Ah, routine. The magical unicorn of my life that I’m constantly chasing but can never quite catch. I swear, if routine were a person, it would be that frustratingly cool friend who manages to make everything look effortless—like, they just woke up flawless, effortlessly balanced their life, and probably baked a sourdough loaf in the process. Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to decide if brushing my teeth counts as a major life accomplishment. Spoiler alert: it sometimes does.

You see, routine is supposed to be my saving grace. It’s the thing that keeps me from spiraling into chaos, which, let’s be honest, is my natural habitat. And sure, routine and I have had our good times. Brief, fleeting moments where I feel like I’ve finally cracked the code of adulting. But then ADHD and ASD—my two overly dramatic internal roommates—come stomping in like Godzilla and King Kong, ready to wreck my carefully crafted plans. Add in chronic pain, migraines, and mobility issues, and suddenly the chaos feels like it’s been catered by some sadistic event planner who decided my life would be the perfect venue for unending nonsense.

Here’s the thing about my brain: it’s a circus, but not the cute kind with acrobats and elephants. No, mine’s the chaotic, experimental kind where the clowns are on fire, the tightrope walker is juggling flaming swords, and the ringleader decided to take a lunch break just as things blew up. But despite all this, I know deep down that routine is important. Like, critically important. When I stick to one, I get things done. I am productive, efficient, and dare I say, almost sane. Almost.

Take mornings, for example. My personal goal is to wake up and immediately tackle the essentials: dental stuff, shower, lotion. Sounds simple, right? WRONG. Because by the time I’ve stumbled out of bed, my brain has already thrown me fifteen distractions. Should I check my phone? Did I remember to feed the dog yesterday? Oh look, a cloud outside shaped like a dragon—what does it mean?! Somehow, I manage to stumble into the bathroom like a confused detective piecing together clues of why I’m awake. But hey, I eventually brush my teeth, and we call that progress.

After that comes breakfast, which is another battlefield. I’d like to say I’m the kind of person who makes a hearty, Instagram-worthy meal with avocado toast and eggs cooked to perfection. But no. Most days, breakfast is whatever I can grab before my ADHD leads me down another rabbit hole. Oh, you wanted cereal? Too bad, you’re now reorganizing the spice cabinet because the word “cumin” sparked an existential crisis. Let’s be real, I usually end up eating something completely random, like a granola bar and two pickles, while wondering if this is what rock bottom looks like.

Then comes the part of the day where I attempt to do productive things like logging onto my classroom or working on my writing. And yes, setting this up is like herding cats. My ADHD is yelling, “Hey, let’s Google the lifespan of jellyfish!” while my ASD is insisting, “No, we can’t start until everything is PERFECTLY organized!” Meanwhile, my chronic migraines are in the corner whispering, “What if we just lay down forever?” But somehow, I power through. I log in, I do the thing, and for a brief, glorious moment, I feel like a functional human being.

Of course, there are other responsibilities sprinkled throughout my day, like walking the dog. This is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, the fresh air is good for me. On the other hand, it’s a prime opportunity for my brain to spiral into weird tangents. Why does the neighbour’s mailbox lean slightly to the left? Should I have become a professional dog trainer? Is my dog judging me for wearing mismatched socks AGAIN? The walk ends, but the questions do not.

And meals—oh, meals. I know they’re supposed to be part of my routine, but half the time I forget they exist until my stomach stages a protest. It’s not that I don’t enjoy food; it’s that the concept of stopping everything to actually prepare and eat it feels like an Olympic event. Plus, my ADHD loves to interrupt with helpful suggestions like, “What if we bake cookies instead of making dinner?” I’d like to say I’ve mastered this part of my routine, but let’s be honest, I’m probably still eating pickles and granola bars.

By the time evening rolls around, I’m usually in a full-blown debate with myself. On one hand, I want to unwind and relax. On the other hand, I’m berating myself for all the things I didn’t accomplish. Why didn’t I stick to my routine? Why did I let distractions win again? Why am I like this? It’s a vicious cycle, and no amount of yelling at myself seems to break it.

But here’s the kicker: I refuse to give up. Because even amidst the chaos, I see the value of routine. It’s like the sturdy little raft I cling to in the middle of a stormy sea. Sure, the raft has holes. Sure, I keep falling off it. But it’s still there, and I’m still trying. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

So yeah, routine is important. It’s the thing that keeps me from becoming a complete disaster. It’s the structure that reminds me I’m capable of doing hard things, even when my brain is screaming otherwise. Does it always work? No. But when it does, it’s like a tiny miracle, and I’ll take that over nothing. Plus, it gives me something to write about, and let’s be real, embracing the chaos makes for a much better story.