The Gap Between Who You Are and Who You Want to Be

You know the person you want to be. You’re not that person yet. Here’s what’s standing in the way.

I know who I want to be.

I want to be the person who takes care of himself. Who eats real meals instead of whatever’s fastest. Who goes to bed at a reasonable time instead of working until his brain stops functioning. Who exercises consistently instead of in bursts when the guilt gets too heavy.

I want to be the person who has his shit together in the basic ways. Clean apartment. Laundry done before he runs out of clothes. Dishes washed before they pile up. The kind of adult who maintains things instead of letting everything slide until it becomes a crisis.

I want to be the person who actually does the stand-up comedy he says he’s going to do. Who gets back on stage instead of telling himself he will for over a year.

I’m not that person yet.

And the gap between who I am and who I want to be feels massive. Not because I don’t know what to do. But because my brain and my nervous system won’t let me do it.

The Person I Want to Be

Here’s what that person looks like in my head:

He wakes up at a consistent time. Not because he’s some productivity robot, but because his body knows when to rest and when to move. He makes breakfast instead of skipping it. He takes his meds on time. He drinks water throughout the day instead of realizing at 8pm that he’s had nothing but coffee.

He works hard, but he stops working at a reasonable hour. He doesn’t check email at midnight. He doesn’t wake up at 3am and immediately start thinking about projects. He knows how to close the laptop and be done.

He exercises because it feels good, not because he’s punishing himself for being out of shape. He goes to therapy consistently. He calls friends back. He doesn’t let relationships drift because he’s too busy or too tired or too deep in his own head.

He performs. He gets on stage and does the thing he says matters to him. He doesn’t let fear or perfectionism or the weight of everything that’s happened keep him from the thing he knows he’s supposed to be doing.

He takes care of his body like it’s worth taking care of. Not in some extreme optimization way. Just in the basic “this is the only body I have” way.

That’s who I want to be. And I’m not him yet.

Who I Actually Am

Here’s who I actually am right now:

I work constantly. Fifty-hour weeks at my day job. Then I work on Kill the Silence. Weekends. Evenings. If I can’t sleep, I get up and work. Because working feels productive and not working feels like dying.

I forget to eat until I’m shaking. Not because I’m too busy. Because my ADHD brain doesn’t register hunger as urgent until it becomes a crisis. I forget to drink water until I have a headache. I forget to take my meds half the time because executive function is a suggestion, not a guarantee.

I stay up too late because there’s always one more thing to finish. I wake up exhausted and do it again.

I know I should exercise. I have a gym membership. I use it in bursts when the guilt gets unbearable, then I stop for months because my brain needs novelty and consistency is torture.

I know I should meal prep. I know I should keep my apartment cleaner. I know I should go to bed earlier. I know I should get back on stage.

I know all of this. And yet here I am, not doing any of it consistently.

The gap between knowing and doing is where I live. And that gap is lined with ADHD executive dysfunction and a nervous system that learned self-care means you’re vulnerable to attack.

What’s Actually Standing in the Way

It’s not laziness. I work harder than most people I know. It’s not lack of discipline. I built a career managing $500M. I’ve been sober for years. I can discipline myself when it matters.

So what’s standing in the way?

My ADHD brain doesn’t prioritize anything that isn’t urgent or novel. Eating feels boring until I’m dizzy. Sleep feels optional until I’m collapsing. Exercise feels pointless until my body hurts. My brain won’t activate the executive function to do maintenance tasks because there’s no immediate consequence for not doing them.

And my CPTSD nervous system learned that productivity equals safety. That if I stop working, something bad happens. That rest is dangerous. That care is conditional.

I grew up watching my dad have a mental health crisis when I was 12. We lost our house. I became the parent. I learned that my value was in what I could do, not who I was. I learned that stopping meant everything falling apart.

Then I got sexually abused for five years. I learned that my body wasn’t mine. That I didn’t get to have boundaries. That taking care of myself wasn’t an option because survival meant making myself smaller, quieter, less of a problem.

So now my brain tells me: if you’re not producing something, you’re not valuable. If you’re not working toward a goal, you’re not worth keeping around. If you stop for too long, you’ll lose everything you’ve built.

And my nervous system tells me: rest is dangerous. Slowing down means vulnerability. Taking care of yourself means you’re not scanning for threats. And if you’re not scanning for threats, you’ll get hurt again.

That’s what’s standing in the way. Not lack of knowledge. Not lack of willpower. Neurology and trauma.

The ADHD Part of the Problem

My ADHD brain is not wired for maintenance.

It’s wired for crisis, novelty, intensity, and hyperfocus. It’s wired to do nothing for weeks and then pull an all-nighter to meet a deadline. It’s wired to get obsessed with a new project and forget to eat for 12 hours.

It’s not wired to do the same boring tasks every day. Brush teeth. Make breakfast. Do laundry. Go to bed on time. These tasks have no urgency, no novelty, no dopamine hit.

So my brain just doesn’t register them as important. Even though I know they are. Even though I know my life would be better if I did them.

The executive dysfunction is real. It’s not that I don’t want to take care of myself. It’s that the part of my brain that initiates tasks doesn’t fire correctly. I can sit there knowing I need to eat, knowing food is in the kitchen, knowing exactly what to do, and still not be able to make my body move to do it.

People without ADHD don’t understand this. They think it’s procrastination or laziness. It’s not. It’s a neurological gap between intention and action.

And the working memory issues make it worse. I forget I was supposed to take my meds. I forget I haven’t eaten. I forget I had a plan to go to the gym. By the time I remember, it’s too late, so I tell myself I’ll do it tomorrow. Then tomorrow I forget again.

The person I want to be has a brain that can execute basic maintenance tasks without requiring a crisis. My brain can’t do that. And I don’t know how to bridge that gap.

The Trauma Part of the Problem

My CPTSD nervous system thinks rest is a threat.

I can sit down to relax and within seconds my body is crawling with anxiety. My chest gets tight. My thoughts start racing about everything I should be doing instead. My nervous system interprets rest as danger.

Because in my childhood, rest meant you weren’t vigilant. And not being vigilant meant you got hurt. So my body learned to stay alert, stay moving, stay productive. Safety was in constant motion.

And my worth was always conditional. I was parentified at 12. I had to keep my parents stable. I had to be the responsible one. I learned that my value came from what I provided, not from existing.

Then I built a career where my worth was measured in numbers. Assets under management. Commission. Revenue. I was valuable when I was producing. And when I got wrongfully terminated, I lost all of that proof of value in one day.

So I doubled down. I worked harder. I built more. I proved I wasn’t broken by producing constantly. And that pattern is still running.

My nervous system equates productivity with safety and rest with vulnerability. And until my nervous system feels safe, my brain can’t shift priorities.

I can know intellectually that I need to take care of myself. But my body doesn’t believe it. My body thinks taking care of myself is a luxury I haven’t earned yet. That if I slow down enough to eat regular meals or sleep eight hours or exercise consistently, something bad will happen.

That’s trauma. And you can’t logic your way out of trauma. You can’t discipline your way out of a dysregulated nervous system.

The Maintenance Problem

I’m good at intensity. I’m terrible at maintenance.

That’s the ADHD. My brain lights up for crises. It goes dark for routine.

I can sprint. I can’t jog. I can pull all-nighters to hit a deadline. I can’t do the boring daily shit that keeps life from falling apart.

So I let things pile up. Dishes. Laundry. Basic self-care. Then I have a crisis. Then I fix it all at once in a burst of hyperfocus. Then I let it pile up again.

I want to be the person who maintains things before they become a crisis. But my brain doesn’t produce dopamine for maintenance. It produces dopamine for urgency and novelty.

Eating well doesn’t feel urgent until I’m dizzy from not eating. Sleep doesn’t feel urgent until I’m so exhausted I can barely function. Exercise doesn’t feel urgent until my body hurts from sitting too much.

So I operate in crisis mode. Which reinforces the trauma pattern. Which keeps my nervous system convinced that crisis is normal and rest is dangerous.

The person I want to be doesn’t live in crisis mode. He lives in sustainable mode. And I don’t know how to get there when my brain is wired for crisis and my nervous system is stuck in survival.

The Permission Problem

I think the biggest thing standing in the way is this: I don’t believe I’m allowed to take care of myself unless I’ve earned it.

That’s trauma talking. The belief that care is conditional. That you have to prove your worth before you deserve basic needs met.

I learned that at 12 when I became responsible for my parents’ wellbeing. I learned it again during five years of sexual abuse when my body wasn’t mine. I learned it again from a therapist who used my vulnerabilities to exploit me.

And I keep learning it in a culture that says your value is your productivity. That rest is lazy. That self-care is selfish. That if you’re not grinding, you’re not worthy.

So there’s this voice that says: not yet. You haven’t done enough yet. You haven’t proven enough yet. You haven’t built enough yet. You haven’t earned it yet.

And my ADHD brain can’t hold “take care of yourself” and “prove your worth” as simultaneous priorities. It can only do one at a time. And proving worth feels more urgent.

So I work. And I skip self-care. And the gap stays wide.

What Happened Today

I need to tell you something.

I just sat down and wrote seven pages of comedy material. In one sitting. Something I’ve been avoiding for over a year.

Not because I didn’t want to. Because I was terrified. Because I’ve been depressed. Because I’ve been exhausted and spread so thin I haven’t felt funny. Because getting back on stage meant admitting I’d been away. Because what if I’m not good anymore? What if nobody laughs? What if I get up there and prove that everything that happened broke me?

I’ve been telling myself I’d do it. For months. For over a year. I’d think about it. I’d plan it. I’d tell people I was going to. And then I wouldn’t.

The gap between wanting to perform and actually performing felt impossible to cross.

And then today I just fucking did it. I sat down. I wrote. Seven pages.

Now I have to organize it. Rehearse it. Get on stage. Do the thing that terrifies me.

But the gap just got smaller. Not because I had some breakthrough about self-worth or because my ADHD suddenly fixed itself or because my nervous system decided rest is safe now.

Because I did the scared thing anyway.

What I Want You to Know

I’m writing this for you as much as I’m writing it for me.

If you’re standing in the gap between who you are and who you want to be, I’m right there with you.

I haven’t figured it out. I don’t have the answers. I’m still forgetting to eat and staying up too late and avoiding the gym and struggling with all the basic shit that’s supposed to be easy.

But I also just did the thing I’ve been too scared to do for over a year. And if I can do that, you can do your version of that.

Not tomorrow. Not when you’re ready. Not when conditions are perfect. Not when you’ve earned it or proven yourself or fixed all the broken parts.

Today. Scared. Imperfect. From the middle of the gap.

The person you want to be isn’t waiting on the other side of some massive transformation. That person is you making one scared decision right now.

Maybe it’s writing the thing you’ve been avoiding. Maybe it’s having the conversation you’ve been putting off. Maybe it’s applying for the job. Making the call. Getting on stage. Setting the boundary. Starting the project.

Maybe it’s just eating a real meal today. Drinking water. Going to bed on time. Taking your meds. The maintenance shit that feels impossible.

Whatever it is for you, do it scared. Do it tired. Do it with ADHD and trauma and depression and all the shit that’s standing in your way.

Because the gap doesn’t close by waiting for it to feel easier. It closes by doing the thing while it still feels hard.

Let’s Go

I’m going to organize these seven pages. I’m going to rehearse. I’m going to get on stage. I’m going to do the thing that scares me.

Not because I’m healed. Not because I figured out how to close the gap. Because I’m tired of standing in it.

And I want you to do your thing too. Whatever it is. Whatever you’ve been avoiding. Whatever scares you. Whatever you really want.

Let’s all fucking improve. Let’s go after what scares us. Let’s do it from the middle of the mess, not from the other side of perfect.

The person you want to be is on the other side of the thing you’re avoiding. Not the other side of healing. Not the other side of fixing yourself. The other side of doing it anyway.

So let’s do it anyway.

I’m right there with you.

—Cody Taymore

Kill The Silence

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