There’s a radio station in my head that is always on. There’s no off switch unfortunately. There’s no commercials per se but also no pause between tracks. Just one long, uninterrupted broadcast that shifts in mood, speed, and volume depending on the day, the task, the sensory input, the social aftermath, or even just the tilt of the light outside. It’s not the kind of station you can scan past or shut out with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. Because the speakers, they’re wired directly into my nervous system.

I call it Station WNDR: We’re NeuroDivergent Radio.

It doesn’t play Top 40 hits or soothing jazz. Instead, it rotates between thought spirals, phantom arguments, deeply rehearsed conversations that will never happen, and that one moment from six years ago when I said something weird at a party and everyone laughed too politely…or that one time in hockey when i finally got to play offense and i hit the puck right to the other team like a perfect assist for their score. It’s a station that doesn’t care if I’m trying to sleep, trying to connect, or trying to breathe. Its signal is strongest during transitions, like those in-between moments when the world hasn’t asked anything of me yet, but my brain is already sprinting through ten possible outcomes just in case.

This station runs on a peculiar frequency. Think AM radio at 3 a.m., all static and scratchy wisdom. It’s the soundtrack of survival, composed by a brain that refuses to be caught off guard. WNDR plays hypervigilance like a classic hit! It loops social pattern analysis like a beloved podcast. And it overlays it all with a mixtape of moral questioning, shame spiraling, and endless mental rehearsals that sound a lot like, “If I had just said it differently…”

It’s not just noise. This station thinks it’s protecting me. Often with my clients I hear, “Oh, I thought that was a trusted voice.”

It thinks that by running simulations of every conversation I might have today, I’ll avoid awkwardness. That if it plays enough reminders of past mistakes, I’ll never make them again. That if I just prepare enough like preparing for rejection, for misunderstanding, for conflict, etc then I’ll be safe. So it doesn’t stop. It can’t. Not when safety feels like a moving target. Not when the world has told me, over and over, that I need to “tone it down,” “be less sensitive,” or “just relax.”

The DJ at Station WNDR is relentless. But it’s not cruel, more like it’s scared and just trying. It’s working overtime because at some point, maybe early on, it learned that safety is not guaranteed. That belonging has to be earned through performance. That expressing too much, or saying the wrong thing, comes at a cost.

And so the station plays on.

But I’ve learned something really important recently. I don’t have to let the DJ run the booth alone.

These days, I’ve started showing up as a co-host. I don’t scream into the mic or yank the chords. I sit down with my morning coffee, lean into the console, and say, “Hey, I hear what you’re spinning. But maybe today we choose a different setlist?” I’ve learned that curiosity is more effective than control. That dialogue works better than suppression. I don’t try to silence the broadcast anymore. I do try to decode it though.

Because WNDR isn’t always wrong, which is how it becomes so trusted.

It helps me notice the subtle shift in a friend’s tone. It connects the dots between a colleague’s offhand comment and a pattern I’ve seen play out before. It gives me words for things others haven’t noticed yet. It fuels creativity, empathy, analysis, and resilience. But it can also overwhelm. It can take over the signal, flooding my system with static and doubt. That’s when I know it’s time to pause, breathe, and remember…I am not just the broadcast. I am also the listener.

Coaching has been one of the few spaces where I’ve learned to tune into that station without getting swallowed by it. Where I could name the noise and learn how to guide the signal. The goal is never to erase it or to mute it. But to bring it into coherence. To use that sensitivity as a strength instead of a source of constant vigilance.

If your brain is like mine, always broadcasting, always running through the “what ifs” and the “what was that abouts?” I am here to tell you…you’re not broken. You’re attuned. You’re broadcasting from a place of pattern, memory, and anticipation. And while that can be exhausting, it’s also profoundly human.

The goal isn’t silence.

The goal is signal.

​Let’s tune in, together.