neurodivergent Archives - untypicable.

Are You A Minecraft Person Or A LEGO Person?

AJ Wright — Fri, 14 Nov 2025 10:00:00 +0000

There are many fake divides in life.

Cat vs dog. Tea vs coffee. People who say “we’ll pick that up in the next meeting” vs people who silently die inside when they hear it.

But if you are even mildly nerd-adjacent, the real question is this:

Are you a Minecraft person, or a LEGO person?

Both involve small rectangular things. Both involve building. Both have caused at least one meltdown when a masterpiece was accidentally destroyed by a sibling, Creeper, or your own clumsiness.

Underneath the bricks and blocks, though, there is a deep psychological split.
And if your brain is wired a bit differently (hello, fellow pattern-obsessed human), that split comes with its own particular flavour of weird.

The LEGO Person

The LEGO person is powered by three things: imagination, instructions, and the ability to endure intense foot-based pain.

You might be a LEGO person if:

You have a system for sorting bricks that makes sense only to you, but you will defend it in court.
You have very firm views on “knock-off bricks” and will deliver them without being asked.
You can step on a 1×1 brick, swear under your breath, and still finish what you were doing first.

LEGO lives in the physical world of:

Booklets thicker than GCSE revision guides.
Tiny plastic bags labelled “1”, “2”, “3” that must NEVER be opened together.
That magical moment when a random pile becomes a spaceship, castle, or shamefully accurate replica of your house.

LEGO people tend to like:

Instructions.
Not because they cannot improvise, but because there is calm in a numbered sequence where someone has already decided the correct order.
Tactile building.
The click of bricks. The little bit of resistance. The sense that physics has signed off your plan.
Displaying things.
LEGO builds are not “toys”. They are Exhibits. They live on shelves. They gather dust. They may be “not for playing with”.

Neurodiversity Corner: LEGO Edition

The neurodivergent LEGO person has some very specific quirks:

Sorting the bricks is, in itself, an activity. You may not actually build anything. The joy is in the system.
You remember exactly which tiny piece went missing in 1997 and it still bothers you.
You feel physically uncomfortable if someone mixes “this set” into “the general pile” without a clear plan.
Hyperfocus means you sit down to “do a few bags” and suddenly it is 1am and you are architect of a small plastic city.

LEGO is perfect if your brain loves:

Patterns.
Rules that are optional but still reassuring.
The sensory comfort of click, stack, line up, repeat.

The Minecraft Person

The Minecraft person wants one thing: a flat bit of land, basic tools, and absolutely no limits.

You might be a Minecraft person if:

You sit down to play “for half an hour” and resurface three hours later with a half-finished mega base and no food in real life.
You have strong feelings about Redstone that other people do not understand.
You can explain the difference between Creative and Survival to someone who did not ask.

Minecraft lives in a digital world of:

Punching trees because that is… how you get wood now.
Accidentally digging straight down. Again.
Building a house, wandering off “just to explore”, and never finding that house ever again.

Minecraft people tend to like:

Endless space.
There is always another biome, cave, village, or bad idea.
Consequence-lite demolition.
Hate a wall? Hit it. Redo it. No one knows.
Projects that are never quite finished.
Everything is “in progress”. Forever.

Neurodiversity Corner: Minecraft Edition

The neurodivergent Minecraft person lives on a knife edge between joy and chaos:

Hyperfocus session: you log in “just to check the farm” and look up when your legs have gone numb and the sun has set twice.
Paralysis at world selection: you have eight worlds, three backups, and a “new idea” that needs its own map.
You get stuck in a loop: mine, smelt, build storage, realise you need more storage, mine again.
Lava deaths live rent-free in your head for weeks.

Minecraft is perfect if your brain loves:

Open-ended creativity with no real limits.
Systems you can optimise forever.
The ability to undo absolutely everything with a pickaxe and a deep sigh.

The Unholy Third Thing: LEGO Minecraft Sets

Just when the divide looks neat, reality throws in a cursed hybrid:

LEGO Minecraft sets.
LEGO… of Minecraft… which is already basically digital LEGO.

This is where the universe folds in on itself.

On paper they are ideal:

Real bricks? Yes.
Blocky Minecraft aesthetic? Yes.
Villagers, Creepers, and farm animals that look like they were built out of shoeboxes? Yes.

But they do not sit cleanly on either side.

Why LEGO Minecraft Sets Confuse LEGO People

To the traditional LEGO person, these sets feel… off.

You get:

Big clunky trees where your soul wants nice slopes and curves.
Square animals that ignore decades of clever shaping techniques.
So much brown.

LEGO brains quietly scream:

“We spent years making smoother shapes and clever angles and you want deliberate chunky?”
“Why is this pig a cube?”
“Why does this landscape look like it is made of low-res wardrobes?”

They will still build them. They might even enjoy them. But they may also start “fixing” bits later, adding tiles and slopes because “it looks better that way”.

Why LEGO Minecraft Sets Confuse Minecraft People

For the Minecraft person, LEGO Minecraft sets are like someone screen-shotted your world, printed it in 3D, and then made it gather dust.

You go from:

Infinite blocks, eventually.
Instant demolition.
Flight, if you are in Creative or you have bullied some poor Elytra into service.

To:

A fixed number of bricks in one box.
Instructions that object when you skip steps.
The harsh truth that if you misplace one piece on page 9, you will not notice until page 63.

Minecraft brains quietly think:

“Why can’t I just zoom out and expand this whole thing?”
“Why can’t I fly while I place these?”
“Why can’t I press undo on the last twelve moves?”

Neurodivergent Brain vs LEGO Minecraft Sets

For the neurodivergent builder, LEGO Minecraft sets are a sensory and cognitive paradox:

Your need for structure loves the numbered steps.
Your need for freedom is slightly offended that this world is only 32 studs long.
Your pattern-brain enjoys matching the physical build to the digital logic.
Your executive function is now tracking both the build and how you could improve it in-game.

Also:

You will almost certainly consider rebuilding the set in Minecraft.
You might also then tweak the LEGO build to match the new digital version.
At some point you will lose track of which is “the original”.

At this stage you are not “playing”. You are running a cross-platform, block-based identity project.

Who Are LEGO Minecraft Sets Really For?

Honestly?

Kids who want screen time and brick time in one package.
Adults who say “it’s for the children” while carefully applying tiny TNT tiles.
Neurodivergent people who cannot pick between digital and physical, so they say “yes” to both.

In the “LEGO vs Minecraft” divide, LEGO Minecraft sets are the awkward third answer:

“I reject your binary and choose this weird little cube of both.”

So What Does It All Mean?

Here is the fake but emotionally accurate psychology bit:

LEGO people like structure, limited pieces, and clear progress.
Minecraft people like endless possibility, soft consequences, and being able to bulldoze their mistakes.

For neurodivergent folks, it often plays out like this:

LEGO is a safe, finite universe. You can see all the pieces. There is a right-ish way to do it. You can line things up and feel your brain un-knot itself.
Minecraft is a sprawling space where your brain can roam. You can follow hyperfocus down a cave system and build something absurdly over-engineered just because.

LEGO says:
“This is what I made. It lives here, on this shelf, and it is finished.*”

(*Until you re-pose one section at 11:37pm.)

Minecraft says:
“This is what I am currently making, plus the five things I abandoned along the way, plus three more ideas I am not ready to admit to yet.”

LEGO Minecraft sets stand in the middle and say:
“This is a save file someone printed.”

A Completely Unscientific Self-Test

Answer these quickly. No overthinking. (So, obviously, you will overthink them.)

You are missing one crucial element.
- LEGO brain: You search the entire house, then rebuild the timeline of who touched the box.
- Minecraft brain: You open a menu, grab another stack, and move on.
- LEGO Minecraft brain: You check the bag three times, then wonder if you should just redesign the set and the in-game version.
You finally built something you love.
- LEGO brain: It is now a museum piece. No one touches it. Ever.
- Minecraft brain: You immediately start tearing down one wall because it “could be better”.
- Neurodivergent brain: You take fifteen screenshots, three photos, and then spiral because you have had a new idea.
Someone suggests “just winging it”.
- LEGO person: Mild panic, then “maybe after we finish the instructions”.
- Minecraft person: That was already the plan.
- LEGO Minecraft person: You wing it in-game, then try to reverse-engineer it with actual bricks and regret everything.

If you mostly recognised yourself in LEGO? You are probably a LEGO person.
Mostly Minecraft? Minecraft person.
If you saw yourself in all of them and felt slightly attacked?

Welcome. You are the neurodivergent hybrid chaos engine. We have snacks and several half-finished worlds.

Final Block Placement

So, are you a Minecraft person or a LEGO person?

Truthfully, it does not matter. Both are tools for the same thing: making stuff, breaking stuff, and learning what your brain likes when no one is watching.

LEGO gives you weight, click, and the satisfaction of something you can dust.
Minecraft gives you endless sky, respawns, and the option to bulldoze your mistakes without sweeping the floor.

LEGO Minecraft sets sit between them like a glitch in the Matrix, which is exactly where a lot of neurodivergent people live anyway: halfway between order and chaos, structure and freedom, carefully labelled boxes and “I started a new world because this one felt wrong”.

The real question is not “Which one are you?”
It is:

“Which one does your brain need today?”

A quiet evening of bricks and instructions?
A feral sprint across a digital landscape with a pickaxe and no plan?
Or a small, blocky set that lives in both worlds at once?

Whatever you pick, there is always room for one more block.
And, if you are anything like me, one more project you definitely did not have time to start.

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in. Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

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The Tyranny of Eye Contact: A Neurodivergent Field Guide

AJ Wright — Mon, 28 Jul 2025 10:00:00 +0000

There’s a very specific kind of eye contact that says: “I read somewhere this is what humans do.” It’s intense. It’s slightly off. It’s me, in most work meetings, accidentally fixing my gaze on someone’s left eyebrow for so long they start to visibly sweat.

I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to look “normal.” The irony, of course, is that in trying to pass as socially competent, I’ve somehow ended up looking like a cross between a malfunctioning android and a suspicious owl.

Welcome to the eye contact paradox: expected, enforced, and deeply uncomfortable—especially if you’re neurodivergent and your brain didn’t come with the same firmware for face-based conversation.

Look at Me When I’m Speaking to You (And Other Childhood Threats)

From an early age, we’re taught that eye contact = good. It signals attentiveness, honesty, confidence. It also, apparently, prevents us from turning into delinquents, sociopaths, or mid-tier management.

Teachers wield it like a moral barometer. “He doesn’t make eye contact” appears on report cards as if it were a gateway behaviour to arson. I distinctly remember trying to maintain eye contact with a headteacher during a detention explanation and accidentally staring so hard I forgot how to blink.

I was twelve. I think I traumatised us both.

The Gaze Economy of Adulthood

As adults, the pressure doesn’t lift—it intensifies. Now we’re in interviews, performance reviews, networking events, and weekly meetings with biscuits that make your mouth feel like a dusty cupboard. And through all of it, the same expectation hums beneath the surface: make eye contact or risk being perceived as weird, rude, or dangerously incompetent.

Managers notice if you look at the table too much. Colleagues misinterpret a glance to the side as disinterest. Even on Zoom, people monitor where your gaze lands, as if your soul should be GPS-tracked via webcam.

It doesn’t matter what you say. It matters where your eyes go while you’re saying it.

The Accidental Boob Glance: Masking Gone Rogue

To survive this gaze-obsessed landscape, many neurodivergent people develop tricks. Masking, essentially. We simulate eye contact by looking at noses, eyebrows, the space between the eyes, or, in extreme cases, just above someone’s left ear.

Sometimes, it goes wrong. Spectacularly wrong.

Take the classic teen-to-young-adult miscalculation: in a panicked effort to avoid direct eye contact, your gaze drifts downward. Too far downward. And suddenly, you’re staring squarely at someone’s chest.

Not with intent. Not with malice. Simply because in trying to avoid one form of discomfort, you’ve stumbled headlong into another.

And here’s the worst part: you often don’t realise it—not until the other person shifts awkwardly, covers themselves slightly, or looks at you like you’ve just been uninvited from feminism.

Once, during a tutorial, I thought I was holding safe, polite, side-of-face level gaze. Turns out I’d been gently but unwaveringly fixated on a particularly low neckline for the better part of a group discussion. I was simply trying to avoid a panic spiral. I left with a profound sense of shame and a new hyper-awareness of collars.

This is the neurodivergent tightrope: appear normal, but not too intense. Avoid staring, but also avoid looking like you’re undressing someone with your eyes while internally disassociating over whether you remembered to lock the front door.

The Guilt of Looking Away

Then there’s the aftermath. You look away to collect your thoughts, or because your eyes need a break, and suddenly you’re avoiding them. Disengaged. Aloof. Maybe even dishonest.

People will ask if you’re upset. Or distracted. Or bored. Sometimes they won’t say anything at all—they’ll just file it away, silently judging you as not quite “present” enough.

Meanwhile, you were simply trying not to disassociate.

Alternatives to Eye Contact (Yes, We Have Those)

Here’s the thing: eye contact is not the only measure of engagement. Neurodivergent folks might:

Look at mouths, to better understand speech
Focus on shoulder movement, to track intent
Listen more deeply because they’re not distracted by visual overwhelm
Or simply focus their gaze on a neutral object—a coffee cup, a corner of the desk, a slightly judgemental spider in the corner of the ceiling

The Myth of Sincerity Through Staring

We’ve built entire cultures around the idea that looking someone in the eye means telling the truth. But the reality is more nuanced. Some of the kindest, most present people I know avoid eye contact because it’s overwhelming. And some of the most manipulative people I’ve ever met stare like they’re trying to hypnotise you into a direct debit.

It’s time to stop equating stillness with disinterest, and eye contact with authenticity.

Final Thoughts (And Where I’m Looking Now)

I’m still learning. Still unlearning, really. That pressure to perform eye contact never really disappears, but I’m starting to let myself off the hook.

Sometimes I look at noses. Sometimes at the floor. Sometimes, bravely, for a few seconds at someone’s eyes. But only if it feels okay.

The real connection, it turns out, doesn’t live in the staring. It lives in the listening.

So if you ever catch me glancing at your elbow mid-conversation, just know I’m doing my best—and it probably means I like you.

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untypicable.co.uk

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Why Autism Isn’t a Trend – And Why I Hate the Term ‘Neurospicy’

AJ Wright — Thu, 05 Jun 2025 10:00:00 +0000

It begins, as so many terrible trends do, on the internet.

Somewhere between the rise of pastel-coloured mental health infographics and the collapse of basic attention spans, someone coined the word neurospicy. It was, ostensibly, meant to be charming. A playful euphemism. A glittery way of saying “neurodivergent” without actually committing to anything so serious as a diagnosis or, heaven forbid, lived experience.

You’ll have seen it in Instagram bios: “chaotic neutral neurospicy babe”. Or as the caption to a TikTok video in which a twenty-something dances to a Dua Lipa remix while holding a sign that says, “me trying to focus on my boss talking while a pigeon outside reminds me of death.”

We are meant to find this endearing.

And yet, for many of us who are actually neurodivergent—who live with autism not as a curated online identity but as a lifelong negotiation with the world—it feels, frankly, like a slap in the sensory cortex.

I’m not neurospicy. I’m autistic. Not in a “fun and flustered” sort of way, but in the classic, exhausting, chronically-masking, please-do-not-approach-me-at-networking-events sense. I’m autistic in the way that means fluorescent lighting gives me a migraine, casual conversations feel like performance art, and I’ve spent the last thirty years mentally rehearsing how to say goodbye without sounding abrupt.

That’s not spice. That’s survival.

But “neurospicy” is only the surface gloss on a deeper problem—the creeping, cheerful rebranding of neurodivergence as something fashionable. Something whimsical. Something that pairs nicely with oat milk and mild social anxiety. Once a clinical term, autism is now being filtered through the same lens that brought us “hot girl walks” and digital detox yoga. It’s a vibe. An aesthetic. A way to say “I’m not like other girls” with the added flair of a DSM-5 reference.

And the consequences are more than semantic.

Because as soon as something becomes trendy, it becomes diluted. Neurodivergence is being stripped of its medical and social complexity and repackaged as quirkiness—a lightly worn identity one can try on like a vintage cardigan. And as the meaning becomes more flexible, the people who actually live within its boundaries find themselves increasingly misrepresented, or worse, ignored.

Which brings us—inevitably—to parents.

Specifically, the modern breed of performative parent who diagnoses their child with ADHD based on one sugar-fuelled outburst in the car park of a National Trust café.

We’ve all encountered them. Their child is busy turning a lemon drizzle into a projectile weapon, and when confronted with this alarming display of sociopathy, the parent responds with a sigh and says:

“He’s just got a touch of ADHD.”

A touch. As though ADHD were a seasonal condition, like hayfever, or something one contracts from licking too many iPads.

It would be amusing if it weren’t so staggeringly unhelpful. Because what’s really being diagnosed here isn’t ADHD—it’s the parent’s unwillingness to say “no.” A fundamental failure to establish boundaries has now been rebranded as neurodivergence. Forget tantrums, forget poor diet, forget the fact your child has never been spoken to like a person—just slap a label on it and head back to your flat white.

I want to be clear: there are absolutely children with ADHD. Children who need support, structure, and understanding. I am not denying the condition exists—I am saying that not every act of defiance, disobedience or dramatic biscuit-throwing is a cry for medical recognition. Sometimes, it’s just a child being a bit of a knob.

What makes this trend all the more infuriating is that for decades, autism and ADHD went undiagnosed—particularly in girls, working-class children, and people of colour. The system failed countless people. And now that these diagnoses have gained visibility, they’re being treated like personality accessories. Something to mention on a podcast, or scrawl in bubble writing on a tote bag.

And then there’s the phrase that inevitably follows any conversation about autism:

“Well, we’re all on the spectrum somewhere, aren’t we?”

No. We’re not. And that’s precisely the problem.

Autism is not a quirky personality trait. It is not a mood. It is not shorthand for being awkward at dinner parties or enjoying spreadsheets. It is a neurological condition that affects perception, communication, and sensory processing. It is a lived reality that affects every moment of every day. To suggest that everyone is “a little bit autistic” is not just wrong—it’s insulting. It’s like saying everyone’s a bit pregnant. It shows a fundamental misunderstanding of what autism actually is, and what it isn’t.

When I say I’m autistic, I’m not inviting you to relate. I’m asking you to understand. I’m not telling you I’m quirky—I’m telling you that your office lights are giving me chest pain and your small talk is emotionally exhausting. I’m not saying I’m a special snowflake—I’m saying that your child’s diagnosis shouldn’t be based on how inconvenient he is at a Pizza Express birthday party.

So no, I’m not neurospicy. I’m neurodivergent. And I don’t need my reality repackaged as digestible content for people who think diagnosis is a trend.

And your child?
Might just need an earlier bedtime.
And fewer fruit shoots.

Let’s stop pretending that everything awkward is autism, and everything excitable is ADHD. Let’s allow neurodivergent people to define ourselves without having our terms co-opted, aestheticised, and drained of meaning.

We are not flavours. We are not content.
We are people. And frankly, we’re tired.

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untypicable.co.uk

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Am I Autistic, or Am I Really a Cat?

AJ Wright — Fri, 02 May 2025 10:00:00 +0000

In a world obsessed with identity labels, personality quizzes, zodiac signs, and spending 45 minutes choosing between 300 varieties of oat milk, a simple question haunts me: am I autistic, or am I really just a cat?

Stick with me. It’s not as daft as it sounds. (Or perhaps it is, but that’s very on-brand for untypicable.) After all, stranger things have happened. Somewhere right now, there’s probably a man in Croydon who genuinely believes he’s a Victorian lamplighter reincarnated. Compared to that, feline confusion is practically sensible.

Signs Point to Cat

Let’s start with the evidence. I enjoy solitude with a level of commitment that would make a hermit blush. I despise loud noises—fireworks, doorbells, overenthusiastic humans—all equally unacceptable. I routinely stare into the middle distance contemplating the futility of existence, preferably from a perch slightly higher than everyone else.

I will accept social interaction, but only on my terms and preferably when it involves someone scratching my head and telling me I’m clever (words of affirmation are my love language; actual physical affection, less so). Also, if you rearrange my environment without consulting me, I will sulk about it for a minimum of 48 hours, adding passive-aggressive side-eye for emphasis.

Additionally, I have an alarmingly specific routine: wake up, stare into the abyss, coffee, ignore humanity, nap, repeat. If my routine is disrupted, I may react dramatically—perhaps with a metaphorical hiss, or by knocking metaphorical (or actual) mugs off the metaphorical (or literal) table. There may also be tactical retreating under a metaphorical bed.

If that’s not cat behaviour, I don’t know what is. I’m practically one dramatic flounce away from demanding my own heated windowsill.

Signs Point to Autism

On the other paw—I mean, hand—there are a few things that suggest I’m not merely feline. For instance, I didn’t learn to purr (although, after particularly good coffee or the discovery of a new stationery shop, I do make a small, involuntary chirrup). My brain is wired a little differently: I experience sensory information with the intensity of someone who has had every sense turned up to eleven.

I have a collection of “special interests” that could rival a Victorian butterfly collector—intense, specific, and lovingly categorised. I struggle with the subtle art of interpreting sarcasm unless it’s delivered with the grace of a sledgehammer and a neon sign. I rehearse conversations in my head like I’m directing a Shakespearean tragedy, only to forget all my lines when the moment actually arrives.

These are, as any diagnostic manual will tell you, textbook characteristics of autism.

But… have you ever met a cat who does get sarcasm? Or one that doesn’t immediately take offence when you dare suggest they are not, in fact, the supreme overlords of the known universe?

Exactly.

The Venn Diagram is a Circle

At this point, it’s clear that autism and “being a cat” share a worrying amount of overlap. Strict routines? Check. Aversion to bright lights and sudden noises? Check. Strongly preferring one’s own company to the frenetic chaos of society? Double check, and throw in a nap. Bonus points for disliking being stared at for too long.

Perhaps the only real difference is that cats don’t have to fill out an 87-page Access Needs Assessment to be permitted to have their special blanket at university. Nor do they have to smile awkwardly through team-building exercises, desperately longing for a quiet room and a snack.

And honestly, if a cat ever had to navigate the average university seminar—full of tangents, off-topic debates, and the occasional smell of soggy sandwiches—they’d probably opt to fake their own death within minutes.

Important Disclaimer About Dogs

At this point, I must clarify that while I identify strongly with cat behaviour, I do, in fact, like dogs. Quite a lot, actually. Especially mine, who I sometimes suspect has undiagnosed ADHD. (Jokingly. Mostly. Although if you’ve ever seen him chase his own tail for ten consecutive minutes before forgetting why he entered the room, you’d understand my suspicions.)

He’s all enthusiasm, zero executive functioning, and a genuine joy to behold. Perhaps he, too, is asking himself existential questions—”Am I a dog, or am I a slightly malfunctioning tumble dryer?”

Diagnosis: Schrodinger’s Autistic Cat

Maybe I’m both. Maybe I’m neither. Maybe I’m a neurodivergent human who has simply unlocked the ancient, sacred knowledge of cats: that the world is often too loud, too bright, and too demanding, and that sometimes the correct response is to knock things over, vanish into the airing cupboard, and take a nap in a sunbeam.

If you’re reading this and relating a little too hard, you might be wondering the same thing. That’s OK. Whether you’re autistic, a cat, a neurospicy human with excellent taste in personal boundaries, or something beautifully in-between, there’s no wrong way to exist. (Unless you’re a pigeon. Then you’re just wrong. And probably judging me from the windowsill right now.)

So the next time someone questions your quirks, just stare at them unblinkingly, yawn, walk away, and maybe knock over a pencil on the way out for good measure. If nothing else, it’ll leave them suitably unnerved and wondering what ancient power you wield.

untypicable: your trusted source for all the existential dilemmas, imaginary diagnoses, and self-indulgent ramblings you didn’t realise you needed…

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Error 404: Motivation Not Found

AJ Wright — Sat, 25 Jan 2025 10:00:00 +0000

We’ve all been there: staring at a task that desperately needs doing, while every fiber of your being screams, “Not today.” Your brain cycles through excuses, distractions, and existential dread faster than you can refresh your Instagram feed. But where is motivation in all of this?

It’s like trying to load a webpage only to be greeted with the digital equivalent of your brain: Error 404: Motivation Not Found. Let’s take a closer look at why motivation sometimes feels like a missing file and what we can do about it.

Why Motivation Feels Like a Glitchy Program

The Motivation Myth
Motivation isn’t a constant stream of energy—it’s more like a pop-up ad. Sometimes it appears at the perfect moment (rarely), and other times, it’s a cruel tease, vanishing just as you need it most. Think of it like an unreliable browser extension: you expect it to work, but half the time, it doesn’t load properly because the conditions aren’t right.
Mental Bandwidth Overload
When you’re juggling a dozen mental tabs—work deadlines, grocery lists, existential crises—it’s no wonder motivation fails to load. Your brain’s processing power is maxed out, and instead of doing the important task, you end up doom-scrolling or watching videos of raccoons stealing cat food.
The Procrastination Virus
Procrastination is the malware of motivation. It sneaks into your operating system, disguising itself as “just five minutes of TikTok” (and I don’t normally use TikTok!) or “I’ll clean my entire house first,” and suddenly, the task is forgotten.

Common Errors in the Motivation System

Error: Task Overwhelming (Code 500)
Your brain freezes because the task feels too big. Why write one paragraph when it feels like climbing Everest?
Error: Undefined Purpose (Code 418)
If you don’t see the point of the task, your brain might file it under “Why bother?” and divert energy elsewhere.
Error: Background Apps Draining Energy (Code 302)
Mental fatigue from emotional stress, physical exhaustion, or decision overload can zap motivation before it even gets started.

Fixes for the Motivation Error

Run a Diagnostic: Break It Down
Large tasks feel impossible, but smaller chunks are manageable. Instead of “write the whole report,” start with “write the first sentence.” Progress snowballs.
Reboot the System: Take a Break
Sometimes, your brain just needs a quick reset. A walk, a snack, or a 10-minute dance party can refresh your mental RAM.
Install Rewards: Gamify the Task
Motivation likes incentives. Promise yourself a treat—coffee, chocolate, or an episode of your favorite show—when you complete a small milestone.
Turn Off Unnecessary Programs
Close those mental tabs that don’t serve the task. Worrying about next week’s schedule or what Karen from HR thinks of your email can wait.
Call Tech Support: Find Accountability
A friend, colleague, or app can help keep you on track. Sometimes, just knowing someone’s watching is enough to spark action.

Embrace the Lack of Motivation

Here’s the truth: even the best systems have downtime. Motivation is fleeting, but discipline and habits are your reliable backups. When you can’t summon the energy to care, lean on structure to carry you through.

And when all else fails, remember: it’s okay to rest. Sometimes, Error 404 just means the system needs maintenance.

Conclusion: The Search Continues

Motivation might feel like an elusive treasure, but it’s not entirely out of reach. With the right hacks, humor, and a touch of grace, you can navigate the glitches and keep moving forward—even if it’s one tab at a time.

So, the next time you’re tempted to give up, picture your brain as an old PC. Sure, it’s a bit slow and prone to errors, but with the right inputs, it’ll load eventually.

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AJ Wright

untypicable.co.uk

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