Am I Enough? Shame, Executive Function, and Coming As You Are in Faith Communities.

Robin
Dec 10
7 min read

Updated: Dec 10

Your value to God, community, and loved ones isn't measured by your ability to be on time, remember things, or stay organized.

"I'm trying so hard. Why can't I just do this?"

If you're neurodivergent, you know this question intimately. Getting to church on time. Remembering to pray for someone at a specific time. Starting that task you've been meaning to do. Keeping your commitments.

Here's what "trying hard" actually looks like:

It's 9:15. Church starts at 10:00. You've already been up since 7:30, moving as fast as you can. One child won't come down—you've gone upstairs three times to wake them, and they finally get out of bed with the threat of a consequence. As you look down you realize in all of the organizing you forgot to put on your shoes, where are your shoes? You make it to the car, engine running, waiting for your partner, who you last saw walking around in their underwear, five minutes ago. You know you're late. You're trying to stay calm. You tap the horn to call out for them. Finally, they get in the car. You're relieved to back out of the driveway—yes, you're late, but you're moving. Then you get to the stop sign and remember: the treat you promised to bring. Back to the house you go.

You're trying. Man, are we trying. And executive function challenges make "simple" tasks feel impossible. Underneath all that effort lives something heavier: shame. Shame that is even more compounded for those who do not have children or families to organize and still have invisible challenges like these.

Here's what you wish had happened:

You pull into the church parking lot at 10:05. You walk in through the doors that opened at 9:45 for early arrivals. The greeter smiles warmly. "I understand—I was late yesterday, and you have a whole family to consider." Your heart calms. They hand you a bulletin that was saved near the door, and show you to a seat in the back where you can slip in without disrupting. Nobody turns around. Nobody makes a face. You sit down, take a breath, and you're here.

Here's what actually happens more times than you can count:

You pull into the church parking lot at 10:15. Or 10:25. Or maybe you don't make it at all because by the time you get back from retrieving the treat, everyone is melting down and you decide staying home is better than arriving completely frazzled. Remember the last time we were late!?

When you do make it, you open the door. The greeter gives you that look—the one that says "really? Again?" "Oh, sorry, we're out of programs." Their voice isn't warm. It's... something else. They gesture vaguely toward the sanctuary. You walk in. The door creaks. People turn. You have to walk all the way to the front because the back is full. Every eye on you. You finally sit down, your face burning, your heart pounding.

The message you hear isn't "welcome." It's "you messed up. Again. Everyone can see it. Everyone knows you can't get it together."

The Shame Script

Unfortunately, it's common to hear negative thoughts pop up in our minds while we are exerting more than average effort. Some are due to the comments and behaviors of others in our lives, and others to our own feelings of failure and grief. All add to this imaginary box of "shoulds" we are carrying, the box that weighs a ton and keeps us stuck…shame.

Everyone else can do this. What's wrong with you?

If you really cared, you'd remember.

You're lazy. Unreliable. A bad Christian.

Here's what makes shame particularly brutal: it moves from describing what happened to defining who you are. You're not someone who forgot—you're a forgetful person. You're not someone who struggles with a task—you're a struggling person.

And when you're already trying as hard as you can? The shame compounds. Because if you weren't trying, you could just try harder. But when you're giving everything you have, and it's still not enough, what's left?

When Friends, Family, and Church Make It Worse

Christian communities often intensify this shame without meaning to. We celebrate consistency, reliability, and follow-through as spiritual maturity. We use language that makes tasks sound simple when they're not.

"Just show up." "Just remember to pray." "Just be on time."

That word "just" implies it's easy. That if you're not doing it, it's a choice. The message neurodivergent people hear: your struggle is spiritual failure, working memory difficulties mean you don't care, task initiation problems mean you lack motivation, and time blindness means you're disrespectful.

Here's the Truth Shame Doesn't Want You to Hear

Your executive function doesn't determine your worth.

Your value to God, community, and loved ones isn't measured by your ability to be on time, remember things, or stay organized. These are brain differences and skills, not virtues. Struggling with them doesn't make you less faithful; just as needing a wheelchair doesn't remove you from God or people.

What Actually Changes Things

Here's what I've seen make a real difference—not perfect systems, but genuine human connection:

When someone truly sees you trying. Not the results. Not whether you made it on time. But the effort itself. When someone says, "I see how hard you're trying," or "I understand, I've been there too," that's when shame starts to lose its grip. Because shame thrives in hiding. It can't survive being truly seen and still loved.

When people choose curiosity over judgment. Instead of assuming you don't care, someone asks, "How can I help you?" Instead of interpreting your lateness as disrespect, they wonder, "Could this be a brain difference?" When you interrupt or blurt things out in conversation, someone sees high energy and enthusiasm rather than rudeness. That shift from judgment to curiosity? That's love in action.

When your community normalizes both strengths AND challenges. Everyone has things they find easy and things they find hard. Executive function is just one area where brains work differently. When communities talk openly about this—when people share their own strengths and challenges without shame—it creates space for everyone to be real.

When "come as you are" becomes more than words. Most churches say it. But true welcome means people can actually show up with their time blindness, their working memory challenges, their task initiation difficulties, their organizational struggles, their high energy that makes staying quiet hard, and be genuinely loved, not just tolerated.

When people see each person as an image bearer of God. Their worth isn't diminished by executive function challenges any more than yours is by whatever you find difficult. Love your neighbor as yourself.

When people stop judging and gossiping. The parking lot conversations, the knowing looks, the whispers—these destroy community and multiply shame. Choose to assume positive intent. Protect people's dignity.

When people offer grace freely. When someone needs something specific—a closer parking spot, a one-on-one orientation, a quiet space—provide it with genuine care, no questions asked.

When people extend kindness. Ask with compassion: How can I help you? Instead of Why can't you just...?

Small changes like these are what love looks like. They create communities where people know they belong—not despite their neurodivergence, but as they are, with all their struggles and strengths woven together.

You can rest in the truth that God created you as you are—neurodivergent brain and all—and that your way of being isn't a mistake to be fixed but as a "way my brain works".

Universal Design: When Love Gets Practical

The most powerful way to decrease shame? Build communities where helping each other is just... normal. Not special accommodations that make people stand out. Just how we love each other.

Think about curb cuts. Designed for wheelchair users, but everyone uses them now—parents with strollers, people with suitcases, delivery workers. Nobody thinks twice. Nobody feels shame. They're just... there. That's what it looks like when we design with everyone in mind from the start.

Multiple ways to get information means nobody has to admit they zoned out, didn't hear, or forgot. Sunday's potluck is announced verbally, displayed on screen with date/time/location, emailed Monday, posted in the app Tuesday, and included in the bulletin. It helps everyone—the person with Autism/ADHD/CPTSD (and other differences) who zoned out, the mom managing a toddler, the person who processes better when reading.

Built-in buffer time means nobody has to be "the late one." Doors open at 6:30, we begin at 7:00. Small group starts at 7:00, but coffee's on from 6:45. Content doesn't start until 7:10. Someone arriving at 7:05 hasn't missed anything. If they run later, what they need is waiting on a seat lovingly ready for their arrival. Others let them slip in without drawing attention.

Flexible participation honors that people have different capacities on different days. "Join us for the whole service or drop in for just the teaching." Someone with sensory sensitivities can step out during loud music without feeling they've failed. A parent can freely take their dysregulated child to the quiet room.

Organizational support means no one person's memory has to hold everything. Sign up to bring dessert? You get a calendar invite, a reminder email three days before, and a text that morning. Not because you're forgetful. Because we take care of each other.

Multiple ways to serve honors that people's gifts and capacities look different. Some roles need time-sensitive reliability. Others are flexible—organize the supply closet sometime this month. Prayer ministry happens on Sunday morning and through a weekly email. Everyone can contribute from their strengths.

When help is woven into how we operate, nobody has to identify themselves as needing it. The reminders come automatically. Buffer time is built in. Information comes in multiple ways. That's just who we are as a community.

That Sunday morning described at the beginning? Maybe you still have mornings like that. Keys still end up in weird places. Kids still move slowly. You still arrive late sometimes.

What if you could be part of a community where the greeter knows your name, saves you a seat, and says "I'm so glad you're here" like they mean it? Where people share their own late-to-work stories over coffee. Where your neurodivergent brain isn't something to fix—it's just part of who you are.

That's what's possible. A place where you can show up with your time blindness, your working memory challenges, your task initiation struggles—and be genuinely welcomed. Not tolerated. Not pitied. Just loved.

Come as you are. You're welcome here.

Want to explore how executive function impacts your life & relationships? Learn more about coaching with me.

Listen to the Executive Function + Faith Series

Josh Davis and I explored these topics in depth on the Neurodivergent Faith podcast: