This is a place for people who think too much, feel too hard, and maybe laughed at their own existential crisis in a Walgreens parking lot once.

Poetic essays and ritual dispatches from the heart of the chaos, where healing isn't linear, feelings are sacred, and survival is an art form. An archive for the soft, the sharp, and the sovereign.

A field journal for those who live between categories and beneath expectations. This space explores the lived realities of being neurodivergent in a world designed for performance over presence. Here, we examine identity not as a fixed point but as a fluid response to survival, adaptation, and awakening. Through essays, provocations, and unfiltered reflections, we’ll unravel the social scripts we were handed, challenge the myths of "normalcy," and reclaim the beauty in being too much, too sensitive, too perceptive, too everything. This is not a self-help column. This is a mirror for those of us who’ve been camouflaging our brilliance to be palatable to a world that never asked who we truly are. Unmasking isn’t a reveal. It’s a remembering.

Welcome to the official sonic sanctuary of Chaotic Goodisms, where BPMs meet breakthroughs and dopamine drops like it’s headlining the main stage. This isn’t just a playlist; it’s a neurodivergent mixtape for the wildly sensitive, emotionally overclocked, and intellectually overstimulated. From the rhythmic regulation of drum & bass to the soul-soothing depth of ambient techno, and every indie gem and underground classic, Chaotic Good Radio is the frequency for those of us who think in spirals, feel in symphonies, and heal in crescendos. Every track is curated to soothe the nervous system, awaken the spirit, and remind you that sometimes the only medicine you need is minor chords or that sweet spot between 130-170 BPM and a dark warehouse full of strangers who get it. Raving is therapy. Movement is prayer. This is your emotional reset, on shuffle. Because what world hears as "sad" or "noise", your brain calls home.

This is where the science ends and the soul begins to whisper. The nervous system keeps the score—and often the poetry. These are not anecdotes dressed up as enlightenment, nor data points stripped of humanity. They are lived integrations. Somatic sequels. The aftershock and afterglow. Here are field notes, the quiet work that begins after the ceremony ends: the tremble in the jaw when a long-held truth surfaces, the dream that revisits months later with new clarity, the visceral no that finally arrives where silence used to live. Psychedelics open the aperture, but integration is a slow and sacred choreography of keeping it open without burning out. These entries are part memory, part metabolization, part medicine. Because insight without embodiment is just another high. I didn’t come to escape; I came here to remember.

This is the part of Chaotic Goodisms where language loses its manners. Where sentences get emotional and line breaks occur for reasons nobody cacan fully explain. Call it poetry if that helps you read it out loud without apology. Call it whatever if “poetry” feels too MFA-adjacent and not enough like the ache of sitting in your own skin for more than ten seconds. These pieces are more about resonance than resolution. They probably won’t heal you. They might, however, make you exhale sharply through your nose in recognition. Which, let’s be honest, is one of the more underrated spiritual events.