Time Blindness Is Not Laziness - It Is Neurology

When Now and Not-Now Collide

The clock on my laptop taunts me: 2:17 PM. I’ve been watching it for an indeterminate amount of time, a reluctant spectator to its relentless march. At noon, I was brimming with determination: “Let’s hammer out that report, shall we?” By 12:30, the enthusiasm had waned, but the spirit lingered: “Alright, soon, very soon.” By 1:00, it was merely wishful thinking.

Now at 2:17, the report remains a wasteland of blank pages.

Beside me, my coffee has surrendered its warmth, leaving a soggy ring on my calendar - today’s date circled in a garish red that seems to pulse with accusation. Deadline. Even the word sounds brutal.

I’m not lazy. I’m truly not.

It’s just that my brain categorises time differently. For me, there’s only ‘now’ and ‘not-now’. That deadline was comfortably nestled in ‘not-now’ territory until, without warning, it bulldozed into ‘now’ with all the subtlety of a hippo attempting ballet.

The Invisible Struggle

Through the window, the sun casts that end-of-day golden glow that whispers, “Another day slips away.” How did afternoon arrive so quickly? I rub my eyes, trying to quell the familiar cocktail of shame, panic, and frustration brewing in my chest.

My phone displays three texts from my boss, spaced like breadcrumbs of mounting concern. Each one read and mentally answered with, “I’ll respond when there’s something less embarrassing to show.”

That moment never materialised.

Last week, my therapist introduced me to a term: “time blindness.” It landed with the weight of revelation.

“It’s not a character flaw,” she assured me. “It’s neurology.”

I let these words settle as I stare at the haunting emptiness of my document. It’s not that I’m rebelling against deadlines or disrespecting punctuality. It’s that my internal clock resembles Salvador Dalí’s melting timepieces rather than the precision of Big Ben.

Childhood Echoes

I remember sitting in class at ten years old, my teacher pronouncing with certainty: “People who are always late simply don’t value others’ time.” I felt that familiar burn of shame, having already battled three alarms that morning only to arrive breathlessly fifteen minutes late.

Two decades later, that schoolgirl shame still lingers beneath the surface.

My phone buzzes - reality intruding. My boss: “Meeting in 10 to discuss the report status.”

Ten minutes. What a peculiar measurement. Long enough to contemplate making fresh coffee, yet short enough to ensure it remains undrunk. Sufficient time to spiral into panic, utterly inadequate to produce the promised work.

The Invisible Landscape of Time Blindness

The invisible challenge of time blindness is my constant companion. Others can’t see the mental gymnastics I perform daily, translating abstract concepts like “ten minutes” into something tangible. No one witnesses the elaborate system of alarms, timers, and visual cues I need to navigate what others manage effortlessly.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply.

Then I set a timer for eight minutes. This digital countdown transforms the nebulous future into something I can grasp. My fingers dance across the keyboard - creating bullet points rather than prose, but it’s a beginning.

As I type, my therapist’s voice echoes: “Your brain works differently. That’s not an excuse - it’s context.” With this understanding, I can build strategies that work with my brain’s unique wiring, not against it.

Finding a Different Path Forward

The timer sounds. Meeting in two minutes. I’ve assembled the skeleton of the report with preliminary data scattered throughout. It’s incomplete, but it’s tangible - evidence that I’m not simply lounging in the realm of procrastination or neglect.

I send my embryonic report to my boss with a note: “More to follow. Beginning framework attached.”

Joining the video call, I make a mental note to divide tomorrow into precise, timed segments with built-in breathing spaces. A structure to scaffold my unpredictable relationship with time.

My boss appears on screen. I brace myself, but she simply nods: “Thanks for the outline. Let’s walk through what you’ve got.”

Relief washes over me. Not because I’ve escaped consequences, but because I’m addressing the challenge rather than drowning in it.

Embracing Neurological Differences

Time will always be my Everest. I’ll always need more scaffolding than others to scale it. But recognising that my struggles stem from neurological differences - not moral failings - transforms how I view myself.

The world is designed for brains that process time linearly and predictably. Mine doesn’t. And that’s not laziness or disrespect - it’s simply a different neurological landscape.

Gentle Strategies for Navigating Time Blindness

For those who recognise themselves in this struggle, consider these gentle approaches:

External Time Anchors: Digital timers create visible boundaries around otherwise abstract time periods.

Time Blocking with Buffers: Schedule tasks with generous transition periods between them.

Body-Based Awareness: Notice physical cues that signal time passing - hunger, fatigue, changing light.

Reduce Time Estimation Pressure: When possible, work backwards from deadlines in smaller, concrete steps.

Visual Time Maps: Create physical representations of your day or week that you can touch and see.

Permission for Different Processes: Recognise that your path to completion may look different from others’.

The Texture of Time

Time blindness feels like trying to hold water in cupped hands - the harder you concentrate, the more it seems to slip away. It’s the disorienting sensation of looking up from a task to discover hours have vanished without your awareness. It’s the genuine shock when deadlines that seemed comfortably distant suddenly loom immediate and threatening.

For those who experience it, time isn’t a steady stream but rather a disjointed series of moments - some expanding into eternity, others compressing to nothing. It’s not about carelessness or disregard; it’s about a fundamentally different perception of how moments connect.

Finding Compassion in Understanding

I’m learning to extend myself the same understanding I would offer anyone facing an invisible challenge. Time blindness isn’t visible like a broken leg, but it’s just as real. It requires accommodation, not shame.

As I finish the meeting with my boss, scheduling clear checkpoints for tomorrow’s work, I feel something shift. Not a dramatic transformation, but a gentle settling - like furniture finding its proper place in a room.

I’m not lazy. I’m simply navigating a world tailored for brains that tick differently than mine.

And for now, that realisation is enough to help me take the next step forward - one carefully timed interval at a time.

MyNeuroDisco offers gentle insights into neurodivergent experiences, providing validation and understanding for those navigating life with different neurological wiring. Our stories create space for recognition, acceptance, and community.