Hey there, yes I am posting more kink based stuff with my regular stuff. What can I say? I like chaos and I love sharing my knowledge. This includes the not as accepted things in my life as well such as kink. I promised to be transparent and this is me keeping that promise. How can you see all that is out there that I have learned about if I hide parts of it? Simple answer; you can’t. So here is me opening up a bit more, taking a leap of faith and embracing all of myself and sharing that journey with you as part of my regular stuff. That’s not going anywhere any time soon.

When people talk about kink, a lot of the time they’re thinking about preferences—like “what are you into?” or “what kind of scenes do you like?” But for me, that’s just the surface. Kink isn’t just about preference. It’s about regulation. It’s a system that makes sense in a world where most systems just… don’t. Especially as someone with AuDHD.

My brain doesn’t stop. It doesn’t slow down. It’s like flipping between 50 open tabs, half of them playing music, the other half set to maximum brightness. Thoughts bounce, emotions come in big waves, sensory stuff hits me harder than most people realize. And the things people often recommend to “manage” that—like deep breathing, productivity planners, or silence—just don’t cut it. Kink does.

Submission, specifically, has become one of the ways I stay grounded. And I know that might sound counterintuitive—like, how can giving up control help you feel more in control? But the thing is, I’m not giving anything up. I’m choosing structure. I’m choosing a container that I helped build, through trust, communication, and care. That structure doesn’t box me in—it holds me together.

The expectations in a dynamic are never just rules someone hands me. They’re conversations. They’re mutual. They’re built with clarity and intention. And that kind of support doesn’t feel oppressive—it feels like someone is holding one side of the rope while I figure out how to climb with both hands free. There’s space to say, “I’m struggling today,” but also space to pause and ask myself, “Am I really not able to do this, or am I avoiding it?” That pause has saved me from spiraling so many times.

And then there’s the ritual. People underestimate how powerful ritual can be. For me, having daily check-ins, affirmations, even just tiny bits of agreed-upon structure—they help keep the overwhelm from boiling over. The world is unpredictable. My thoughts are unpredictable. But rituals are solid. They’re something I can reach for, even when everything else feels loud.

That’s the kind of regulation I need. Not cold, clinical strategies that don’t leave room for how I actually function, but real-world tools that are flexible, connected, and responsive to who I am.

And look—I get why some people worry when they hear “neurodivergent” and “submission” in the same sentence. There’s this narrative that we’re more vulnerable, that we don’t know what we’re doing, or that we’ll just go along with anything because we crave structure. But honestly? That couldn’t be further from the truth. If anything, we’re usually the ones who are more prepared. We research, we ask questions, we look at every angle before stepping into a dynamic.

I don’t just trust blindly—I consent with eyes wide open. Neurodivergent doesn’t mean naive. It means I process things differently, and often more thoroughly, because I need to in order to feel safe.

Something else I’ve learned—especially with new connections—is how much dopamine plays into all of this. When I start talking to someone new, my brain lights up like fireworks. Dopamine floods in. Everything feels exciting and intense and perfect. And if I’m not careful, that “newness high” can trick me into thinking this person is the person before I’ve even fully heard their story.

That’s why I slow things down. Not because I don’t care, but because I care a lot. I want to give both of us time for the shimmer to settle. I want to see the human in front of me, not just the spark. Because when I’ve rushed before—chasing that dopamine rush—I’ve ended up overwhelmed, dysregulated, and stuck in dynamics that didn’t actually fit.

Now, I stay in the texting phase for a while. I let connection unfold instead of chasing the peak. And to help with that, I created something I call the Rule of Six. It’s simple: over time, I ask six basic, totally ordinary questions. Nothing tricky—just things that reflect how someone thinks, how they process, how they connect. If they answer even one of those questions in a way that really clicks with me, we move forward. We meet in a safe, neutral space. But if none of them land? That’s okay too. It just means we’re probably not meant to connect in that way.

I don’t correct people. I don’t make it a quiz. It’s just a quiet way to observe whether someone understands me, values similar things, or speaks my language. And more than anything, it helps me pace the relationship. It builds space for clarity. For alignment. For trust. That slow-down isn’t resistance—it’s care. And honestly, it’s been one of the best things I’ve ever created for myself.

One thing I’ve had to accept—and honestly, it’s something I’ve come to appreciate—is that I connect differently. If I’m talking to someone and I’m sharing what might seem like way too much, especially early on, it’s not because I don’t have boundaries or because I’ve lost control. It’s because I see something in that moment that feels familiar. When I overshare, it’s rarely accidental—it’s deliberate, in its own way. It means: I get you. I trust you enough to want to be understood in return.

For me, connection doesn’t grow through small talk. I don’t warm up slowly or keep things light just to keep things safe. Small talk feels like static—like wearing shoes that don’t fit just because they’re expected. It’s not that I can’t do it at all. It’s just that it doesn’t lead anywhere real for me. So when I skip the surface-level stuff and go straight into the heart of things—my thoughts, my trauma history, my neurodivergent patterns—I’m not trying to overwhelm anyone. I’m trying to build a bridge.

Especially in kink, that deep honesty is everything. I don’t want to play with someone unless they have the full context—my boundaries, my triggers, what support looks like when I go quiet, what dissociation feels like when it starts creeping in. That level of honesty can feel intense to some people, but for me it’s just how I keep both of us safer. It’s how I feel seen and cared for before we even begin.

This is where trust shows up for me—not just in physical safety or negotiated dynamics, but in the emotional environment we’re co-creating. If you’re someone I care about, I want you to have a roadmap for loving me well. And that means you’re getting the full picture—not the polished version, not just what sounds good, but the parts I’ve had to work through and learn from. Because when I’m that honest, I’m not trying to trauma-dump. I’m offering you information that helps you understand the terrain. I’m saying, Here’s where the cracks are. Walk with care, and I’ll do the same for you.

And this style of communication—it works with the way my brain regulates connection. Neurodivergence means emotions hit different. I can go from craving closeness to needing space in the span of a day, and if I don’t feel understood, it’s easy to spiral into guilt or shame. But when I’ve been honest from the beginning, when I’ve named those needs out loud, I don’t have to mask them later. There’s nothing to hide, so there’s nothing to explain or apologize for.

Pairing that honesty with the slowness I’ve built into new dynamics—like the Rule of Six—creates something really special. It’s like emotional pacing, not just logistical. It gives connection space to breathe, but it also keeps it anchored in reality. That slow pace gives both of us the chance to show up fully as we are, rather than as the idealized versions of ourselves our dopamine-soaked brains might project early on.

And once that foundation is there—once trust and safety are layered in like that—what kink gives me is more than regulation. It’s peace. It’s an embodied stillness I rarely find elsewhere. Scenes become spaces where my brain isn’t bouncing between worries or undone tasks or fractured attention. Instead, I’m grounded. Present. Free in a way that doesn’t require performance or perfection.

Kink helps me return to myself. It acts as a reset button on the noise, the burnout, the cognitive clutter. And when it’s part of my routine—when it’s integrated thoughtfully and supported through rituals, relationships, and reflection—it’s transformative. It gives me the capacity to show up more fully in the rest of my life, because I’m no longer leaking energy just trying to stay regulated.

So yes, this journey has been slow and personal and deeply shaped by my neurodivergence. But that’s exactly why it’s working. The systems I’ve created—from slowing down new connections to being unapologetically honest to choosing submission as a form of anchored structure—they didn’t come from nowhere. They came from years of trial and error, years of rushing in and burning out, of losing myself in the noise and finding my way back piece by piece.

And now, when I look at what I’ve built—the rituals, the boundaries, the Rule of Six, the softness in my slowness—I see growth. I see proof that I can create safety, not just for others, but for myself. This isn’t just about kink. It’s about learning to live in alignment with my nervous system, my needs, and my truth. That’s the kind of work I’m proud of. That’s the part I want to remember.