Navigating Life With ADHD

I don’t know much about anything. But I do know a little about a lot of things. I can thank my ADHD for that.

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Growing up, I believed ADHD meant I was stupid. I was diagnosed at the age of eight, but I didn’t really understand what that meant. Honestly, I don’t think the doctors fully understood it either—not the way we do now. I’d say, “Yeah, I have ADHD, but it’s not really a problem.” Because I would do anything to make sure it wasn’t a problem. I was told to think before I speak. So I did. I thought. And I thought. I would take so long trying not to say the wrong thing, or something inappropriate, or to make sure I wasn’t interrupting… …that the moment to speak would pass. And I learned to just be quiet. Teachers got frustrated when I asked too many questions. They thought I wasn’t paying attention. So I stopped raising my hand. And then there were the other voices—voices that echoed louder than my own: “You’re too intense.” “Calm down.” “You’re a spaz.” “Shut up.” “Sit down.” “Be quiet.” “Are you still talking?” “You’re about as smart as a box of rocks.” So I learned not to speak unless I was sure. I learned to doubt myself before anyone else could do it for me. I learned to make myself smaller—to fit into their box. But the truth is, I never did fit. Because greatness was never meant to be contained.

Most people think ADHD looks like bouncing off the walls. Talking too much. Interrupting. Being loud, excitable, chaotic. And yeah… sometimes it does. But today, ADHD looks like this: Sitting alone in silence, crying— not because something happened, but because the grocery store overstimulated me and I didn’t even realize it until I got home. It’s having just enough energy to shop, but running out halfway through putting the groceries away. It’s staring at the wall, overthinking everything, and still not being able to move. It’s knowing I need help— and still not making the call. It’s remembering everything that needs to be done when I have no energy— and forgetting it all when I finally do. It’s hyperfixation. Misophonia. Echolalia. Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria. Processing delays. Pathological demand avoidance. It’s an overflow of energy that feels like anxiety— like wanting to crawl out of your skin. It’s hating the mess but being the mess. It’s overthinking everything and doing nothing. It’s not always being able to self-regulate. It’s spiraling into shame because I can’t do the things— then hating myself for not doing them. It’s retreating into my head, because the real world feels too hard. It’s feeling lost. Confused.

But here’s the thing: ADHD isn’t just the struggle. It’s also the spark. It’s what fills me with wonderment, even on the hardest days. It’s what makes me curious—about everything, all the time. It’s where all my wild ideas are born. It’s like having a thousand synapses firing at once. It’s the thing that makes me suddenly put on a top hat that I found in a random box while cleaning. The thing that makes me keep a fake mustache in a box labeled “secret stash.” And it’s the VERY THING driving me to write this article at midnight on a Wednesday. I used to think ADHD made me broken. Now I’m starting to see—it’s part of what makes me brilliant.

These days, I’m not hiding who I am. I’m learning how to support myself—how to show up for myself. I go to therapy and lean on online support groups, where I’ve found tools, tips, and reminders that help me work with my brain instead of fighting it. It’s an ongoing learning process, and I’m giving myself permission to be a work in progress. I’ve started experimenting with fashion again—not to impress anyone, but to remember who I am now that I’ve stopped trying to be what society told me to be. I talk about my ADHD more now, and not just as a label— but as an explanation, a lens. Not because I’m making excuses, but because I’m asking for understanding. I stopped doing jobs that made me sick with anxiety. I started working in a way that gives me flexibility and time freedom—something that lets me breathe. I break big projects into small, doable steps. I ask for help. I remind others that I care, even when I forget—because forgetfulness isn’t laziness. It’s not a lack of love.

But the most important thing I’m learning is how to be kind to myself. I’ve spent most of my life being my harshest critic. Through therapy, I’m learning to change that voice. To be softer. To be patient. To be forgiving. It’s not easy. I have to work at it—every. single. day. When the to-do list feels endless, I sing to myself: “Doing the best I can, doing the very best that I can…” When I forget something, instead of tearing myself down, I tell myself: “It’s okay. I can still do it later.” I’m learning to accept myself. I accept that I will never fit into the box. But honestly? I don’t want to. Only squares fit into boxes. And honey, I am no square. I am wonderfully and unapologetically ADHD Me.