When I wrote recently about turning ADHD into a creative superpower, I focused on the patterns I’ve learned to work with—energy spikes, idea spirals, and the constant hum of mental motion that’s shaped both my creativity and my career.
But there’s another kind of mental disruption I haven’t talked about as much. And it’s not fast or chaotic. It’s not neurodivergence. It’s something quieter—and heavier.
In early 2024, I had a total rhinectomy. That was followed by six weeks of head and neck radiation. Since then, I’ve been undergoing a long series of reconstructive surgeries—each one carrying its own wave of inflammation, downtime, and isolation.
And while those experiences don’t come with a catchy name, they absolutely leave a mark.
I still experience cognitive fog. It isn’t constant, but it’s persistent. I’ll start a sentence and lose it halfway through. I’ll reread the same paragraph multiple times and still not absorb it. I’ll walk into a room and forget why I went in. This isn’t distraction. It isn’t fatigue. It’s not ADHD.
It’s recovery.
And some days, it feels like trying to think through water.
I’ve lived with ADHD long enough to know what it looks like when my brain is overstimulated or racing in the wrong direction. This isn’t that. ADHD is noisy. It moves in loops and bursts. This fog is still. It slows everything down. It doesn’t spin me out—it pulls me inward, makes me quiet, hesitant. It feels like I’m on the outside of my thoughts looking in.
Part of it is biological. Radiation near the brain impacts cognition. Inflammation makes everything harder to access. But there’s also a social layer to this that’s harder to articulate.
When your nose has been surgically removed—and you’re still in the middle of rebuilding it—you don’t exactly step back into the world with ease. You stay home. You stay quiet. Not because you’re ashamed, but because being seen takes energy. And over time, that quiet becomes more than just physical. You speak less. You engage less. You stop keeping up. Not because you can’t—but because you’re out of rhythm.
That’s the part people don’t talk about. The awkwardness of reentering social spaces after months of stillness. The way conversation starts to feel like a performance you haven’t rehearsed for. How hard it is to finish a thought aloud when you haven’t had to in days. How silence—when prolonged—starts to echo.
What’s Helped Me Start to Clear the Fog
There’s no perfect fix. But over time, I’ve found a handful of things that help. Not to eliminate the fog entirely—but to bring my mind gently back into focus, even for a little while.
I name it without apology.
When I’m foggy, I say so. “I’m a little off today,” or “my brain’s not firing on all cylinders.” It’s not an excuse—it’s just honest. And that honesty makes the fog easier to live with. It shifts me out of shame and into awareness. It lets other people meet me where I am.
I read aloud to find my rhythm again.
After long periods without much conversation, I noticed my speech pattern felt fractured. I’d pause in strange places, or forget what I was saying mid-sentence. Reading aloud has helped reintroduce rhythm. It’s a simple practice, but it reconnects the parts of my brain responsible for pacing, breath, expression, and language. It reminds me that I can still form complete thoughts—and say them with clarity.
I practice languages to strengthen recall.
Studying Spanish or Greek—even just for ten minutes—gives my brain something focused and structured to work with. Language taps into memory, syntax, pronunciation, and rhythm all at once. It’s a cognitive workout with just enough challenge to feel constructive, not overwhelming. It reminds me that even when I feel mentally slow, I am still capable of learning, remembering, and responding.
I listen to music—and sometimes, I play it.
There’s something about music that clears space in my head. Sometimes I listen to something instrumental while I move through the day. Other times, I sit at the piano and play. It’s less about getting it right and more about reconnecting with rhythm, emotion, and memory through something that doesn’t require words. On days when speech feels slow, music lets me express myself anyway.
I paint to get out of my head.
Painting pulls me out of language and into sensation. It doesn’t demand clarity—it invites presence. Mixing color, moving a brush, layering light and shadow—it gives me access to a part of myself that feels clear even when my thoughts don’t. When my brain feels sluggish or abstract, painting grounds me in something immediate.
I walk to shake something loose.
Movement helps. Not every time—but often enough that I know to trust it. A short walk around the block, a change of scenery, a shift in light—it does something. It doesn’t always clear the fog, but it opens a window. It gives my thoughts a little more room to breathe.
I ease back into conversation—even when it’s uncomfortable.
After so much time in solitude, speaking freely feels harder than I expected. But conversation is where my brain often starts to come back to life. It doesn’t need to be deep or long or even particularly interesting. Just engaging with another human being in real time helps bring back rhythm and connection. Even five minutes can make a difference.
I rest—without guilt.
Some days, nothing helps. I feel dull, slow, detached. I’ve learned not to force focus on those days. I let go. I rest. Not because I’ve failed, but because my brain needs time. The fog always lifts eventually—and it lifts faster when I stop fighting it.
A Final Thought
If you’re in the middle of recovery and your mind feels slower than it used to… you’re not alone. And you’re not broken.
Cognitive fog after radiation is real. So is the disorientation that comes from extended isolation, inflammation, and loss. But most of the time, it’s temporary. The clarity does come back. Sometimes gradually. Sometimes unexpectedly. But it returns.
And while you wait, there are things you can do—small practices that rebuild confidence and connection. Not perfectly. Not instantly. But meaningfully.
Don’t rush it. Don’t shame it. And please don’t measure yourself against the version of you that existed before treatment. That version isn’t gone. It’s just being rebuilt—right alongside everything else.
Keep your head up. The fog lifts.
