Hi. I'm Laura. I'm neurodivergent, chronically overstimulated, and I started a shop to cope. Welcome.
A year ago, my brain was doing that thing it does; running eighteen tabs, none of them useful, all of them loud. My day job wasn't cutting it. Screaming into pillows had limited ROI. So I did what any reasonable person with ADHD, BPD, and access to a credit card would do.
I bought a laser.
Not a little hobby laser. A real one. The kind that makes your partner look at you like you've finally snapped, and honestly, he wasn't wrong. But here's the thing about snapping: sometimes what breaks open isn't a breakdown. Sometimes it's a door.
I didn't start Neurospice Design Shop because I had a business plan. I didn't have market research or a target demographic or a five-year projection. I had a Cricut I'd been neglecting, a sticker addiction, and the growing realization that if I didn't start making things with my hands, my brain was going to eat itself.
The first thing I made was terrible. I don't remember what it was and that's probably a mercy. The second thing was worse. The third thing made someone laugh, and that was the moment everything changed.
Because here's what I figured out: I don't make products. I make feelings. Specifically, I make the feelings that nobody else is making, because they're too weird, too dark, too specific, or too honest for the "Live, Laugh, Love" crowd.
You know the feeling I'm talking about. The one where you're scrolling through Etsy looking for something that gets it, and everything is either aggressively positive or so generic it could be for literally anyone. Where's the coaster for the person who's surviving out of spite? Where's the bookmark for the girl who's three chapters deep in dark romance at 2am and needs something that understands her? Where's the sticker that says "my coping mechanism has a coping mechanism" without trying to be cute about it?
That's what I make. Weird little things from weird little feelings.
I named the shop Neurospice because my brain is spicy. Not broken. Not disordered (okay, technically diagnosed, but stay with me). Spicy. As in: too much flavor for some people, and exactly right for others. Neurodivergence isn't a deficit. It's a seasoning. And this shop is what happens when you stop apologizing for the heat.
My mascot is a raccoon named Scrap. He lives in the Trash Dimension, wears steampunk goggles (or a wizard hat depending on his mood), and has opinions about everything I make. My cat Ghost supervises production from whatever surface she's claimed that day, usually the one I need. My dog Finn contributes nothing but emotional support and demand cuddles, which is honestly enough.
I laser engrave slate coasters with creatures and Elder Futhark runes that actually say something (I'm not telling you what). I make stickers that validate the parts of you that the world keeps trying to fix. I build bookmarks for the readers who devour books like oxygen and need their accessories to match their energy. I do custom memorial pieces for people who lost someone, human or animal, and need a physical place to put that love.
Everything I make passes one test: would this have helped me? Would this help someone like me? Does this say something real?
If the answer is no, I don't make it. There are enough empty things in the world.
I run this shop from my craft room with a partner who spray-paints things for me, a cat who unplugs my equipment, and the kind of stubbornness that can only come from surviving things that should have flattened you. I work a day job in pet insurance and I build this at night, on weekends, and during the hours when my brain won't shut up anyway so I might as well point it at something.
I'm not here to build an empire. I'm here to build a refuge. One weird little thing at a time.
If you're neurospicy, grieving, feral, exhausted, or just looking for something that sees you without flinching, you're in the right place.
Ghost supervised. Scrap approved.