You’re Not MESSY, Your Brain Organizes Differently

I'm super excited to be here, but I'm going to be honest for a second: I'm tired, hot, and emotional. I have one goal—do not cry. When I get emotional, I kick it away. If you see me doing that, I'm not having a medical emergency. I'm emotionally regulating, and I wanted to make sure you weren't afraid. Okay, uh, I'm Cassandra Aarssen. I'm a professional organizer. I own a company that makes multiple seven figures a year.

I'm going to take a second to brag about myself. I know it feels gross, but listen—there's a point. Bear with me. Also, why can't we brag about ourselves, you know what I'm saying? I'm married. I have three beautiful children. I'm the author of four best-selling books on home organization, and I have the number one podcast in Home and Garden on Apple iTunes. This is old because I didn't update it 'cause ADHD. I have 3 million combined followers online, an HGTV show called Hot Mess House—it was cancelled, whatever—and I'm an HGTV star forever, right?

And I was named one of the top five leading organizing experts in the [Applause] world. Which is crazy, because I am an absolute slob. True story, man. If you saw my hotel room right now, you'd be like, 'Fraud. Big fraud. Huge mess.' Why? Because my systems aren't there—it's a new space, you know what I'm saying? So how did I become an organizing expert when I'm a natural, chaotic disaster? We're going to start at the beginning. Buckle up, friends. Okay, I'm about to share my deepest, darkest emotions—just all of it. It's like your therapist. You ready?

We're going to start at the beginning. I'm really old—I was born in the '70s. [Applause] Yes. I'm a small-town girl from Canada. Nobody knew what ADHD was. My diagnosis was, 'She needs more spankings. She needs discipline,' because, as cute as this giant-foreheaded baby was, she was hyper. Not just hyper—jumping, making noise, always doing the things she shouldn't do. My doctor told my parents I was allergic to sugar. I didn't have birthday cake, Halloween candy, chocolate milk, or Fruit Loops, because they thought that was why I was hyper.

It wasn't helping. Spoiler alert: it wasn't the sugar. Also, when you saw it wasn't helping, why did you keep it from me? Probably why I have a Skittles addiction to this day. You're not my therapist—we're moving on. All kids can be annoying. I have three; oh, they're so annoying. But I brought that to another level. I made that [ __ ] a musical. Okay, so my poor parents often sent me to my room. I was an only child—I had nobody to talk to but them.

I just talked to my mirror. My favorite thing was putting on shows for myself: welcome back to the Cassandra Show. I took down all my mom's curtains and we'd do, like, a fashion show. This kid—she's real annoying. At school, every report card, every everything, was: she's so disruptive to everyone around her. Then I moved to a new school in grade six. I had a brand-new teacher.

There were brand-new kids, too, and a new teacher named Mr. Allison. Let's boo that bastard—sorry for my foul language. Three days into the school year, he moved my desk into the hall and left it there for the entire year. What a dick. When the bell rang, all the other kids went into the classroom and I sat in the hall alone. I learned nothing except that I was annoying and different. I'm painting you my ADHD picture here.

I know, man. Bear with me—I have a point, I promise. Memorization was the hardest thing for me, and it still is. In grade two, my teacher, Mrs. Ditchfield—want to guess what I called her?—caught me cheating on a spelling test. I would try to study and couldn't memorize it. My brain was like, there's got to be a better way. I'm just going to write it on my hand.

Work smarter, not harder, am I right? She didn't agree. She took me up in front of the class, called me lazy, and said I didn't try hard enough. That's when I realized I was not only lazy, but dumb. Nobody said, 'You're dumb,' but everybody got a report card with A's and B's while I was riding the D train. It felt obvious—not the brightest light bulb.

For the trifecta, I really didn't like being told what to do. I don't know if this is an ADHD thing, but if somebody says, 'Don't do that,' well, now I have to. This is adorable: me at six. I really, really liked Pop-Tarts. My best friend was Jenny Walker—God, she was cute. She wore pigtails every day. Her mom was best friends with my mom, and one day I convinced Jenny that we should go.

We went back to my house at recess, got Pop-Tarts, and watched cartoons because school sucks. Jenny was a follower—she agreed. We had the best day. Then I said, 'The bell's going to ring soon. We should go back to school.' As soon as I walked into the back of the playground, I knew I'd effed up: cop cars, fire trucks, Jenny's parents, a news van. When two six-year-old girls disappear from a playground, people think they're kidnapped.

My parents didn't show up. They were like, 'She's at the mall. That's just what she does.' Anyway, I wasn't allowed to play with Jenny Walker anymore. I was labeled the troubled kid, the bad influence: don't invite her to the birthday party; she will f your kid up. I learned that I was impulsive and bad. I wanted to be good. I wasn't consciously trying to be bad.

But no matter how hard I tried, I was annoying, lazy, dumb, and bad. By 13, if that's what you're told and believe, let's do it. Bad is fun—really fun. I started shoplifting, using drugs and alcohol, and skipping school. Dopamine, and also bad. By then I was noticing the story from parents, teachers, and society: try hard, maybe go to college or university, and then you could get a job.

A really crappy job in a cubicle. You go there every day, come home to laundry, cooking, dishes, grass, and garbage, then wake up and do it again. My teenage brain had never met a grown-up who was happy. At 15, I packed a backpack and left. There was no trauma, abuse, or reason. I was a stubborn little girl who thought, normal seems awful.

I didn't bring money or anything. I didn't think it through—of course I didn't. I spent the first night under a picnic table in a park. I live in Canada. It was cold and I was hungry. Not smart, but I am stubborn. I wasn't going home. I'm too stubborn to stop anything I start, so I promised to figure it out.

It was shoplifting for food and homeless shelters. But I am creative, so I started coming up with more advanced criminal schemes to make money so I could eat and live. I wasn't great at it, but I was better at it than anything else. Plus dopamine. I got arrested sometimes, but juvenile jail was a place to sleep. Then I turned 18, and my criminal empire—so I thought—caught up with me.

I thought I was Leonardo DiCaprio in Catch Me If You Can. I thought I was so smart. No—I got caught. I was an adult, and they thought what I was doing was really bad. I went to prison. Not prison-prison, but prison: a long time, orange-jumpsuit bad. I don't recommend it. One out of ten. I swore I'd never go back. Scared straight? I was scared straight.

As bad as I thought I was, I bump into a wall and apologize to the wall. I was doing bad things, but I was an empathetic, kind, sweet kid. Prison was not the place for me. I got out with a felony criminal record. I'm not going to tell you what I did—I don't want to give you ideas and have you say, 'Woo, my new business.' No. This is bad.

I had to go to work, get a real job, be a grown-up, climb my butt back into the cage, pay the bills, and clean the house. It was horrible, but the alternative was prison. I was still annoying, lazy, and dumb, but no longer bad. I never even jaywalked after that. No drugs, nothing. I was terrified of making a mistake that could land me back there.

Then I had life-changing moment number one. A government program matched this unemployed high-school-dropout felon with United Way. They trained me in life skills so I could maybe get a job. I was fundraising, working for charities, and helping give beds to children who were sleeping on the floor.

I was doing amazing things—stop it, that's the emotion I'm kicking away—and I loved it. Helping someone felt better than any drug. I discovered purpose. I worked for charities for years and became executive director of the Lung Association. Then I got married.

I had two beautiful children and discovered a new passion: being a mom. I wanted to stay home. In Canada we get one year maternity leave, and I had to replace $40,000 of income. I tried multi-level marketing, jewelry, tutus, hair bows, and craft shows. That wasn't making money.

I started a birthday-clown business, learned face painting and balloon animals, and had the whole costume with the feet. You don't make much as a birthday clown, but I'm fun at parties. Two weeks before I had to return to work, my husband said I would have to go back. I printed daycare flyers and put them up.

Within days, I had seven children and enough money to stay home—nine children total. You do what you have to do. Then another problem was apparent: I really suck at organizing. With nine children, toys, laundry, and clothes, I could barely do dishes.

I had been a big girl boss at the charity, and now I could barely shower. My husband sweetly set up filing systems. He'd say, 'Pay attention, Cass. When you're done with the credit-card bill, put it in the folder that says credit card.' If I remembered to pay it, I knew what I'd do.

I'd shove it into any random drawer. It never went in the filing cabinet. Then I watched a show and met my hero, Peter Walsh. He inspired me to declutter. I thought maybe I don't organize like my husband. Maybe I needed a bin labeled '2025 bills'.

I could chuck bills into it. When I embraced a nondetailed, laid-back system with big labeled categories—medicine instead of separate antacids and pain relievers—my house stayed tidy. I discovered there were two ways to organize. Friends, family, and then clients asked for help. Money? Crazy.

We weren't messy; we organized differently. It took time, practice, and one real stupid business decision. My slogan said, 'If it doesn't stay organized for 30 days, I'll come back and organize it for free.' People called, and I had to return. My husband said, 'You've got to quit.'

I couldn't quit. I had to learn why it worked for Susan and not Mary. Some people are visual. Traditional systems put things behind closed doors, but some people need to see an item or they forget it exists. They leave things out because, subconsciously, putting it away makes it gone.

Once I could create visual systems and identify whether someone was visual or hidden, detailed or nondetailed, I could set up a system that caught clutter where it naturally landed. They didn't call me back. That's when I knew I'd found something amazing, and I got really into organization.

It became an obsession. For Christmas, my husband gave me a camera and said, 'Can we talk about something other than organization? Record yourself talking about it and put it on YouTube.' That's what I did. Now I talk nonstop about something I love, help others, make videos, and have the perfect career.

This is the coolest part: when you find something you love, you have passion. Hyperfocus means hyper-productivity. I wasn't great at it at first, but I kept doing it because I loved it. Failure and embarrassment? That's a Tuesday. Failure doesn't kill you; it teaches you. I'm afraid of a cubicle.

I created courses and a free quiz at Clutterbug.com to discover your organizing style. More than four million people take it each year. Then HGTV emailed: did I want my own show? Sure. Hot Mess House ran for two seasons about the four organizing styles, and I felt at the top of my game.

I was making seven figures, but I cried myself to sleep because I felt like a fraud. I lost my keys, interrupted people, and felt frantic and hyper. I told my family doctor. He said, 'I think you have ADHD, man.'

His diagnostic method was old school: he gave me Ritalin and said if it got me high, I didn't have ADHD; if it calmed me down, I did. The first time I took a pill, it felt like someone turned off the TV in the background I didn't know was on.

I've since been properly diagnosed and medicated. The diagnosis changed nothing and everything. I had asked my whole life, 'What is wrong with me?' Nothing. It wasn't lack of effort or self-control. I had a medical condition. That gave me grace, self-love, and forgiveness.

It gave me perspective. Impulsivity meant I wasn't afraid to try new things. Hyperactivity could be annoying, but hyperfocus meant I could work ten times faster when passionate. My dislike of the same old thing meant I kept trying new systems and looking for a better way.

My lack of structure meant I didn't have to learn to run on a hamster wheel. I had to get out of the cage. I have the coolest life, and I know some ADHD experts say it isn't a superpower. Sorry—it is a gift, and I'm grateful.

We need tools and have to manage the crappy stuff. But when we embrace the good and change our mindset, it changes how we see ourselves. If you struggled as a child, know a struggling child, or struggle now in a place that rewards sitting still and memorizing, you aren't stupid, annoying, dumb, lazy, or bad.

The system is the problem. We need a different system. Maybe you haven't found your passion, but you have one. Keep looking for the thing that lights you up, the thing you want to do when your phone is dead. That's your purpose. Channel your superpowers into positive things.

You can create a life that neurotypical people could only dream of. Thank you.