EPISTLE IV: To The Brain That Requires Scaffolding

To the one whose strength is depleted in functioning “normally” in public but who is collapsing in private,

whose heart is heavy with a longing for a life you can’t seem to sustain. I ache with you too.

I am learning something I spent most of my life trying not to say out loud: I can be capable in certain areas of my life and still struggle deeply with maintaining the basic rhythms of home. I am writing to you from the middle of my mess, the midst of my cycle and the freefall of my slow collapse in hopes that you will not feel alone and we find connection in common here.

For a long time, I interpreted this as a moral failure. I have flashbacks of my cousin visiting me as child only to open up my dresser and gasp because my room looked somewhat clean but was actually organized chaos — as my bunched up clothes inside drawers revealed. I remember the tone of disdain in my mother’s voice when she would complain to others how cleaning my room took me “forever” because I went through everything only to create piles and just sat there like a deer in the headlights.

Naturally, I believed that I was lazy. A bad girl. Too messy to ever figure out how to clean up and stay clean.

And then I grew up and vehemently believed that if I could show up to work, meet expectations, and manage responsibilities in structured environments, then I should also be able to do the same in private spaces like my home. Anything less felt like proof that I was not disciplined enough, not organized enough, not enough.

So I tried harder. I built systems. I purged housewares and wardrobe to embrace minimalism. I reset routines. I started over again and again. I took pictures of the clean days and the best parts to post to social media as an exhibit of my ability to function with great pride.

And still, I cycle.

There are seasons where things feel manageable and even “normal.” Those seasons involved travel, extensive community living where chores and duties were shared, assigned living spaces created exposure and body-doubling which prevented the cycle from becoming too visible. And right now, there are seasons where things feel manageable too as I live independently: I catch up on dishes. I fold laundry. I cook again.

And then slowly, or sometimes suddenly, the structure collapses. Tasks accumulate. Cooking becomes overwhelming not because I don’t love it, but because it comes with too many steps. Laundry piles become a visible reminder of everything I cannot sustain. Dishes linger longer in the sink than I want to admit.

What follows is not just disorganization. It is shame. Deep shame.

I begin to withdraw from my own space. I avoid parts of my home. I feel embarrassed by the gap between what I value — peace, order, hospitality, clean aesthetics, care — and what I am able to maintain consistently. I start to compare myself to others whose home seems effortless, and I assume something in me is fundamentally misaligned.

But I am beginning to question that interpretation of myself and my cycle.

The reality is that there is a hidden cost of “functioning” that I pay. One of the more difficult truths I am learning is that functioning in one area of life can sometimes mask depletion in another. I can be “fine” at work and still be collapsing at home. I can meet external expectations while privately running out of capacity.

By the time I finish my workday, I am often exhausted in a way that feels disproportionate to the tasks themselves. I do what I need to do, and then I crash. The energy required to appear functional does not always leave enough behind for everything else. The margin for what fuels me to take care of me is too thin and I am constantly on fumes.

And so the home — the place where there is no external structure, no urgency, no accountability — becomes the place where everything unravels. I fall apart here when shame enters my story.

The hardest part has not been the practical difficulty. It has been the interpretation of it. I have often turned my struggle into evidence against myself.

I tell myself:

• I should be able to do this

• Other people manage this easily

• If I were more disciplined, this would not happen

But shame has never helped me sustain a life. It only makes me smaller inside the very spaces I am already struggling to manage.

I am slowly learning that what I have interpreted as character failure may actually be a mismatch between capacity, nervous system limits, and the kind of support I have (or don’t have) available.

Scripture speaks often to weakness not as disqualification, but as a place where grace becomes visible.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness —” 2 Cor. 12:9a

I used to read that verse as something comforting but very distant. Now I read it completely differently. Not as an excuse for passivity, but as an acknowledgement that human limitation is not hidden from God — and does not disqualify a person from being held, helped, or sustained.

Paul continues:

“Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”—-— 2 Cor. 12:9b

I am not there yet. I do not boast in weakness. I still resist it. I grieve it. And I often try to outwork it.

But I am beginning to understand that acknowledging limitation honestly is not the same as giving up.

There is also this:

“He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.” — Isaiah 40:29

That verse does not say the weary become instantly organized and perfectly functional. It says that strength is given and that the power increases — and most importantly to me is that it comes from God. A good God. My good God. And that distinction matters to me right now.

I want to be clear: this is not a resolved story. I am unresolved. I am not writing from the other side of this. I am still inside the cycle. I still feel overwhelmed by basic tasks. I still experience shame when my home does not reflect the kind of life I want to be living.

There are moments of progress, and moments of collapse. There is no clean linear improvement or healing for me right now.

Instead of asking “what is wrong with me?” I am trying to ask: “What kind of support helps a human being live well in this body and this mind?”

Instead of assuming I should be able to do everything alone, I am learning to consider interdependence, structure, and support are not failures of adulthood — they are part of being human.

And maybe most importantly, I am learning that my worth is not measured by the consistency of my dishes, my laundry, or my ability to keep a perfect home.

If there is any hope in this, it is not in having figured it out.

It is in the fact that I am finally telling the truth without turning it into self-condemnation.

It is in noticing that grace might be something —- scratch that — SOMEONE that meets me in the middle of my unfinishedness, not after I have fixed myself. His name is Jesus.

I am no longer willing to confuse struggle with worth. I am beginning to recognize that what I called personal failure for years may actually be an executive functioning impairment — a brain that does not thrive through shame or sheer willpower alone, but one that genuinely needs scaffolding, support and sustainable structure in order to function well.

And that, for now, is where I am.

Messy & Loved,

Imelda — DUST+GLORY