I didn’t start this business because I had a passion for entrepreneurship.
I started it because I needed a reason not to leave the house except on my terms.
That sounds like a joke. It’s half of one. The other half is that I needed somewhere to put everything I was feeling, and my body wasn’t big enough to hold it anymore. So I started making things. Weird little things. From weird little feelings. And then other people started buying them.
That’s the origin story. Not a “girl boss quit her 9-to-5” fairy tale. Not a vision board manifestation moment. Just a woman with BPD, ADHD, a laser engraver, and an extremely inconvenient amount of feelings who needed an excuse to stay home and accidentally built a shop.
The Real Beginning
Here’s the thing nobody tells you about healing: it doesn’t come with a certificate. There’s no graduation ceremony where they hand you a diploma that says “Congratulations, you survived your childhood and you’re allowed to have hobbies now.”
You just wake up one day and realize you’ve been white-knuckling your way through family dinners, watching people you love get hurt by people they love, and the only tool you have is silence.
Neurospice started in the gap between “I can’t keep watching this” and “I can’t explain why.” The business gave me a legitimate reason to be unavailable. Can’t come to dinner. Working on orders. Sorry. Very busy being a small business owner over here.
It was survival architecture disguised as a side hustle.
And then something happened that I wasn’t expecting: the things I made started helping people.
Weird Little Things from Weird Little Feelings
Every product in this shop passes one test: Would this have helped me?
Not “is this trendy.” Not “will this go viral.” Would this have made me feel less alone at 2am when my brain was doing That Thing where it replays every terrible moment in high definition while I’m just trying to exist?
That’s the filter. That’s always been the filter.
The coasters with dark humor text on them? Those exist because I needed something on my desk that said what I was actually thinking instead of some “live, laugh, love” nonsense that made me want to throw things.
The oracle cards with creatures mapped to feelings? Those exist because sometimes you can’t name the emotion, but you can point at a picture of a Vampire Squid and say “that one. I’m being that one today.”
The stickers that say unhinged things in beautiful fonts? Permission slips. Every single one of them. Permission to feel what you feel and put it on your laptop instead of swallowing it.
The Mascot Chose Me
Scrap the Raccoon showed up the way most important things do: uninvited and rummaging through my trash.
I needed a mascot and my brain handed me a raccoon. A trash wizard in a witch hat, stirring a cauldron full of scraps, making something out of what everybody else threw away.
If that’s not the most on-brand thing you’ve ever heard, you haven’t been paying attention.
Scrap is me. Scrap is you. Scrap is every person who built something real out of leftovers and refused to apologize for it.
(Ghost the cat supervises. She contributes vibes and judgment. Her role is essential.)
The Part Where I’m Honest About Why This Matters
I have BPD. Borderline Personality Disorder. I’ve done years of EMDR, therapy, mirror work, the whole messy beautiful process of learning to live inside a brain that feels everything at volume 11.
I have ADHD. The kind where you either can’t start anything or you start seventeen things and finish them all in one feral sitting at 3am while your partner brings you snacks and pretends this is normal.
I’m not telling you this because I think my diagnoses make me interesting. I’m telling you because if you have a brain like mine, I want you to know: the person making your sticker gets it. Not in a “we’re all a little crazy” bumper-sticker way. In a real way. In a “I once Ubered myself to a psych ward because I knew my own limits and acted on that knowledge” way.
Neurospicy isn’t a cute adjective in this shop. It’s the foundation. Neurodivergence as flavor, not deficit. Your brain is the whole point, not the problem.
What I Actually Make (and Why)
Laser-engraved coasters on real slate. Stickers that say things your therapist would be proud of (or horrified by, depending on the therapist). Bookmarks for people who read too much and feel too hard. Oracle cards with lore so deep you could drown in it. Sublimation prints on things that shouldn’t be that beautiful.
Two lasers (yes, they have names, no I will not apologize). A sublimation printer. A desktop PC named Monster that helps me make art for designs. More vinyl than any one human should own.
And a partner named Zack, who builds shelves when I run out of storage and leaves snacks at my desk and has never once told me this is too much, even when the kitchen became a secondary production facility.
For the Ones Who Need This
If you’re the Burnout Witch running on spite and caffeine, I made something for you. If you’re the Sad Hot Goblin who laughs at things that aren’t funny because the alternative is screaming, I made something for you. If you’re the quiet one who builds entire worlds inside your head and just needs someone to acknowledge they’re real, I made something for you.
I can’t fix the thing that broke you. I can’t undo the thing that woke you up. But I can make you a coaster that says exactly what you’re thinking, and I can promise you that the person who made it was thinking it too.
Weird little things from weird little feelings.
That’s the whole shop. That’s the whole story.
🦝 Scrap approved.
Laura runs Neurospice Design Shop from North Carolina with the help of one raccoon, one judgmental cat, one very patient partner, and a brain that won’t shut up. Browse the shop on Etsy or poke around the Bestiary Oracle right here on the site.