Maybe your not disorganised

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Like many parents, I spent years chasing solutions.

Planners.

Diaries.

Lists.

Apps.

Spreadsheets.

More lists.

At one point, I had a notebook dedicated to remembering things I'd forgotten to write down elsewhere.

Every new system arrived with the same promise:

"This is the one."

This planner would finally transform my life.

This app would make everything easier.

This spreadsheet would solve the overwhelm.

For a few weeks, I'd feel hopeful.

Then I'd miss an update, forget to use it, or lose track of the system entirely.

And immediately, I'd assume the problem was me.

Not the system.

Me.

Eventually, I started noticing something.

Most productivity advice assumes you're managing tasks.

Tasks are relatively simple.

Send the email.

Book the appointment.

Buy the milk.

Pay the bill.

Tick the box and move on.

But that's not what fills most of my mental space.

What fills my mental space are things like:

• Don't forget that conversation.

• I need to remember to ask about that.

• That felt unusual.

• I wonder if that will happen again.

• There was something important in that email.

• I need to keep an eye on this.

These aren't tasks.

They're open loops.

Open questions.

Unfinished thoughts.

Things that might matter later.

And because they might matter, my brain refuses to let them go.

I've realised that the hardest things to carry aren't always the jobs that need doing.

Sometimes they're the thoughts that don't yet have anywhere to go.

The things you're holding just in case.

The observations you're afraid of forgetting.

The reminders you're mentally replaying.

The questions you're keeping alive in the background.

The task itself may only take a few minutes.

The remembering can last for weeks..

A few months ago, I had a slightly ridiculous realisation.

I spend a large part of my life remembering things for other people.

Dates.

Forms.

Appointments.

School information.

Messages.

Birthdays.

Homework.

Things nobody specifically asked me to remember but that somehow ended up living in my brain anyway. And I started to wonder:

Maybe I'm not disorganised.

Maybe I've accidentally become the family's external hard drive.

Admittedly, an external hard drive that occasionally overheats.

But an external hard drive nonetheless.

What makes this difficult is how quickly we turn memory lapses into character flaws.

We forget something.

And immediately the inner critic arrives.

"You're hopeless."

"You're disorganised."

"Why can't you get your act together?"

But if a friend told us they were juggling work, family responsibilities, emotional labour, household administration and endless mental reminders, we wouldn't call them disorganised.

We'd probably say:

"Honestly, it's amazing you're remembering anything at all."

Yet somehow we're far less generous with ourselves.

One of the biggest lessons I've learned is that sometimes the most helpful thing isn't becoming more organised.

It's giving thoughts somewhere else to live.

Not perfectly.

Not neatly.

Just somewhere outside your head.

A simple place to say:

• I noticed this.

• I'm worried about this.

• I need to remember that.

• Watch this for me.

• Because often the stress comes from holding the information, not the information itself.

The moment we know something has been captured, the pressure starts to lift.

But I've discovered something else.

Sometimes getting the thought out isn't quite enough.

Part of my brain still worries.

"What if it's important?"

"What if I forget about it?"

"What if it gets lost among all the other things?"

What I really wanted wasn't just a place to put information.

I wanted somewhere that could help me keep an eye on it.

Somewhere I could hand over the thought and say:

"Can you watch this for me?"

Not because I needed an answer.

Not because I needed a diagnosis.

Just because I needed confidence that it wouldn't disappear.

Maybe being organised isn't remembering everything.

Maybe being organised is knowing where things can safely live.

Maybe it's creating support around the brain you actually have instead of constantly comparing yourself to the mythical woman with perfect systems and matching storage containers.

I still lose things.

I still forget things.

I still discover school letters at completely inappropriate moments.

But I don't automatically treat those moments as evidence that I'm failing anymore.

Because one human brain was never designed to carry all of this alone.

The next time you hear yourself saying:

"I must remember..."

Pause for a moment.

Ask yourself whether that thought really needs to stay inside your head.

Or whether it deserves somewhere safer to live.

Because cognitive overload isn't always about having too much to do.

Sometimes it's about having too much to hold.

And perhaps you're not disorganised after all.

Perhaps you're simply carrying more than one brain was ever meant to carry.