When your proverbial cup is overflowing and yet, your heart is breaking at the same time… that’s the best way I can describe this feeling as I sit here writing this days after coming home from VMX, the “world’s largest veterinary conference.” Have you ever felt like that?

If you’ve never been to the Orange County Convention Center in Orlando, Florida, for the NAVC VMX veterinary conference, it’s an experience I’d recommend everyone in vet med experience at least once. The energy, the people, the connections, the possibilities - truly endless.

For those of us with ADHD, conferences are a particular kind of beautiful overwhelming. Dopamine floods and neurons fire like fireworks when you spot a familiar face across a crowded exhibit hall. The energy of thousands of veterinary professionals in one space is intoxicating and exhausting in equal measure. You go in knowing you are going to leave a type of exhausted that words can’t describe but you know it’ll be worth it, and it is, I promise, despite what you’re about to read so please stay with me here…

This year’s VMX was no exception. My cup was overflowing from the moment the plane wheels touched down in Orlando in ways I’ll likely continue to process for awhile. The connections made at VMX last year had a ripple effect I was unprepared for (in a really good way) so I can only imagine what’s about to come from this one. At the same time, my heart was breaking. Both things are true. Both things can exist simultaneously. That’s something I’m learning, the hard way, to hold space for.

I met people for the first time IRL (in real life) whom I’d only ever connected with over the internet. Some I’ve had conversations through DM on tik tok, or Instagram, some I’ve connected with on LinkedIn, some I’ve been peripherally connected to but hadn’t ever really spoken to until this conference.

There’s something truly profound about finally breathing the same air as someone you’ve built a connection with digitally. When Mary recognized me from behind just by my hair, or when Fotine appeared at the Vetsie event and I got to squeeze her in person for the first time, or when Caitlin (you might know her as the Desk Wench) attempted to give me step by step directions to find her behind the Iams booth (girl, I am directionally challenged lmao) — those moments of recognition and connection light up parts of my brain that feel wildly unique. It’s like my whole system says “yes, this person, they’re safe, they’re real, they matter.”

I spent quality time with Alyssa Mages at the Universal event with BI. She’s one of those rare humans you just want in your corner, someone whose presence feels grounding even in the chaos. Ron Sosa and I didn’t get as much time together as I’d have liked, but the moments we did share were genuine. That’s the thing about real friendship in this industry. It doesn’t require constant proximity to remain solid.

Volunteering at BlendVet filled my cup in ways that are hard to articulate. Dr. Niccole Bruno, her team, and those students have a hold on my heart that’s unmatched. I see my own kids in them. Watching their faces light up when the lightbulb turns on, hearing their questions about how to join this profession, sharing our stories with them. It fills something deep and probably deserves its own post in and of itself when my emotions can be fully expressed. Just know this - if you have any doubts about this professions future - volunteer with BlendVet and I promise, your hope will be renewed.

Meeting Dr. Phil Richmond in person after his talk on incivility gave me new language for concepts I’ve been discussing for years. Afterwards I went up to say hi because we had briefly connected online after a post compelled me to reach out to just let him know he had people in his corner. As soon as he saw me he recognized me despite having never met in person. Being recognized by someone you’ve never met face-to-face but who knows your work was pretty cool. That validation matters.

Spending almost an hour talking with Ken Yagi after his talk on technician utilization, chatting about the talk, him taking genuine feedback and listening intently while also giving me really amazing pointers on how to remain calm when questions arise during a talk that fire the amygdala (because there were some questions during his talk that had the internal feelings screaming while watching him handle them with grace - it was truly incredible to watch! Thanks for the pointers, and for taking time to chat with me, Ken!). And then there’s Stacy. I don’t know that I can even write about it because girl, your kindness still has me reeling. Stacy said some of the kindest words that left me in literal tears. I’ve spent my whole career wanting to have an impact. Let’s just say, Stacy let me know I’ve had an impact and it means the world to me.

Walking the exhibit floor with Dr. Kate Boatright and Dr. Amelia Knight Pinkston, hanging out with Sam Ridgeway who I haven’t seen in person since our VEG days, hugging Dr Angela Silva and seeing her in the Petco costume (not ever CVO gets in the mascot lol you truly are a gem), skipping through the convention center with Sarah Parsons, meeting Geoffrey (ain’t.doin.right) and immediately sensing a real, lasting friendship forming. Spending quality time with Kelly Cronin and her team at Teem (see what I did there? lol), running into Dr Josh Rosen multiple times both on the conference floor and riding Hulk at Universal with him, and attempting to find Mark Catarella who of course found every way possible to make fun of my height (with love and respect of course)… These moments stack up into something meaningful….

Every single connection is written in my heart and seared into my mind. Days later, I’m still remembering another conversation, another person who came looking for me, another moment of genuine human connection.

There’s something about at these conferences, beyond the connection and excitement, that we don’t talk about enough. Something I’m learning can be hard for anyone but is exceptionally hard for us neurodivergent folks: the emotional whiplash of feeling incredibly connected and profoundly alone at the same time.

I spent 5 days making incredible connections, being invited to events by people who wanted me there, investing in relationships that felt genuine and mutual. All to discover that some people, people who did not go into the conference as “strangers on the internet,” those who I knew going into the week personally, who in some cases are supposed to be on the same team, had been at the conference too. We’d been in the same building, sometimes probably passing each other in the halls, breathing the same air, and probably even in the same CE rooms, and yet they never mentioned it. Not before, not during, not after.

Would I have joined them? I honestly don’t know. I had planned to go where I was invited by people who genuinely wanted me around. But that’s not the point.

The point is belonging. The point is mattering enough to be considered. When you’re supposed to be on the same team, exclusion isn’t just about missing an invitation. It’s about the message it sends: you don’t matter enough to be included. The conversations happened around me instead of with me, and that choice communicated something loud and clear.

For someone with ADHD who already battles intrusive thoughts and imposter syndrome, this kind of realization hits differently. Our brains latch onto evidence of not belonging. We replay the moments we were excluded, searching for what we did wrong, how we failed to matter. It makes you question everything. Should I keep doing this work? Do I belong here? Was I wrong about the relationships I thought I was building? Am I liked? Is any of this real or am I telling myself stories to make myself feel better? I go down this rabbit hole, wondering if all the connections I just made were even real or surface platitudes since the people who know me don’t want me around.

What makes it worse? While I was questioning my place, I was simultaneously experiencing profound moments of mattering. People came looking for me. Colleagues introduced me to others who could change the trajectory of my work. Literally. I met someone who actually told me “anything you need, anything I can ever do to help you, any friend of hers is a friend of mine. I got you.” And this person isn’t just anyone, the weight of that moment isn’t lost on me. Friends made space for me at their tables.

The contrast is disorienting.

This isn’t just about my hurt feelings. This is about the culture we keep perpetuating in veterinary medicine.

The cliques and “mean girl” behavior we thought we left behind in middle school? It’s alive and well in our profession. And it’s one of the reasons we lose good people. It’s the reason talented, passionate veterinary professionals question whether they belong. It’s why I almost left in 2023 and what led me to start Leading Veterinary Teams in the first place. It’s the systemic problem underneath so many in our workforce continue to face.

Those moments of exclusion make me question if I should keep doing this work. The weight sits heavy on my heart. The intrusive thoughts creep in during those late nights and keep me up at night, which is part of how my neurodivergent brain processes pain and rejection.

But that’s all they are. Thoughts. Because I know this work is important. And I suppose, luckily for me, I am able to use it as fuel to create more content for people like Stacy, for those kids in the BlendVet program, for you.

Someone might hear my story and see themselves in me. They might choose to speak up. They might join in. And then we get stronger. If I stop, that person might not. And then we get weaker.

We must continue to fight for momentum, for optimism, for compounding positivity and new systems that work for us instead of against us. We need to create a sense of belonging in veterinary medicine that actively pushes out the exclusionary behavior.

There’s something about being in person with this community that remains unmatched. Despite the overwhelm that comes naturally to those of us with ADHD, despite the emotional complexity of experiencing connection and rejection simultaneously, I’ll do it again and again.

While I feel the exclusion acutely, I also recognize the genuine connections with crystal clarity. I’ll remember every conversation, every moment someone made me feel seen. Because of ADHD, I process the full spectrum of human interaction in high definition, for better or for worse, that’s my reality.

And maybe that’s exactly why we need to keep showing up. Not despite neurodivergence, but because of it. For those of us who have ADHD or other neurodivergence, we see the problems others miss. We feel the cultural issues in our bones. We know what it’s like to be on the outside, which makes us fierce advocates for belonging.

I’m only five years into this neurodivergent journey. I’ve always been ADHD, but I was only diagnosed five years ago. I’m still learning how to navigate it, unmedicated, which means I feel these contradictions deep, with my whole soul.

So if you see me at a conference, online, or anywhere, and I seem off, understand that I’m likely battling this dichotomy in real time. On one hand, I’m deeply loved, deeply connected, incredibly excited for the work ahead and the connections made that will inevitably lead to some really incredible things this year and in the future. On the other hand, I’m feeling a sense of insurmountable grief, questioning whether any of this even matters, whether I belong, whether I’m fooling myself about the impact of this work.

Both are happening simultaneously. My brain doesn’t let me feel just one thing at a time. It’s exhausting and honest and real.

I’m still learning how to process it all. Learning that I don’t have to resolve the contradiction or choose one feeling over the other. That holding both the joy and the grief doesn’t make either less valid or make me a problem. It just makes me human. It makes me neurodivergent. It makes me… me. And, I’m learning it makes me exactly the kind of person who needs to be doing this work.

VMX reminded me that two things can be true at once. I can feel profoundly connected and deeply alone. I can experience belonging and exclusion simultaneously. My heart can be overflowing while it breaks. I can grieve what I lost while celebrating what I found.

The grief is real. The loss of believing I mattered to those I thought I should, sits heavy. But the joy - that’s real too. The connections, the conversations, the moments of genuine belonging with people who chose to include me, who came looking for me, who made space for me and were genuinely interested in me… maybe we aren’t meant to matter to those we thought and maybe the new relationships are exactly where we are meant to be.

For those of us with neurodivergent brains, we don’t just feel these contradictions. We feel them in our bones, with every neuron firing at once. And maybe that’s exactly why we need to keep showing up. Not despite our ability to hold these opposing truths, but because of it.

VMX reminded me how much work is still left to do. How many people still need this. How many are holding these same contradictions, wondering if they belong, questioning if they matter. We can’t stop because the people who pushed me away exist throughout our profession, creating the conditions that make good people leave.

But we’re getting stronger. Person by person. Connection by connection. Conference by conference. The work continues.

And next year? I’ll be back. Neurons firing like fireworks. Cup overflowing, a little more prepared in case there is heartbreak, but knowing there will be healing as there always is. Because that’s what this work requires, and it’s what the future of this profession that I love so much deserves.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Thank you VMX, from the bottom of my heart. Despite it all, I will forever be grateful for the friendships and the connections that come from this conference. I can’t wait for what’s to come, heartbreak and all….