Navigating the Clock Change with AuDHD
Shifting seasons
It’s October, and the mist lingers over the water in front of me, cool, damp air brushes my face. The light is soft, muted, filtering through the haze. I sit in the familiar bird hide at the nature reserve I visit regularly throughout the year. Just weeks ago, I watched the sun glisten and dance on the surface of the same pool, eagerly anticipating a fleeting glimpse of a kingfisher. The air was alive with birdsong and movement, reeds swaying gently in the warm breeze.
Now, as the clock change looms, it feels like I’m in wait mode. A low-level anxiety ripples through my body. Everything looks, feels, and sounds different.
Out of sync
Through late spring and summer, my routines settle. I find a sense of flow amidst the often-conflicting push and pulls of being an AuDHDer. I still face hurdles, but they are balanced with moments of joy, birdsong, vibrant colours, and sparks of energy in my mind and body that echo the sunlight glinting off water.
Then, autumn arrives. In the early hours of that late-October Sunday, the clocks go back an hour. Disruption strikes. In the past, the impact was significant, as my internal rhythm would struggle to sync, and my mental health often declined rapidly. The shift from lightness to darkness happened almost overnight, and I struggled to articulate or understand my experience.
Neurodivergent nuances
My mind is wired to notice detail. I absorb huge amounts of information from the world around me, and I am sensitive to subtle changes. After the clock change, darker evenings make artificial lights feel harsh, depleting my energy.
My sleep pattern is disturbed. I can struggle to stay asleep and begin to wake too early, risking exhaustion later in the day. It takes time to re-establish a routine. Historically, as my routines became destabilised, so too did my eating patterns. This was exacerbated by differences in interoception, the ability to tune into and respond to hunger, thirst, or other internal bodily cues like temperature.
Tasks that rely heavily on executive functioning, feels like trudging through thick, sticky mud, each step heavy and slow. The summer energy I’m used to feels like a distant memory. I become frustrated, as I want to keep doing and going at my same summer pace, as the internal energy spirals inside me. Yet, as exhaustion sets in, that energy has no release. It’s a mismatched contradiction.
An anchor point
Over time, I’ve learned new ways to navigate the clock change, each year becoming a little easier. The nature reserve has become my anchor point. Whilst it doesn’t eliminate the challenges, visiting the nature reserve regularly through the year has helped me take notice of these seasonal shifts, the falling leaves, the crisp air, the subtle changes in light. Whilst it changes with the seasons, it is a constant place of safety and joy. I’ve come to appreciate experiencing it in four broadly different ways:
Spring: delicate shoots pushing through soft, damp earth, birdcalls starting to fill the air
Summer: lush greenery, reeds rustling, water lilies drifting across still pools
Autumn: amber leaves spiralling silently to the ground, crisp air carrying new scents
Winter: sparkling frost patterns on still water, as wind gusts through bare branches.
Visiting the reserve provides a visual and sensory anchor. It gently guides me through the transitions.
Creating a micro-climate
The reserve became one helpful strategy. I also began nurturing a personal micro-climate at home, a space that supports my senses, routines, and energy. It is still a work in progress, but I have added coloured strip lighting, weighted blankets, a rocking chair, and often listen to music or the sounds of birdsong. It’s become a sensory haven, soft blankets, gentle rocking, and warm light grounding me as the outside world shifts.
The wider world still moves on, but I now have strategies to adjust at my own pace. The micro-climate helps me to feel less overwhelmed, providing breathing space to recharge.
Gently adapting
Each year offers another opportunity to learn. I’ve come to understand and navigate the clock change through the lens of nature. If you resonate with the struggle, what you need, the way you make sense of your own experiences, may look very different.
I’ve learnt there’s no magic fix, but understanding my experiences helps me fine tune self-care at this time of year. This includes:
Self-compassion: knowing it’s okay to take longer to adjust to the clock change
Daytime walks: feeling the sun warm my skin, leaves crunching underfoot
Visual cues: prompts and reminders to help maintain consistent routines
Nurturing that micro-climate: adding comfort, softness, and safety
Pacing: planning for lower-energy periods and adding in extra times for rest
Visiting the nature reserve: returning to that anchor point.
At my own pace, in my own way
The clock change will always ripple through my routines, and the seasons will continue to shift whether I’m ready or not. But I’ve learned I don’t have to match the world’s fast-paced rhythm. The nature reserve reminds me that change is natural, cyclical, and beautiful, even when unsettling at first. Watching leaves fall, water shimmer, or frost sparkle helps me navigate transition more easily.
By creating my own micro-climate, I can adapt to the wider world in a way that feels sustainable and kind to myself. Each year, as the clocks change, I validate my experiences, whilst adapting what I need to support me. I gently remind myself it’s okay to need time to adapt to the clocks changing. At my own pace, in my own way.
