For most of my life, I believed anxiety was part of who I was.

Not the kind that stops you from functioning – but the kind that hums quietly beneath everything. High-functioning. Productive. Invisible. The kind that lets you build businesses, raise a child and lead teams while constantly bracing for what might come next.

Imagine striking a tuning fork against a table. The vibration that follows – that lingering, restless resonance. Now imagine living inside that vibration. Always alert. Always anticipating. Always scanning for risk.

For years, I thought my discomfort with public speaking was fear. I avoided the spotlight, kept myself small and told myself that visibility simply “wasn’t my thing.” But it wasn’t fear of speaking – it was fear of being perceived. Because small is safe. Small doesn’t attract judgment. Small doesn’t invite misunderstanding.

Everything changed with my daughter’s diagnosis.

As I began advocating for her, learning her language and understanding how her brain works, clarity arrived in places I didn’t expect – inside myself. Suddenly, patterns from my own life came into focus: the sensory overload, the constant mental motion, the deep discomfort with unpredictability paired with an uncanny ability to solve complex problems.

My own diagnosis came later than it should have – but that delay wasn’t accidental.

Women are often diagnosed late because many of us learn to mask early. High masking means adapting – consciously or unconsciously – to meet expectations: over-preparing, mirroring, people-pleasing, internalizing distress instead of expressing it. From the outside, it looks like competence. On the inside, it’s exhausting.

Instead of recognizing neurodivergence, clinicians often diagnose what is most visible first. For me, that meant high-functioning anxiety and complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD) – diagnoses that weren’t wrong, but weren’t complete.

Adult diagnosis is inherently more complex. A clinician must determine what we were born with and what developed over time. Neurodivergence often exists alongside other conditions. Comorbidity is common, especially for women, and treating one layer without understanding the whole system can obscure the root cause.

It’s also important to name something that is increasingly understood but rarely discussed: CPTSD is common among autistic individuals, not always because of a single catastrophic event, but because of what accumulates over time.

For many of us, trauma isn’t a single “big T” moment. It’s a series of small, repeated “little T” experiences – being misunderstood, corrected, excluded, overwhelmed or required to perform against our natural wiring day after day. Over time, those experiences compound. The nervous system learns to stay on high alert. Dysregulation becomes a survival strategy.

When neurodivergence goes unrecognized, the world itself can become a chronic stressor.

Healing from that kind of trauma takes effort most people never see. It requires learning to recognize what is neurological, what is adaptive, and what was once protective – but no longer serves. It means actively working to regulate a nervous system that has spent decades bracing for impact.

Building a business is, by nature, a rollercoaster – financial risk, visibility, uncertainty, responsibility for others. Choosing to heal while leading is no small feat. It requires regulating while the ground is moving. It requires compassion without complacency. And it requires unlearning the belief that constant dysregulation is simply the cost of success.

In 2024, I was finally diagnosed with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and autism – the same diagnoses my daughter received.

That wasn’t a coincidence. It was genetic clarity.

My diagnosis wasn’t limiting – it was liberating.

I started doing the work – not just emotionally, but physically. I stopped drinking alcohol. I gave up gluten and fast food. I removed many of the things we casually call “vices,” not out of restriction, but out of curiosity: What happens if my brain gets what it actually needs?

As my nervous system quieted, my thinking sharpened. New neural pathways emerged. I became less reactive and more intentional. Less driven by survival and more by purpose. The leader I had always been trying to become finally had room to show up.

That clarity changed how I lead.

Leadership, I’ve learned, isn’t about control – it’s about conditions.

For years, I believed strong leadership meant pushing harder, tolerating more and expecting the same from others. But skilled trades don’t thrive under pressure alone; they thrive under clarity, rhythm and respect for process. When work is physical, technical and precise, the nervous system matters. The environment matters. How people are taught matters.

The trades have always been neurodivergent spaces – even before we had language for it.

They attract people who think spatially, who learn by doing, who notice details others overlook, who find meaning in mastery rather than hierarchy. Upholstery, woodworking, metalwork – these disciplines are built on pattern recognition, systems thinking and adaptability in real time.

Yet too often, leadership models in these industries don’t match the minds doing the work. Traditional “sink or swim” approaches reward endurance over understanding. They mistake dysregulation for dedication. They burn out talent.

When leadership shifts – from pressure to design, from rigidity to clarity – everything changes. Productivity improves. Communication improves. People stay. Not because expectations are lowered, but because support is embedded into the system.

Neurodivergent leadership often questions inefficiency, resists arbitrary rules and seeks alignment between values and outcomes. In skilled trades – where quality is visible and mistakes are costly – this kind of leadership is an advantage.

For neurodivergent individuals, success is rarely about resilience alone. It’s about whether workplaces allow for different communication styles, flexible pacing, clear expectations and psychological safety. It’s about whether systems are designed to accommodate focus, sensory needs and recovery – or whether they quietly reward burnout and self-erasure.

Neuroinclusive accommodations are not special treatment; they are structural intelligence. They benefit entire teams – reducing friction, improving clarity and making sustainability possible. When environments are designed with nervous systems in mind, people don’t just survive their work. They contribute more fully to it.

It’s also what led me beyond the workroom.

I began building a registered apprenticeship program because I knew the trade needed both structure and humanity. Then I founded a tech startup to modernize an industry that hasn’t fundamentally changed in decades – connecting visualization, project management, education and sustainability in a way that actually reflects how artisans think and work.

Neurodivergent minds are wired for this kind of innovation.

History supports this. Leaders like Steve Jobs, Albert Einstein and Temple Grandin didn’t succeed despite neurodivergence – they succeeded because of it. Their ability to think laterally, see patterns others miss and question inherited systems changed the world.

The same potential exists in our local businesses, our trades and our leadership pipelines.

When I stopped trying to fit into a narrow definition of leadership and started leading authentically, something unexpected happened: others followed. Not just in business – but in self-discovery.

I’ve had countless people tell me that my openness led them to seek their own diagnosis. That it helped them reframe their anxiety not as a flaw, but as information. That it gave them permission to stop shrinking.

That may be the most meaningful outcome of all.

And perhaps the most personal impact has been the one closest to me.

As a mother, I’m acutely aware that leadership is modeled long before it’s taught. My daughter, Izabelle, is watching – not just how I run a business, but how I speak about my brain, my boundaries and my worth. She’s watching what happens when a woman takes up space without apology. When she advocates for herself. When she leads without pretending to be someone else.

Seeing herself reflected in me has changed how she sees her own future.

She doesn’t just see a business owner – she sees a woman building something meaningful while honoring how her mind works. She sees neurodivergence not as something to overcome, but as something to understand and support. And in that visibility, I see her confidence grow – not because the path is easy, but because it’s honest.

Leadership isn’t about being the loudest voice in the room. It’s about creating space – for yourself and others – to do your best thinking. It’s about designing environments where different minds can thrive. And it’s about having the courage to be seen, even when staying small once felt safer.

A late diagnosis didn’t slow me down.

It explained me.

And in that explanation, I found clarity, compassion and a leadership style rooted not in perfection – but in understanding.

Riana LeJeune is an entrepreneur, master upholsterer and founder of Repinned Luxury Upholstery. She is also the creator of Renewabl App, a technology platform modernizing the upholstery industry through visualization, education and neuroinclusive systems. A late-diagnosed autistic and ADHD leader, Riana speaks openly about neurodivergence, skilled trades and adaptive leadership – advocating for workplaces where different minds can thrive.