My Neurodivergent Brain Needs Play More Than Perfection or How a Foam Microphone Taught Me to Breathe Again

Recently, I impulse-bought a game called Grab the Mic. I bought it (because ADHD).I bought it because my goblin brain whispered, “I crave something silly and frivolous.”

Last night, after one of those long, heavy, bone-deep exhausting days, my daughter — the littlest Firebrand, a tiny ball of anxiety and unfiltered brilliance — and I peeled the shrink film off the box, skimmed the rules, and immediately ignored them.

Our goal wasn’t to win. Our goal was… whatever the opposite of winning is.

Chaos?

Catharsis?

Dopamine?

We kept forgetting to award points. We weren’t really keeping track, despite each of us repeatedly telling the other, “You’re definitely going to win.”

We tried to think of songs with the simple word on the card. And absolutely blanked.

Instead of frustration, we laughed at our “blanking.” How can we not instantly come up with a song lyric containing “children”? Or “song”? Or “love”? Together we know hundreds of songs that include the word “sun” or “love” or “night” or whatever.

But the second the timer starts?

Poof.

Gone.

Mind wiped clean like a factory reset.

This is neurodivergent working memory at its most comical. 

It isn’t a flaw. 

It’s just how our brains often  respond under pressure.

Whenever one of us could sort through the frozen tabs of our brains long enough to pin a song lyric, we grabbed the foam microphone — basically a stress ball with a dream — and belted songs at each other. Heavy on the musical theater, with over-the-top dramatics and the occasional half-wrong lyric. Too loud for the hour. Too ridiculous for polite company.

We laughed too hard to breathe more than once. We played ten rounds without ever actually determining a winner.

And for the first time in days, something in my chest loosened. Like my brain finally unclenched. Like someone cracked a window open inside me and let color back in.

It wasn’t just fun. It felt like relief.

And it made me realize something:

Neurodivergent joy isn’t optional. It's therapeutic. It’s medicinal.

A Quick Note About Privilege

I need to stop here to say something that matters:

I know I’m fortunate and privileged. I know not everyone can impulse-buy dopamine treats when the day implodes.

But the magic last night wasn’t the merch. It wasn’t the thing at all.

The magic was in the moment: in play, in connection, in the kind of laughter that shakes loose the emotional weight you’ve been holding.

Neurodivergent joy doesn’t have to be purchased. It doesn’t require a trendy gadget or a new game. (Even if my brain is constantly telling me otherwise.)

Joy isn’t a product. Joy is permission.

We Needed Play More Than Perfection

If we had tried to play Grab the Mic “correctly,” in our tired state, we would’ve lasted five minutes before melting down. Instead, we played it like two overcaffeinated pigeons at a karaoke bar.

For context: my daughter is a musical theater kid.

And the serious kind.

The “takes her vocals seriously,” “critiques her own phrasing,” “knows every harmony in six cast recordings” kind.

She is incredibly hard on herself when she sings.

She wants to get it right.

She wants to sound good.

She wants to honor the music.

Which is why watching her sing nonsense lyrics into a foam microphone was… honestly? One of the most healing things I’ve seen all year.

Good thing she wasn’t on vocal rest. 

For one night, she wasn’t the hyper-self-critical polished performer. She wasn’t worrying about pitch or tone or breath support.

She was just a kid — loud, unfiltered, gloriously chaotic. And that freedom, that drop-the-mask, forget-the-rules permission, was exactly what both of us needed.

We blanked on song prompts not because we don’t know hundreds of songs, but because neurodivergent recall is a gremlin who chooses chaos every time the pressure is on.

Then we laughed so hard the sound came out like wheezing whistles.

That was the joy. Not perfection. Not performance. Not doing it “right.”

Just belonging. With each other. With our messy, nonlinear brains. With the moment.

Joy Doesn’t Need a Price Tag

This morning, here’s the thing I realized:

We didn’t need the game. We needed the excuse to play.

The same joy could’ve come from:

• using a wooden spoon as a microphone

• singing into a rolled-up paper towel tube

• starting a family “sing the next line wrong” challenge

• passing around a stuffed animal while adding ridiculous storylines

• playing freeze dance with the playlist we made three years ago

• stomping around the house like dinosaurs

• doing dramatic slow-motion reenactments of ordinary tasks

Neurodivergent kids (and adults) don’t need expensive toys. They need permission to be themselves.

They need moments where:

• nobody is rushing them

• nobody is correcting them (not even themselves)

• nobody is asking them to mask

• nobody is grading the joy

Dopamine comes from the space we create, not the stuff we buy. (Again — brain, I’m looking at you.)

Joy as Co-Regulation

Something else beautiful happened last night:

My daughter saw me unmasked.

Not the dutiful adult version. Not the “holding everything together” version. Not the patient caretaker.

• She saw me silly.

• She saw me playful.

• She saw me loud.

• She saw me free.

For kids, especially anxious, neurodivergent ones,  that matters.

When they see you making room for ridiculous joy, they learn that:

• adults can be messy too

• fun doesn’t have to be earned

• connection doesn’t have to be perfect

• silliness is safe

• play is allowed

We co-regulated through song and laughter.We stitched joy into a day that desperately needed it.

🌈 Joy as Resistance

Last night didn’t fix everything. But it gave my nervous system a break. It gave my daughter a moment of unfiltered happiness. It reminded both of us that joy can be simple, improvised, and chaotic.

Neurodivergent joy isn’t frivolous. It isn’t childish. It isn’t optional.

Joy is a form of regulation. Joy is a form of connection. Joy is a form of resistance in a world that values our productivity more than our aliveness.

Sometimes healing doesn’t look like mindfulness or stillness. Sometimes healing looks like a foam microphone, a child’s laughter, and a song you can only remember three words of.

Sometimes healing looks like choosing joy over perfection.

And honestly?

That’s enough.