doing the thing! We’re sort of functional!” When I stick to even the simplest routines, like taking my meds at the same time every day, it’s as if my brain gets a brief moment to sit down, shut up, and breathe. Not to mention, routine can help me avoid the shame spiral that inevitably follows forgetting basic tasks. Who knew brushing your teeth at the same time every night could feel like winning a Nobel Prize?

Of course, being neurodiverse throws some delightful hurdles into this whole routine thing. I mean, it’s not like my ADHD wakes up every morning and says, “Wow, I can’t wait to follow a predictable schedule today!” No, it’s more like, “Hey, let’s reorganize the fridge at 2 p.m. and abandon all other plans forever.” Similarly, my ASD has its own flavor of sabotage, demanding perfection at every step. If my routine isn’t flawless, my brain starts thinking, “Well, guess we’re terrible people now!” Fun times, right? And don’t even get me started on the physical roadblocks—chronic pain and migraines are like the annoying neighbors that keep slamming doors just as I’m about to focus. Even when I *want* to stick to a routine, these hurdles remind me that life isn’t exactly a smooth ride.

But hurdles aside, routine is crucial for our bodies. It’s like this invisible infrastructure that holds everything together. When I follow a consistent schedule, even in small ways, my body knows what to expect. It’s less likely to throw tantrums about surprise meals or unpredictable sleep times. Plus, routine helps regulate those pesky circadian rhythms, ensuring that my sleep doesn’t feel like an off-key cover band playing the hits of insomnia. And let’s not forget the emotional stability it provides. Knowing what’s coming next—even if it’s just a promise to clean my desk—helps me navigate the rollercoaster of daily life without getting entirely derailed.

Routine’s importance lies in its ability to take care of me, both physically and mentally, when my brain and body occasionally seem like they’re working against me. Even if it’s imperfect, even if I fall off the metaphorical raft a thousand times, routine keeps me afloat. It’s the glue holding my chaos together, the gentle nudge reminding me to prioritize self-care, and sometimes, the only thing standing between me and total disaster. Sure, there are moments when it feels impossible, but hey, the benefits are worth the effort—plus, it gives me something to write about. Chaos makes for way better stories, after all.