by Artemis | Nov 3, 2026 |
Before you abandon another business idea, make sure it's actually the idea that's failing.
Have you ever been so excited about a business idea that you could practically see the whole thing coming together?
You knew what you wanted to do. You had the skills. You had plans.
And then came the website, social media, marketing, scheduling, organizing, and approximately 47 other things you apparently needed to master before you could do the thing you actually wanted to do.
Somewhere along the way, the excitement fizzled out.
Maybe you got overwhelmed. Maybe you started questioning whether the idea was worth pursuing. Or maybe you decided, once again, that you just weren't cut out for this business stuff.
Sound familiar?
Yeah. Pull up a chair.
Oh God, She's Got Another Idea
I've been a fiber artist for over 30 years. Knitting, crochet, embroidery, weaving, spinning. If it involves making something with yarn, thread, or fabric, I've probably had my hands in it.
And for years, I desperately wanted to build a business around those skills.
I wanted to make things, teach things, share what I knew, and hopefully earn a living doing something I loved.
Was that really asking so much?
Apparently.
Because every time I tried, the bloody businessing got in the way.
I'd have a great idea, get excited, and dive in. Usually headfirst, occasionally without checking for water.
Then I'd start following all the advice about what a business owner should be doing.
Get a website. Start a newsletter. Post on social media. Be consistent. Build an audience. Keep track of everything.
Sure! Why not?
Did I ever stop to ask whether those platforms were right for me or my business?
Of course not. Everybody said I needed them!
Eventually, I'd become so overwhelmed trying to manage everything that I'd decide I needed a better organizational system.
And boy, could I build systems.
Beautiful, elaborate, meticulously organized systems.
Until I'd come back a few days later, stare at the screen, and have absolutely no bloody idea how to use them.
Brilliant. I'd created another problem to solve the first problem.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
Eventually, I'd lose the enthusiasm that had started the whole adventure.
Then came the familiar questions.
Why does everybody else seem to manage this?
What am I missing?
Why can't I just get my shit together?
And eventually, I'd walk away.
Again.
And Then There Was That Look
After enough attempts, the people around me started developing a particular expression whenever I got excited about another idea.
You know the one.
Oh God. She's at it again.
Some weren't particularly kind about it, either.
And the worst part? I started believing them.
There I go again, getting carried away with another ridiculous idea.
Besides, why would anybody want what I had to offer? They could just Google it, ask somebody, or figure it out themselves.
It never occurred to me that what I considered easy might be someone else's nightmare.
Funny how quickly we can dismiss the value of something we've spent years learning.
And every abandoned attempt became another bit of evidence in the case against myself.
Not exactly the best foundation for the next brilliant idea.
Well, That Explains a Lot
I didn't discover I had ADHD until my fifties.
And suddenly, a whole lot of blanks started getting filled in.
No, I didn't magically become organized, confident, and capable of remembering why I'd walked into the kitchen.
But I did start looking at those abandoned businesses differently.
Instead of asking why I couldn't follow through, I started examining where things had gone sideways.
What exactly had blocked me?
Was it the work itself, or everything I was trying to manage around it?
Why did my organizational systems eventually become obstacles?
And here's the question I wish I'd asked years earlier:
Did I actually need to be doing all those things in the first place?
I had spent years trying to make myself fit somebody else's idea of how to run a business.
Nobody had told me I could question the tools, the platforms, or even the supposedly essential tasks.
Or perhaps somebody had. I probably filed that information in one of my magnificent organizational systems and never found it again.
My ADHD discovery didn't turn me into a confidence goddess overnight. I'm still working on that.
And it certainly didn't change everybody else's opinion of my latest business idea.
But it gave me the courage to question the process instead of automatically questioning my abilities.
That changed a lot.
The Tools Are My Bitch Now
There. I said it.
This time, I decided to build a different kind of business.
Over the years, I'd taught myself how to solve technical problems, build systems, and make technology do what I actually needed it to do.
Not always elegantly. Sometimes there's a fair amount of swearing involved.
But I'd learned something important.
The tools are supposed to work for me. Not the other way around.
And a system isn't particularly useful if I can't figure out how to use it when I return next Tuesday.
So now I approach things differently.
I ask whether a tool actually solves a problem I have, whether it fits the way I work, and whether I can easily pick up where I left off.
If it creates more work than it eliminates, we need to have a little chat.
That thinking eventually became the foundation of TechAlchemy.
Because I started wondering how many other people were abandoning good ideas, not because they lacked the skills or determination, but because everything surrounding the actual work had become an exhausting mess.
Before You Throw in the Towel
Here's something I wish I'd understood years ago.
When a project starts falling apart, it's tempting to question the whole idea. Or worse, yourself.
But before you decide you're hopeless at this business thing, try asking a few different questions.
1. What actually stopped me?
Was it something about the product, service, or idea itself? Or did I get buried under the administration, marketing, technology, and all the other businessing?
Those are very different problems.
2. Am I doing this because it helps my business, or because somebody said I should?
Just because everyone says you need to be on a particular platform doesn't mean it's where your customers are or where you should spend your energy.
You don't need to collect social media accounts like they're Pokémon.
3. What would make it easier to come back?
If you walked away from this project for a week, would you know where to pick it up again?
Could you find what you'd done, understand why you'd made certain decisions, and see what needed to happen next?
If not, maybe your system needs a little work. Not your character.
None of this guarantees an idea is worth pursuing. Sometimes an idea really isn't viable, and that's worth finding out too.
But wouldn't it be nice to make that decision based on the idea itself, rather than how badly your organizational system has pissed you off?
I Wish I'd Met Me Back Then
When I think about what might have helped during all those years, the answer is surprisingly simple.
I wish I'd met me back then.
Someone who would have helped me figure out what was blocking me, find a way through, and leave myself a way back.
Someone who understood that I didn't necessarily need another planner, another course, or another lecture about discipline.
I needed a way to make the businessing manageable so I could get on with the things I actually loved doing.
That's the kind of help I want to offer through TechAlchemy.
I'm still building my own business, and believe me, I still have moments when I wonder whether I've gotten carried away with another ridiculous idea.
But I'm learning not to let every obstacle turn into a verdict on my abilities.
And perhaps that's worth remembering the next time you're tempted to walk away from something you care about.
Before you give up on the idea, find out what's actually getting in your way.
It might be something you can change.
And wouldn't that be a hell of a thing?
I'd love to hear from you: Have you ever abandoned a project or business idea because managing everything around it became overwhelming? Looking back, was it really the idea that wasn't working, or was it something else?
by Artemis | Nov 2, 2026 |
ADHD, cognitive overload, and why I'm making my tools do some of the damn work.
Of all the days for my brain to refuse to cooperate, it picked the day I was trying to read an article about cognitive load.
Oh, the irony.
I'd found an AbilityNet article about reducing cognitive load for neurodivergent users. Exactly the kind of information I've been researching lately, particularly when it comes to running my business.
I knew it was important. I wanted to understand it.
And I couldn't retain a damn thing.
I understood the words, but the information was going in one eye and apparently escaping through the nearest emergency exit.
Tomorrow might be different. Today? Nope.
So I went to talk to Bob.
Bob is what I call ChatGPT. My research partner, sounding board, and frequent interpreter of whatever chaos I've just dumped into a conversation.
Instead of another lengthy explanation, we tackled one idea at a time, connecting it to things I'd already built in TechAlchemy Village.
One idea. One familiar example. One takeaway.
Well, would you look at that? Things started sticking.
I didn't need the information dumbed down. I needed it presented in a way that didn't require quite so much mental gymnastics.
And one particular idea grabbed me:
Put the answer where the question happens.
Don't make people remember information you could simply show them when they need it.
Such a ridiculously sensible idea. And it made me realise that's exactly what I've been trying to do for myself.
Death by a thousand tiny decisions
For the past month, I've been conducting little self-audits, looking at where things go sideways in my business.
Not where some productivity guru thinks they should go sideways. Where they actually do.
Take writing, for example.
I love writing blog posts. Give me an interesting subject and I'll happily ramble, research, explore, and eventually find the point hiding somewhere in the mess.
But publishing those posts?
Good grief.
Every platform wants something different. Titles, descriptions, tags, images, SEO, formatting, links, and a dozen little details that apparently breed when nobody's looking.
None of it's particularly difficult. Together, it's death by a thousand tiny decisions.
And if I get distracted halfway through, I have to remember what I've done, what's left, and where the hell I put everything.
Apparently, writing wasn't enough. I also needed to become the administrative department.
No thanks.
So I built myself a system.
Bob and I now work through my brain dumps in a dedicated content project. We research the subject, develop the article, and prepare everything needed for my chosen publishing platforms.
When it's ready, Bob gives me one zipped publishing package.
I open my Publishing Den Dashboard, click Add Package, upload the ZIP, and everything lands where it belongs. Articles, images, SEO details, platform requirements, and checklists.
I can see what's finished and what comes next.
Publishing now takes me an hour or two.
But here's the important part.
The point isn't that it saves me time. The point is that it gets done.
I wasn't struggling with writing or understanding how to publish. I was struggling with everything I had to organise, remember, and decide in between.
So I stopped asking my brain to manage all of it. And that's exactly the kind of knot I help other business owners untangle, too.
Keep It Simple, Stupid. Even if building it isn't.
I've done something similar with other parts of my business.
I've built WordPress plugins for client intake, organising communications, and tracking activity across my publishing platforms and website.
All those tools are accessible from my Secret Lair, my little headquarters inside TechAlchemy Village.
Each has its own nice, easy-to-find button.
A pretty button, thank you very much. Practical doesn't have to mean boring.
There's a certain absurdity to spending hours building tools to make life simpler, but the complicated work happens behind the scenes. I don't have to wrestle with it every time I want to accomplish something.
I just need to know where to click.
Of course, there's a trap here.
I love building things. Give me an interesting problem and I'll happily disappear down a rabbit hole for two days.
But if maintaining my organisational systems becomes another full-time job, I haven't solved anything. I've just given myself a new boss, and apparently she's an unreasonable pain in the ass.
So I'm learning to ask whether a tool actually removes an obstacle or just gives me something else to manage.
And I've added another rule to my personal version of K.I.S.S.
Always leave myself a way back.
Because I will get distracted. I'll get interrupted. Some days I'll run out of mental energy long before I run out of things to do.
I've had nearly six decades to notice the pattern. It really shouldn't come as a surprise anymore.
So why keep designing systems that only work when I'm having a brilliant day?
I need to be able to stop, walk away, and return without reconstructing the entire operation from memory.
And not everything needs another dashboard. Sometimes a simple note or an obvious next step does the job.
The more I experiment with this, the more I realise that the best system isn't necessarily the most sophisticated one.
It's the one I can actually use, even when I'm running on fumes.
And that's where my little experiments connect to something much bigger than organising my own business.
Making things less exhausting
The AbilityNet article got me thinking about the experience of people visiting TechAlchemy Village.
Imagine someone arriving at my Make It Happen Studio for a coworking session.
They read in the Welcome Hall that cameras are optional, but by the time they reach the Studio, they've forgotten.
Now they're wondering whether they're expected to turn on their camera instead of settling in to work.
Technically, the space functions perfectly.
But that person has already spent mental energy figuring out something that could be answered with a simple reminder:
Cameras optional. Come as you are. Join the conversation or just work quietly.
Right there. Where they need it.
No scavenger hunt required.
That doesn't mean I want to strip the interesting things out of TechAlchemy Village. I like my interactive spaces, games, surprises, and occasional questionable decisions.
But there's a difference between something fun to explore and a puzzle you have to solve just to participate.
Not everyone needs the same support, either. Some want quick instructions, others want every detail. Some prefer exploring, while others appreciate a little guidance.
Being neurodivergent doesn't make me the official spokesperson for every neurodivergent brain.
Heaven help us if it did.
What I can do is pay attention, ask questions, and keep experimenting. The same way I've been doing with my own tools.
Because learning how your brain works isn't an overnight revelation. It's frustrating, repetitive, occasionally hilarious, and sometimes involves admitting that your brilliant solution has become part of the problem.
But those tiny experiments are worth it.
Good accessibility design isn't necessarily about making everything simpler. It's about making things less exhausting.
For the people using our digital spaces, and for ourselves.
I don't need to become better at juggling a hundred moving parts. I need to figure out which ones don't need juggling in the first place.
I didn't start TechAlchemy so I could spend my life maintaining dashboards, chasing paperwork, and arguing with my to-do list.
I started it because I have things I want to accomplish, people I want to connect with, a community I want to build, and dreams I haven't given up on.
I don't need my tools to make me work harder. I need them to help me get where I'm trying to go.
Preferably without needing a nap just to find the starting line.
Until next time Friends...
by Artemis | Oct 28, 2026 |
Last weekend, I spent two days building a lakeside cinema.
An interesting decision, considering I was supposed to be designing a client intake process for my business.
Which raises a question.
How the hell do you know whether you're following a productive rabbit hole or just finding a spectacularly elaborate way to avoid doing something important?
Because I genuinely don't know.
And apparently, I'm still investigating.
It started with Ghostbusters.
Last weekend, I was thinking about how much fun I'd had in Lia's theatre on Rippily. We'd watched Ghostbusters, played some silly games afterwards and generally had a wonderful time blowing off stress.
Just people hanging out, laughing and enjoying themselves.
Which got me thinking about the Dopamine Diner in TechAlchemy Village, how people gather, and how much fun it would be to have somewhere we could watch movies together.
And just like that, my brain announced that the Village needed a cinema.
Did it, though?
Nobody had complained about the lack of cinematic entertainment. There wasn't a petition circulating through the Village demanding better movie facilities.
But apparently, we needed one.
So I built it.
Not just a screen and some chairs, either. A proper Lakeside Cinema with a view that plays a little trick on your eyes. At first, it looks like a small pool of water between you and the screen. Then you realise you're looking out over an actual lake.
I think it's cool.
Naturally, I had to customise everything for Practical Magic, one of my favourite movies from the '90s.
Magical margaritas. Enchanted snacks that replenish themselves. Broom parking.
At one point, I was figuring out how to make a frog cough up a ring.
I wish I were making that up.
Two days. Gone.
And now I've spent several paragraphs telling you about my cinema instead of getting to the point of this article.
SEE WHAT I MEAN?
Meanwhile, back in the real world...
I had actual business work to do.
I'm developing an intake process for clients who want me to design and build Rippily spaces for them.
And it's not just a questionnaire asking whether they prefer blue or green and if they'd like a nice sofa by the window.
I need to understand what they want their space to accomplish. Who's going to use it? How should people feel when they arrive? What should they experience?
And how do I discover what they need when they might not even know what to ask for?
Because we all know the problem with not knowing what we don't know.
You don't bloody know it.
It's easy to get so buried in designing something that you lose sight of the people you're designing it for.
And here's what occurred to me.
When I was in Lia's theatre, I wasn't analysing the space. I wasn't thinking about how she'd designed it or what decisions she'd made along the way.
I was simply enjoying the experience.
I was the person the experience had been created for.
I was so busy trying to figure out how to design an experience for other people that I almost forgot what it felt like to be the person having the experience.
Maybe I needed that reminder.
Maybe being on the receiving end of something wonderful helped me reconnect with why I enjoy building these spaces in the first place.
Or maybe figuring out how to make a frog cough up jewellery was infinitely more entertaining than tackling the difficult bits of my intake process.
Maybe both.
Either way, I finished the intake process later on Sunday.
End of rabbit hole, right?
Not even close.
And then Monday happened.
The intake process I'd built is a webpage where prospective clients can tell me about the spaces they want me to create.
But then I thought, wouldn't it be useful if their answers automatically became a nicely formatted Google Doc we could both access later?
Of course it would.
So I built that.
Then I thought, wouldn't it be even better to have everything in a dashboard? Their answers, reference images, and all the information I'll need when we sit down together to discuss their project?
And I may or may not have built a WordPress plugin to make that happen.
Okay. I built the plugin.
Apparently, creating an entire client management workflow seemed like a reasonable follow-up to spending the weekend building a magical cinema.
But here's the thing.
This rabbit hole was directly related to the work I needed to do.
I wasn't avoiding the intake process anymore. I was creating a way to keep everything together so I could spend my energy understanding my clients instead of hunting through documents and trying to remember where the hell I put their reference images.
And there's a reason that's important to me.
I've learned, the hard way, that complicated systems have a nasty habit of becoming another job.
What seems perfectly logical when I'm excited and firing on all cylinders can become an incomprehensible mess when I come back on a low-energy day.
So I was trying to build something that would make the work easier to return to, not just easier to organise.
Did I go overboard?
Possibly.
Did I build something that might make my business easier to run?
I think so.
Will I know for sure until I've used it with actual clients?
Nope.
And that's what makes this whole rabbit hole business so bloody complicated.
Sometimes we wander away from the work. Sometimes we wander straight into a better way of doing it.
And sometimes we build something so elaborate that we'll need another system to remember how to use the first one.
Been there, too.
So when does curiosity become procrastination?
I've followed plenty of rabbit holes that led absolutely nowhere.
Others have turned into some of my favourite creations or taught me things I never would have discovered if I'd stuck to the plan.
The problem is they feel pretty much the same while you're in them.
It's not as though there's a sign halfway down the tunnel saying:
CONGRATULATIONS! PRODUCTIVE RABBIT HOLE. CARRY ON.
Or:
TURN BACK, YOU IDIOT. YOU HAVE WORK TO DO.
Which, frankly, would be a useful feature.
With ADHD, getting completely absorbed in something interesting can make it especially difficult to notice when an afternoon has disappeared.
And I don't necessarily want to stop that from happening.
I love creating things. I love following an idea just to see where it goes.
But I also want to build a successful business, and sometimes those two things pull me in very different directions.
I don't want to spend all my time creating wonderful things only to discover I've neglected the work that makes it possible to keep creating them.
So how do I protect my curiosity without handing it the keys to my entire schedule?
My three-question rabbit hole test
I've been turning this over in my head, and I think I've come up with something worth trying.
Not another elaborate productivity system. Good Lord, the last thing I need is to go down a rabbit hole building a system to manage my rabbit holes.
Just three questions.
1. What am I getting out of this?
Am I learning something? Creating something? Solving a problem? Connecting with people?
Or am I simply having fun?
Because not everything has to be productive to be worthwhile.
The cinema was fun. It also gave the Village another gathering place.
The intake dashboard was different. I was trying to solve a practical problem in my business.
Both gave me something, just not the same thing.
And sometimes enjoyment is reason enough.
But if I'm calling something a business improvement, I should probably find out whether it actually improves anything.
2. What is this rabbit hole costing me?
Ah, the uncomfortable question.
Even when we're doing something worthwhile, we're choosing not to do something else.
The cinema took time away from my intake process.
Did I need a break, or was I avoiding something difficult?
Possibly both.
And now my shiny WordPress plugin introduces another consideration.
Will it save me hours of paperwork, or become another thing I have to maintain?
A rabbit hole can be worthwhile and still be badly timed. And a clever solution can create more work than the problem it was supposed to solve.
That's worth remembering before I add another seventeen features just because I can.
3. What's enough for now?
Oh, this one's a bugger.
The cinema needed a screen.
Then a lake.
Then magical details.
Then apparently the frog needed an advanced digestive system.
The intake process needed a form.
Then a webpage.
Then a Google Doc.
Then a WordPress plugin.
Then a dashboard.
Noticing a pattern?
There's always one more thing I could add, improve or experiment with.
But am I adding something because it solves a problem, or because I've thought of another interesting thing I could build?
Those aren't always the same thing.
At some point, I need to stop building the system and actually use the bloody thing.
Otherwise, I've created an impressive collection of tools for running a business I'm too busy organising to run.
And here's something else I've learned the hard way.
When I stop, I need to leave myself a way back.
Nothing complicated. Just a little note telling me two things:
- What did I do?
- What's next?
That's it.
Because the version of me who comes back to a project on a low-energy day may have absolutely no idea what the wildly enthusiastic version of me was thinking.
And I don't want to spend the first two hours reconstructing yesterday's brilliant ideas before I can do anything useful.
I've learned to keep things as simple as possible and leave myself breadcrumbs.
Not because I can't handle complicated things. Clearly, I can make them plenty complicated all by myself.
But because I know how frustrating it is to build something wonderful and then struggle to find my way back into it.
Maybe that's the real test for my new intake dashboard.
Not how many clever things it can do, but whether I can open it when my brain is running on fumes and know exactly where to begin.
The goal isn't necessarily to climb out of the rabbit hole. It's to notice that I'm in one, decide whether I want to stay, and leave myself a trail if I decide to come back later.
So, were my rabbit holes worth it?
The cinema? I think so.
It gives people another place to gather, laugh and share an experience. That's a big part of why I'm creating TechAlchemy Village.
The intake system?
I suspect it'll be useful. But the real test will come when clients start using it.
Will I spend less time managing paperwork and more time understanding the people I'm working with?
Will everything be easy to find, even on the days when my brain has apparently decided to take the afternoon off?
Or have I created a magnificent administrative monster?
Time will tell.
And perhaps that's something I need to accept.
I won't always know whether a rabbit hole was worthwhile while I'm still in it.
Sometimes the answer only becomes clear afterwards.
So here's what I'm going to try.
When I notice myself disappearing down another rabbit hole, I'll ask:
- What am I getting out of this?
- What is it costing me?
- What's enough for now?
And when I decide to stop, I'll leave myself those two little breadcrumbs:
What I did. What's next.
That's my entire plan.
No complicated tracking system. No colour-coded charts. No seventeen-step process requiring a tutorial and a subscription.
Just three questions and a way back.
Because I don't want to lose the curiosity that makes me want to create things.
I just want to make sure I'm leaving enough time and energy to enjoy what I've created, work with the people I'm creating it for, and actually run the business.
Will it work?
I haven't a clue.
But it seems worth trying.
And speaking of knowing when to stop, we've now spent a rather impressive amount of time rewriting an article about knowing when to stop following rabbit holes.
The irony is not lost on me.
At least we're leaving breadcrumbs.
What about you?
How do you tell when you're exploring something worthwhile versus avoiding something important?
Have you ever followed a ridiculous idea that turned into something wonderful? Or built an elaborate system to make life easier, only to discover you'd created yourself another job?
And do you have a way of finding your place again when the enthusiasm wears off?
Please tell me I'm not alone.
And speaking of rabbit holes...
I'd love to invite you to enjoy Practical Magic with me on Saturday, October 31 at 1 p.m. Eastern in the Lakeside Cinema at TechAlchemy Village.
Come hang out, enjoy a movie and see what two days of questionable time management can produce.
There will be magic, margaritas and, naturally, a frog with a jewellery problem.
At least this time, we can all enjoy the rabbit hole together. 😂
by Artemis | Oct 23, 2026 |
A “quick look” at Obsidian once turned into a whole day building a database that stored and cross-referenced all my stuff. It did all the things. By my next low-energy day, I’d forgotten how to use the damn thing.
Another quick look at Pixabay for looping videos somehow became a Reset Retreat with kayaking and camping in the rain. I hadn’t even worked out what I wanted the videos for.
I love where my curiosity takes me. I also have a business to run, so occasionally I need a break I can actually come back from.
Late last week, I read two excellent ADDitude articles: “Never Enough? Why ADHD Brains Crave Stimulation” and “Using a Dopamine Menu to Stimulate Your ADHD Brain”. Somewhere in the reading, the idea hit me:
I NEED A DOPAMINE DINER IN THE VILLAGE.
How I was going to build it, or what the hell it would serve, remained to be seen.
Out came my bullet journal. I spent quite a bit of time working through the images, feelings, and ideas, then turning those into directions for AI. Eventually, after a fair amount of fiddling, I had a diner.
I’m always talking about workflows that fit neurodivergent brains and how important it is to take breaks. Yet I hadn’t really shown people what those breaks might look like.
“Go take a break.”
Lovely. What am I supposed to do with myself?
Left to my own devices, I apparently build databases and campgrounds.
The dopamine menu idea appealed to me because you work out some choices before you need them. When I’m tired and my brain is being spectacularly unhelpful, having somewhere to start sounds pretty good.
So I wanted to make a place where people could choose a little diversion, give it a go, and see how they felt.
Colour had to be there, of course. I’m a fibre artist, for heaven’s sake.
Colour is part of our everyday lives: branding palettes, yarn combinations, the colours we surround ourselves with at home. I wanted something for all the creatives who enjoy putting colours together just to see what happens.
I particularly love being able to download a palette and go looking for those colours in daily life. In the garden, in a pile of yarn, in something that catches your eye while you’re out. There’s a little bit of the activity you can take away with you.
Then there are the writing prompts.
I’ve always loved writing. Blog posts, letters, short stories, poetry, journalling. Words tend to find their way into other things around here, too.
I once bought a sweet little guitar for $10 at a yard sale. It was small, just my size. I wrote these words by Stephen Crane in tiny letters all along its outer edge:
“Think as I think,” said a man,
“Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad.”
And after I had thought of it,
I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”
Still rings true. Quite happy to be a toad, thanks.
That’s part of why I wanted writing in the diner. A prompt gives me somewhere to begin. I can take it to my notebook, write a few lines, follow an odd little thought, and see what turns up.
Then there are the TakeAway Specials, with a little something for everyone to take out into the world.
Little thoughts and activities to carry into your day, have some fun, and give yourself a bit of a reset. Pick whatever catches your attention and give it the time you’ve got.
The world does, apparently, continue to exist while I’m staring at a screen. I feel a damn sight better when I remember to join it.
Each activity offers that opportunity: walk away for the amount of time you have to give yourself and find an enchanting diversion you can just do. No fancy tools or fanfare. Pick something up and have a go.
Sometimes that’s colour or writing. Sometimes we all need something thoroughly silly to pursue. There’s quite enough in the world to make us clench our teeth.
Enter the Silly Table Questions.
As far as I’m concerned, laughter and whimsy should be prescribed daily. Take regularly. Share with a friend.
I first experimented with this in my studio. If you visit and head into the round workshop area, you’ll find a box of curious questions on the coffee table. Have a rummage. See what catches your attention.
That little experiment has me wondering what else we could do in the T.A. Café.
Originally, I imagined it as a gathering place, a bit like the commons at university. Somewhere to drop in, have a conversation, and spend time around other people.
Now I want to play with the different ways people gather. What happens when there’s something small to do together? Where might a curious question or a shared story take us?
I’d love to bring some of what happens in physical workshops, workplaces, and groups into this digital space. With Rippily, I have somewhere to try those ideas, see what people enjoy, and make changes as we go.
The diner is one of those experiments. I want people to leave feeling mentally refreshed and ready to get back to their work. Maybe with a colour combination to look for, a few words to play with, or a ridiculous question to ask someone over supper.
That’s the sort of thing I want to keep exploring through TechAlchemy. How can we make our tools and spaces work better for the brains actually using them?
You’ll find the Dopamine Diner in the T.A. Café in TechAlchemy Village. Come play with some colour, pick up a writing prompt, see what nonsense is on the table, or grab a TakeAway Special for later.
And if you wander over to my studio afterwards, my door’s open. Coffee and a bit of nonsense are always welcome.
Until next time Friends...
by Artemis | Oct 15, 2026 |
I'm 59, still carrying shame from decades ago, and finally getting pissed off enough to do something about it.
I'm still embarrassed about something I said to my husband's grandmother in 1996.
Yep. Thirty bloody years ago.
Every once in a while, my brain digs up that conversation and decides we should cringe over it again.
What possessed me to say that? What must she have thought?
And there I go, judging myself all over again.
Fear has always been pretty straightforward to me. It's there when things are going badly, and it's there when things are going well.
But shame? That's a different beast altogether.
Recently, I read an article from NDFounders about why running a business can be harder for neurodivergent entrepreneurs.
One part stopped me in my tracks. The author talked about how putting ourselves out there can mean confronting a lifetime of shame and rejection.
Well, shit. That hit home.
Fifty years of wondering what was wrong with me
I was in my 50s before I discovered I had ADHD.
Growing up, I was considered very smart. I was also the problem child.
Weird. Different. An outsider.
Home wasn't exactly a refuge, either.
My mother could fly into terrible rages. I'd spend weekend mornings listening to her rant about everything, including things no child should have been dragged into.
Eventually, she'd retreat into a book, and I'd get the hell out of there.
Living in the country meant there were plenty of places to escape to.
As a teenager, I partied, smoked pot, was sexually active, and made some questionable decisions.
In our small town, I became that girl. The slut. The troublemaker. Someone people felt entitled to judge.
I had my first baby at seventeen, and it felt like people were watching, waiting for me to fail.
I worked my ass off to be a good mother.
But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was always having to prove I was a decent person.
Doctors told me I was depressed. Nobody seemed to understand what I was struggling to explain.
And neither did I.
I didn't know I had ADHD. I certainly didn't understand how it affected my behaviour, my impulsivity, or the way I experienced the world.
I just knew I didn't fit.
A diagnosis doesn't erase a lifetime of shame
When I finally learned I had ADHD, so many things started making sense.
But understanding why I'd struggled didn't magically undo the years of feeling that something was wrong with me.
And apparently, I'm not alone.
A 2025 study published in Scientific Reports explored the experiences of 28 women diagnosed with ADHD later in life.
The researchers found recurring experiences of criticism, shame, low self-esteem, and grief over the lives participants wondered whether they might have lived if they'd understood themselves sooner.
Reading that was both comforting and heartbreaking.
How many of us have spent decades believing other people's judgments about us?
And how many of us are still carrying those judgments long after we've learned they weren't the whole truth?
I'm not even sure how much of my own shame comes from growing up with undiagnosed ADHD and how much comes from everything else I experienced.
Maybe I'll never completely untangle that.
Now I'm building a business. What the hell am I thinking?
Here I am at 59, building TechAlchemy, a business and community for neurodivergent entrepreneurs.
I know things. I've learned things. I'm creative, resourceful, and pretty damn good at figuring out technology.
But put me in a conversation with other businesspeople or potential clients, and suddenly I'm worried about everything.
Am I talking too much? Do I sound stupid? Did I miss something important? Do they think I'm obnoxious?
And afterward?
Oh, you can bet your ass I'll replay the conversation.
Sometimes for days.
It's not simply that I'm afraid people will think I don't know enough.
I'm afraid they'll decide I'm not worth taking seriously.
That's where shame and imposter syndrome seem to collide for me.
And this business matters. I want to earn a good living. I want my husband to be able to retire. I want us to enjoy the years we have ahead.
But I also want something else.
I'm building TechAlchemy Village because I want people like me to have somewhere they can belong.
Somewhere you can ask a question without feeling stupid. Admit you're overwhelmed without being judged. Get practical help without somebody telling you to just try harder.
A place where we can be honest, call out the bullshit, and hold each other up when we're struggling.
And thanks to Rippily, that Village is becoming something pretty damn amazing.
If you haven't experienced Rippily, it's nothing like your typical online meeting or community platform. Instead of another boring grid of faces, you can create entire interactive spaces where people explore, gather, learn, and actually spend time together.
I've built a little virtual village with a café, library, studios, and places for workshops, coworking, and conversation. There's even a Reset Retreat where you can escape the noise, enjoy a little nature, and paddle a kayak around the lake when you need a break from everything.
And I can keep dreaming up new things to add!
The creative freedom is incredible. But what really gets me is that Rippily lets me build something that feels like an actual place to belong, rather than just another website to visit.
And here's the kicker.
I'm going to have to learn to feel comfortable being myself in the very place I'm creating for other people to do exactly that.
Well, isn't that a bitch?
I'm scared. I'm doing it anyway.
I've decided it's time to start inviting organizations and community groups into my virtual studio for coffee.
I want to show them the Village, hear what their members need, and explore how the space might help them.
And I'm terrified.
What if they think it's a scam because I'm offering space for free? What if I stumble over my words? What if they think I'm a joke?
That familiar shame is already trying to talk me out of it.
But I'm going to find out what happens.
Maybe I'll embarrass myself. Maybe I'll say something awkward. Maybe I'll need to try a few times before I get comfortable.
So bloody what?
I've spent far too much of my life worrying about what other people think of me.
I'm not interested in spending the rest of it doing the same.
I'm not magically cured of shame. I'll probably still be replaying that conversation from 1996 when I'm eighty.
But I'm learning something.
I don't have to stop being afraid before I start living the life I want.
I can learn how my brain works. I can create systems that help me. I can ask for support, make mistakes, and try something different.
And so can you.
Maybe you're fifty, sixty, or seventy and still wondering whether you've got what it takes.
Maybe you've spent your whole life being told you're too much, not enough, or just plain different.
Maybe you've started believing it.
But what if those old judgments don't get to make your decisions anymore?
What if you gave yourself permission to figure things out as you go?
I'm ready to grab life by the balls and say NO MORE!
No more waiting until I'm perfect.
No more expecting my brain to work like everybody else's.
No more letting shame decide what I'm capable of trying.
I'm going to figure this shit out, one step at a time.
And I'd love some company along the way.
We've still got some living to do.
Does shame still show up in your life, even years after discovering your ADHD? I'd love to hear what you're learning about yourself and what you're finally ready to try.
Until next time Friends...
by Artemis | Oct 8, 2026 |
How do you get seen on social media when everybody is already talking?
How do you get heard without turning yourself into the loudest person in the room—or a full-time content creator when you already have a business to run?
I keep circling those questions.
It's hard to get your voice out there.
Sometimes social media anxiety doesn't look like panic.
Sometimes it looks like having something useful to say, opening the app, seeing everybody already talking and quietly closing it again.
There are so many voices. So many people posting, promoting, teaching, shouting, dancing in front of their phones and apparently knowing exactly what the algorithm ate for breakfast.
If you're trying to run a small business, it can feel as if marketing now requires you to become a full-time content creator on top of doing the work people are meant to be hiring you for.
Sometimes it's easier to listen to the noise and decide nobody's going to hear you anyway.
I know that feeling. I also know it from long before social media.
I'm a ham radio operator. The summer I passed my Advanced Exam, I could finally get on HF and talk around the world.
And I was ready.
I bought an older Kenwood HF radio from a friend. It needed repairs, but I knew I could fix it.
And I did.
Then I learned more about building antennas. I experimented. I adjusted things. I made the equipment work.
It was awesome.
In June 2006, I was sitting in our CB shop in London, Ontario, Canada, listening to a dog pile of hams trying to reach a radio operator who was operating aboard a Second World War submarine in Pearl Harbor.
A dog pile is exactly what it sounds like: a whole lot of people calling at once, each hoping their signal will be the one that gets through.
I listened for a while. Then I finally got my nerve up, grabbed the microphone and called:
“CQ CQ DX, VE3LYY.”
And I kept going.
A little while later, I heard him say my call sign.
My call sign.
He'd heard me.
I wished him 73 and he moved on to someone else. The whole exchange was brief, but I was thrilled. My voice had travelled all the way from London, Ontario, through that dog pile and reached a person I couldn't see in Pearl Harbor.
So I kept turning the dial.
I found more people to talk to, and every contact made the next one a little easier. One day I had a wonderful conversation with a man tending a lighthouse in Venezuela.
My world got bigger every time I used my voice.
The medium changed. The dog pile didn't.
Now the radio is a website, an email list, a workshop, a social platform or a room where everybody seems to know one another already.
There's still a dog pile.
There will always be somebody louder. Somebody with a bigger audience, newer equipment or suspiciously firm opinions about how often the rest of us should be posting.
That doesn't mean your signal isn't worth sending.
It means you may have to do what I did then: speak, listen, experiment and build a better antenna.
A better antenna doesn't mean turning yourself into a louder, shinier version of somebody else. It means making it easier for the right people to receive what you're actually trying to say.
Maybe the idea needs a clearer sentence.
Maybe you're transmitting in a place where your people aren't listening.
Maybe the story carries farther than the list of tips.
Maybe you need to make the call more than once before somebody catches it.
None of that means your voice is wrong. It means you're still working on the signal.
Do a signal check
When I catch myself sitting quietly at the edge of the noise, I can ask:
- What am I actually trying to say? Not everything I know. One honest thing.
- Who am I trying to reach? Not “the internet.” One kind of person who might need to hear it.
- What would make this signal easier to receive? A story, a clearer subject line, a different format or a better place to share it.
- What is one call I can make today? One post. One email. One invitation. Then listen for what comes back.
On a low-energy day, make it even smaller: write the one sentence you'd say if you and that person were talking somewhere quiet. Put that sentence where they have a chance of finding it.
That's enough of a transmission for today.
Confidence didn't arrive before I picked up that microphone. It grew because I picked it up, made the call and discovered that someone could hear me.
I need to keep telling myself about these moments. Not because I need another motivational speech, but because they're evidence.
I've been afraid to transmit before. I did it anyway. Someone heard me.
Little has changed, really. Only the medium.
There's always a dog pile.
I have to keep speaking, keep listening, keep experimenting and keep building better antennas.
Then I make the call again.
Until next time Friends...
