I ask my son to eat his breakfast for the tenth time.

Questions spill out of him faster than I can answer — reasons, rituals, invisible tasks his brain insists must come first. A million distractions orbit him. I don’t even think it has registered that there is food in front of him, or that his body is hungry. But he is hungry, nonetheless.

I spit out another reminder, this one sharpened at the edges with frustration. I know I should be calm. Patience always works best — except when it doesn’t. Some days it feels like nothing works. Not gentleness. Not firmness. Not the version of me I try so hard to be.

His younger brother spots a toy abandoned on the floor and picks it up, innocent in the simple way younger siblings are — he just wants to play.

I see it before it happens, steam practically rising from my eldest like a cartoon about to erupt. The scream. The charge. A growl too wild for such a small body.

[Read: The Exhaustion Problem in Extreme Parenting]

His hand lifts and lands hard against his brother’s face. The sound seems louder than it should be. The little one hits the floor, and the air leaves him in a broken gasp before the tears arrive.

Now there are explanations, consequences, and a timeout. And now my two sons are screaming. The youngest because he has been hurt, and the oldest because he has been stopped.

“I hate you, Mum.”

The words come through gritted teeth, and they break my heart every single time. I try to ignore them, but they keep coming, each one sharper than the last.

I scoop the little one into my arms. “He can’t control his big feelings yet, honey,” I tell him about his neurodivergent brother. “Sometimes they spill out into hitting hands. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

Then the baby cries.

[Read: “How to End Sibling Fighting Peacefully”]

Only eight months in this world and already fluent in urgency. Surely it can’t be nap time — she just woke up, didn’t she? I glance at the clock. Two hours have passed since I first said, “Please eat your breakfast.”

The house comes into focus all at once — toys scattered like confetti, stuffing from a slaughtered teddy trailing across the floor courtesy of the dog, laundry slumped in the corner, dishes stacked dangerously high, the kitchen island buried beneath clutter.

I don’t know where to begin.

The baby needs sleep. The chores need doing. My eldest is still simmering, striking out at everyone — myself included. I am trying my best. Still, I feel like I am drowning.

The dog barks at the postman, startling the baby into louder cries. I rock her gently. She eventually softens. Feeds. Sleeps. At last — quiet.

The boys sit absorbed in their screens while their sister rests. The dog snores at my feet. The house is finally still, but the mess presses down on my shoulders like a weight I cannot shrug off.

Inside my head, a relentless narrator begins its daily recital: Everything you haven’t done. Everything you should be doing. Everything you are failing to be.

Other moms manage. Why can’t you? You should exercise. Eat better. Be more patient. Be more organized. Be more. Be more. Be more.

But I am exhausted. Drained down to the marrow. I look around at the chaos, the silence, the impossible list of things waiting for me. I’ve already had enough, and it’s only 11 a.m.

Raising Neurodivergent Children: Next Steps

• Read:Overwhelmed Mom Syndrome — It’s a Real Thing
• Read: “It’s Hard Being the Mother of Electricity. And Also Quite Dazzling.”
• Read: “The Secret Grief of Raising a Chronically Dysregulated Child”

SUPPORT ADDITUDE
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I used to think autism meant headbanging or stimming in obvious ways. I didn’t see myself in the stereotypes, and I definitely didn’t think it explained my chaos. But then came TikTok.

It started innocently enough. Like many people, I downloaded the app during the pandemic to see what the fuss was about. The algorithm didn’t take long. Almost instantly, my For You page was filled with chaotic, rainbow-haired women my age talking about ADHD and autism. Women who looked like me. Women who were me.

I didn’t even have to search. They just appeared — video after video of people with the same explosive personality traits, the same sensory issues, the same thought patterns. The same trauma responses. The same jokes. The same blue hair.

At first, it was comforting. “That’s me!” I’d laugh. “Oh my God — that’s so me!” But then the laughter started to sting.

[Read: “I’m ‘The ADHD Doctor’ on TikTok. Here’s How the App Has Changed Me.”]

One video hit particularly hard. A woman — split-dyed blue and black hair, like mine — left her house to grab blueberries. The timestamp showed it had been over an hour when she came back through the door with five full shopping bags, arms overflowing. Her husband called out, “Did you get the blueberries?” And her face froze in horror. She hadn’t. She’d forgotten the one thing she went out for. I laughed out loud… then felt punched in the gut. Because I had done that exact thing — only with orange juice.

Once the algorithm clocked my reaction, it doubled down. Every time I opened the app, I saw someone like me: brushing their teeth and suddenly realizing the toilet roll needed changed… which led to changing the bin… which led to discovering their toothbrush in the kitchen beside the bin they forgot to empty. These bizarre, tangled thought spirals I thought were unique to me were suddenly just… everywhere.

As my friends discovered the app, my inbox started to fill with more versions of myself — daily scenarios acted out by strangers who looked like me, always with the same message: “This is so you.” People even said it in person: “You know that girl — the one who’s basically you on the Internet,” when they were talking about an AuDHD video.

And that’s when it hit me. I wasn’t special. I was one of thousands. Millions, even.

Weirdness as Identity, Stolen by TikTok

All my life, I’d felt weird, different. I had clung to that as a form of identity. Even when it hurt, even when I felt alone, I had accepted my quirks as mine. But TikTok held up a mirror I hadn’t requested — and in that mirror, I saw not one reflection, but hundreds. Thousands. My traits, once mine alone, were playing out on screens all over the world. It felt like I’d been cloned and scattered across the Internet.

That realization spiraled into a strange grief. I was relieved to have answers for my lifelong struggles, yes. But at the same time, I was grieving the person I thought I was. I had worn my difference like armor — if I couldn’t blend in, I’d be the loudest, weirdest one in the room. I didn’t realize how much of my identity hinged on feeling like the only one.

Seeing “me” reflected back so often, in so many strangers, made me feel exposed. Invisible, even. Was I just ADHD sprinkled with some autism — another neurodivergent stereotype of blue hair and mandalas? Had anything about me ever been unique?

I Don’t Need to Be One-of-a-Kind

For weeks, I found myself torn. I kept scrolling through these videos that made me laugh, cry, and feel understood. But they also made me feel hollow. Like my sense of self had dissolved. I started snapping the app shut, unable to face the steady stream of doppelgängers.

And then one night, I looked at my son — this messy, brilliant little boy who shares many of my quirks — and something shifted.

If I can see myself everywhere… maybe that means I was never alone.

Maybe there’s comfort in that.

Maybe I’m not a diluted version of a stereotype, but a real, whole person who happens to be neurodivergent — like so many others. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe it’s a blessing. Maybe I can see the humor in this — the light in myself by seeing it in others like me.

Because if I can find myself in all of these strangers, then maybe he will, too.

Maybe he’ll grow up seeing himself everywhere and never feel the kind of loneliness I felt as a child.

Maybe the weird won’t feel weird at all. That’s all I can hope for.

These days, I still fall into the TikTok rabbit holes. I still see my reflection in strangers. But now I feel a little more grounded. A little more grateful. I’m learning to let go of the need to be “one of a kind,” and embracing the strange, beautiful truth that we are never as alone as we think.

I may not be the only blue crayon in the box — but I’m still here, coloring outside the lines.

AuDHD in Women: Next Steps

• Read: TikTok Is My Therapist — The Dangers and Promise of Viral #MentalHealth Videos
• Read: ADHD, Autism, and Neurodivergence Are Coming Into Focus
• Read: “5 Unique Features of AuDHD in Women”

SUPPORT ADDITUDE
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I worry the person I’m talking to will doubt I’ve really got it or mistake my revelation for a declaration of specialness.

I get why they might hear it that way. Some people do seem to center their identity around their neurodivergence and I understand that too. Endless flying-kicks to the ego inflict deep and lasting wounds and there’s a screw-you joy in shouting from the rooftops that you like who you are and have finally found your squad.

For me though, ADHD is only part of who I am. I’m different from the people I know who have it and they are different from each other as well. I don’t want others to hear those four little letters and put me in an ill-fitting box.

But that probably makes it all the more pressing that I push through the cringe and crack on with my disclosure.

There are loads of reasons why I feel I should talk about ADHD.

[Read: The ADHD Myths That Hurt Us Most]

1. To Explain That It’s Like an Iceberg

Public perception of ADHD is still negative and narrow: we’re chaotic, annoying and devoid of common sense. We bash things with sticks all day long and talk over each other non-stop. The stereotype overlooks inattentive attributes completely and defines us largely by what we lack and by our most conspicuous traits.

A lot of people with ADHD wouldn’t stand out in a crowd though, especially if they’re female. We’re skilled at concealing our inner struggles behind a slick-but-exhausting performance of normal.

The little quirks we do exhibit can look trivial or amusing to the casual observer, but they’re often the tip of a giant iceberg that quietly threatens to capsize our lives.

Being open about ADHD lets me dig into the detail of the many different ways it can manifest and how much is hidden from view. I like being part of that conversation and I think I have a duty to share what I know.

[Read: 3 Defining Features of ADHD That Everyone Overlooks]

2. To Help Friends Understand Themselves Better

It’s no accident that my account of lifelong symptoms often chimes with the person I’m talking to. ADHD people attract each other, after all. When someone recognizes themselves in my experience, they’re usually keen to learn more and some have gone on to pursue diagnosis, either for themselves or their children.

My own ADHD journey began when a friend shared a podcast that resonated so much it brought me to tears. Finding out my more troublesome traits were part of a pattern and not random failings as a human helped weaken the grip that shame sometimes has on me and which can wreak more havoc than the condition itself.

Talking about ADHD feels worth the discomfort when it helps get the message to people like me who need to hear it most.

3. To Take the Sting out of Stigma

Even if a person does not relate to my story of quiet dysregulation and self-sabotage, my willingness to be vulnerable can lead to reciprocal sharing.

Laying bare my own battles almost always results in chats about what others find difficult.

I used to worry that being honest would make me feel weak, but I’ve found that the opposite is true. I feel braver and stronger when I open up and it gives other people permission to do likewise.

4. To Make Working Life Easier

When I first got my ADHD diagnosis, I didn’t want to tell my employer. I was scared I’d be seen as incapable and worried the condition would be used to sweep real workload issues under the carpet.

I’m so glad I did come clean though. It made it easier to ask for accommodations, even informal ones. Small changes to my role and teaching hours have made me calmer and more productive and I feel like my managers have my back.

Conversations I have at work about ADHD soon turn to the things I excel at too and the stuff my colleagues find easy. That’s great for collaboration. If my workmate gets off on the gristle-chewing torment of detailed yearly planning, they can knock themselves out with their color-coded spreadsheets while I save my energy for bringing fresh, last-minute ideas when plans get upended as they so often do.

5. To Remind Us That Everyone Is Weird

Sceptics scoff when they hear how many people are being diagnosed with ADHD. But I’m surprised they’re surprised by the stats. It’s not uncommon and everyone is different. I thought we knew that by now.

I don’t see the rise in cases as proof of rampant overdiagnosis or the fragility of entire generations. I view it as long-overdue acknowledgement that the uniform, manmade and neurotypical-centric requirements of modern life are extremely hard for a lot of people to meet.

Reading about ADHD helped me pinpoint what I find tough and examine why that might be. But talking about ADHD to people who don’t have it opened my eyes to the many things others can struggle with – unforeseen changes, recognizing feelings, encountering buttons, for example. It gives me the chance to acknowledge that I know it’s not all about me.

I don’t feel special for having ADHD. I feel fortunate that my particular brand of weirdness fits into an established and well-researched cluster. Not everyone is that lucky.

6. To Assuage the Fear of Labels

Diagnosis has helped me a lot. I talk to myself more kindly now and am learning to soothe my nervous system when I need to persevere.

My ADHD label is not a shield behind which I intend to cower, emerging only to hurl rotten eggs and expletives at people who insist I do boring jobs. It’s a framework for understanding myself better so that I can capitalize on my strengths and work on the tough bits with greater insight and practical strategies.

7. To Make It So Normal It’s Boring

Talking about ADHD feels awkward. I still feel embarrassed when I bring it up. But I need to chuck my truth out there and have faith that if enough of us do the same, the stereotypes will melt away and at some point, someone like me will be able to mention their common difference to zero frowns or pigeonholing.

One day, I hope, ADHD will be a boring shortcut to explain how I function and what I do best.

Maybe by then everyone will have their own punchy acronym to help me understand them better as well. I might interrupt them to ask for more detail, but I promise I will never roll my eyes.

Explaining ADHD: Next Steps

• Read: 10 Ways ADHD Can Hide in Plain Sight
• Read: Coping with the Stigma of ADHD
• Read: Who Do You Tell About Your ADHD?

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Better yet, I learned that she’s really open about her diagnosis. She told ESPN: “I have ADHD, and I love situations that I’m not expecting. It gives me a dopamine rush.”

Liu does have a slightly chaotic ADHD vibe. She’s rarely sitting still. She can appear charmingly clueless — like after her win, when she wandered off, just to be reminded that she needed to go get her medal. She says and does what she wants, even when it seems unexpected or a little silly. She cracks jokes at press conferences. She screamed, “Now that’s what I’m f*ckin’ talking about!” into the camera after her win. (It has since become a meme). She cheers for her fellow skaters.

In short, Liu is everything I was told NOT to be as a neurodivergent athlete myself.

Like Liu, I have ADHD and am a figure skater. Unlike her, I am not an Olympic champion, have never done a quadruple lutz (although I have done a double), and don’t have the guts to color my hair or pierce my frenulum. (I cried when I got my ears pierced.)

[Read: Olympians, Professional Athletes, and Sports Legends with ADHD]

But like Liu, I also had an interesting journey to understanding my ADHD.

Liu got evaluated for ADHD when she realized she had 145 unfinished homework assignments in her final year of high school. She struggled with procrastination, and like many of us, needs novelty and challenge to focus.

I was diagnosed at 11, promptly forgot (I didn’t take meds, for various reasons), and was re-diagnosed 20 years later when I erroneously sought diagnosis and treatment for OCD. (A path so many women with ADHD walk).

Like everyone else, I felt the joy when Liu skated at the Olympics. I was perhaps more invested because I’d interviewed her when she first burst on the Junior scene — a tiny 13-year-old who had the hopes and dreams of the skating community resting on her petite shoulders.

Her Olympic win is even more impressive when you learn her backstory: she retired at 16 after a disappointing sixth-place finish at the 2022 Olympics, took two years off, climbed Mount Everest, and still came back to claim not only Olympic gold but also the World title in 2025.

She quit because she couldn’t stand the pressure anymore. She didn’t like feeling like a “puppet.” And she really didn’t like not making her own choices about not just her skating, but her life.

Liu came back because she missed the adrenaline rush, and skating again was fun. But with one caveat: everything — music, costumes, diet, training — would be on her terms.

And that turned out to be the missing link. By giving herself accommodations and taking control of her life, Liu showed us all what can happen when we choose to do things our way, not the neurotypical way.

What Alysa Liu’s Burnout Can Teach High-Functioning ADHD Women

Many high-functioning ADHD girls and women (perhaps including Liu) never get diagnosed or get diagnosed later in life because they appear to be doing more than fine. They excel in academics. They dominate in sports. They pour themselves into whatever captures their hyperfocus. From the outside, everything looks great. But inside, they’re floundering.

In highly controlled environments — like elite figure skating — this can feel even more suffocating. The constant pressure to perform, conform, and comply collides with a brain that craves autonomy and novelty.

There’s also a prevailing narrative in sport that struggle equals growth. That discipline is the price of success. It looks like logging hours on the ice while your mind is quietly collapsing. It’s denying your own wants and needs so you don’t let anyone down.

I lived this. I wasn’t an Olympian, but I was a competitive figure skater for over 20 years. I was surrounded by Olympians who coached and trained alongside me, and I spent years wondering why I couldn’t just commit, work harder, and do what they did. My perfectionism made me walk away at 18. Though I returned to the sport, like Liu, and saw moments when I stopped performing neurotypically, I still burned out — a decision my body made for me.

What I admire most about Liu is that she didn’t wait for that. She chose to walk away before it broke her — and chose to come back only when she could do it on her own terms. She didn’t try to fit back into the old system. She built a new one.

Alysa Liu Is the Role Model I Didn’t Know I Needed

To be fair, Alysa isn’t the only athlete to open up about their mental health. But the way she talks about ADHD — openly celebrating it — is refreshing.

In a sport that has historically prized tight control over bodies, speech, and appearance, that’s revelatory. It makes her a figure skating icon for a whole new generation — one that makes its own rules and celebrates its own individuality.

ADHD brains like ours aren’t wired for obligation. We need careers and pursuits that are novel, that bring new challenges, that keep us guessing. That’s why so many athletes, entrepreneurs, and creatives are neurodivergent — we thrive on the unknown.

But when those pursuits become routine, we lose interest fast. It starts feeling like slogging uphill, with burnout at the summit.

This is almost certainly where Liu ended up before her retirement. So she left. And when she came back, she made sure joy came first.

And while most of us will never win an Olympic medal, we can learn from how she got there. We can find ways to accommodate ourselves. We can be honest and authentic instead of performing what we think people want. We can ask for help. We can honor our own process — the wandering attention, the scattered practices, the FaceTime calls mid-warmup — and trust that when our energy is ready, it will show up.

The biggest lessons we can learn from Liu: Be yourself. Do what you need to do for you. Follow your interests, because that’s where your success lies.
Maybe the only thing we need to change is what we lead with.
Alysa led with joy. And she won.

Christie Sausa, MS, is a dual-sport neurodivergent athlete who writes the Not Your Average Athlete blog.

Athletes with ADHD: More from ADDitude

• Read: Sports Psychology Tricks That Work for ADHD Brains
• Read: “Maybe I’m Not Just Thoroughly Messed Up” Olympian Molly Seidel On Her Late ADHD Diagnosis
• Read: How Swimming Saved Michael Phelps

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I felt out of control around certain foods and completely uninterested in others. I chased diets, lost and gained hundreds of pounds, and eventually landed in eating disorder treatment as an adult for atypical anorexia and binge-eating disorder. (I can’t be classically diagnosed with anorexia because I live in a large body, even when I am in a calorie deficit)

Convinced I was the problem, I blamed myself for what I now understand was my nervous system desperately trying to regulate itself.

Chasing Dopamine

One day in eating disorder treatment, a clinician noticed that I was adding chips to the inside of my sandwich, something I had been doing for as long as I could remember. When she asked me why I did that, my response was simple: “I like my food to crunch.”

But I didn’t just like the crunch. I needed it. Chips. Crackers. Extra crunchy bacon. Anything with resistance. Anything loud. Anything that gave my brain a sharp sensory hit.

[Read: The ADHD-Eating Disorders Link]

The truth is that crunchy things ground me. The crunch focuses me and cuts through the constant chitchat in my brain in a way soft foods never could.

That’s when it clicked. For the first time, I began to see that my eating behaviors weren’t just about taste or hunger. My “out-of-control eating” wasn’t an issue of willpower; it was partly sensory-seeking behavior, a well-documented ADHD trait.

My Eating Disorder Is About More Than Food

People with ADHD are significantly more likely to develop eating disorders, especially binge eating disorder and anorexia. Dopamine is thought to play a role in that connection. As ADHD brains like mine are chronically low in dopamine — which we all need for motivation, pleasure, and focus — we are wired to seek stimulation. And food just happens to be fast, legal, and always available.

ADHD symptoms explain much more than the sensory-seeking aspect of my eating behaviors. Hyperfocus means I can forget to eat for extended periods. Poor interoceptive awareness means I can’t reliably feel hunger or fullness. Emotional dysregulation means feelings hit hard and fast, and food becomes the farthest thing from my mind.

So it’s not that I lack self-control. I’m chasing dopamine. And I realized that recovery from disordered eating is going to be so much harder for me and my neurospicy brain.

In treatment, I also learned that my eating disorder had very little to do with food and everything to do with coping. Control, dopamine, sensory input, grief, trauma; my brain needed more support than it was ever given.

Traditional eating disorder advice assumes a neurotypical brain: Just eat regularly and plan ahead. Listen to your body. But for someone with ADHD, this advice feels impossible. I know, as I spent decades believing I was failing my body. Shame rushes in when we fail to follow through, which only adds fuel to the eating disorder.

Recovery That Honors My Brain

Recovery, for me, doesn’t come from rigid meal plans or white-knuckling urges. It comes from understanding my ADHD and working with it instead of against it. It comes from building structures without punishment, allowing sensory accommodations without shame, and learning that “healthy” does not always equal small.

If you have ADHD and struggle with food, you are not broken. You are not weak. You are not doing recovery wrong. You are neurodivergent in a world (and in a treatment system) that still doesn’t fully understand how our brains work.

Understanding the connection between ADHD and eating disorders didn’t erase my past, but it gave me language and a framework for my brain and body that finally allowed me to begin healing.

Eating Disorders and ADHD: Next Steps

• New Resource: From the Editors of ADDitude… Embody!
• Free Download: The Eating Disorders Associated with ADHD
• Read: How ADHD and Eating Disorders Overlap
• Read: Build a Better Relationship with Food to Benefit Your Brain

SUPPORT ADDITUDE
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Sometimes, all of that helps.

Often, it doesn’t.

Having knowledge doesn’t mean that I have endless patience or perfect regulation. Having ADHD means that I struggle with impulse control — like snapping at my children to stop drumming on everything because the noise is overwhelming, even though I know that movement is how they regulate and avoid sensory overload.

It looks like getting frustrated when my child is time blind and late for school for the hundredth time — while I’m also scrambling, overwhelmed, and trying to get myself together in the morning.

When both parent and child are dysregulated, the gap between what you know and what you can do feels enormous. And that gap fills quickly with shame, guilt, and regret —wondering why you can’t be the calm, capable parent your child needs, especially when you “should know better.”

💡 Free Download! A Survival Guide for Parents with ADHD

But parenting a child with ADHD when you have ADHD isn’t about getting it right or having it all figured out. It’s about building a relationship that can hold imperfection, honesty, and repair. Some days will be hard. Some moments will still unravel. But when we name our needs, laugh at our shared quirks, and meet overwhelm with compassion instead of shame, something shifts: ADHD stops being a problem to manage and becomes a natural part of the family dynamic.

Here are four parenting shifts that have made all the difference in my family.

1. Honor your limits. It’s not about trying to be regulated all the time — it’s about learning to notice when I’m not. When I pause, name my limits, and step away before I’m flooded, I’m better able to support my children without shame or reactivity. Taking care of myself first isn’t selfish; it’s preventative.

2. Be transparent. I’ve learned the power of being transparent with my kids in age-appropriate ways. Saying things like, “My brain feels overwhelmed right now, and I need a few minutes to reset” does wonders to de-escalate the moment. It also models something many children with ADHD rarely see — that overwhelm isn’t something to hide, apologize for, or power through. It’s something you can recognize, name, and respond to with care.

💡Read: 4 Rules for Taking a Mom Rage Break

Over time, this kind of modeling also reduces stigma. My kids don’t see their overwhelm as strange or wrong, but as a signal. They’re learning that it’s OK to voice their needs and to take steps to meet them. In those moments, the goal isn’t perfect regulation, it’s shared understanding.

3. ADHD is not taboo. We talk about ADHD openly in my family. It’s not something we whisper about when things are hard. It’s part of how we understand ourselves and each other. My daughter and I often laugh about how our brains never seem to slow down — how one word during a conversation can remind us of a lyric from years ago and cause us to break out into song. These moments of connection remind us that our brains work similarly, and that similarity can be joyful.

4. Seek neurodivergent experiences. We’ve also found connection through identity-affirming books — stories that reflect neurodivergent characters, big feelings, and brains that don’t fit neatly into boxes. Reading these together gives us language without pressure. It opens doors to conversations about overwhelm, creativity, and regulation without framing anything as “wrong” or needing fixing. Seeing ourselves reflected in stories builds understanding and closeness and reinforces that ADHD isn’t something to hide.

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Let me set the scene for you: I’m sitting at home, wearing a headset, taking calls for a psychic helpline. Yes, at the grand age of 30, I was moonlighting as a fake phone psychic. But I needed a job I could easily do from home, and this one sounded doable. And fun?

I’ve had many different roles throughout my life. I’ve been part of a cabin crew, sold wine over the phone, worked for an international charity, sold suitcases, reported as a freelance journalist, and worked at McDonald’s, a shirt shop, a toothbrush factory, and a garden center.

💡 Read: From Bowling-Alley Bartender to Cleopatra Waitress — My Story of ADHD Job Hopping

Now, in my latest incarnation, I’m finally doing something related to my degree. I’m a Ph.D. researcher attempting to understand the link between ADHD, gender, work, and entrepreneurship. Through my research, and for the first time in my life, I’ve met other women with the exact same story as mine. Despite often being labeled as gifted or having above-average intelligence, many women with ADHD seem to flounder and float around in the working world.

A checkered work history like mine seems to be so common among women with ADHD that I’ve come to see it as a shorthand sign of neurodivergence: Have you had 50 different jobs before the age of 30? If you answer yes, have you considered an ADHD evaluation?

A Nagging Sense of Wasted Potential

I make light of it, but it has always been a huge source of shame for me that, despite being told repeatedly how much “potential” I had, I could never distill it down to a traditional, fulfilling career. Not that there’s anything wrong with the odd jobs I had, only that I landed in them because I thought I couldn’t do more. And I couldn’t see myself fitting in anywhere else.

How relieved I was to find I wasn’t alone; research backs up that people with ADHD tend to work in jobs that are below their academic qualifications. Despite scoring higher in intelligence tests, they also have lower self-esteem than their peers.^{1 2}

💡 Read: “You Have So Much Potential. You Just Don’t Apply Yourself.”

Women with ADHD who are working in jobs far below their potential and academic credentials are only too familiar with this situation. I remember once while working as cabin crew, I asked a pilot the standard question of “Is your wife crew?” (It’s very common for pilots to marry cabin crew.) He looked at me, laughed, and said, “Oh, no. My wife is intelligent. She has a degree.” It felt like a punch in the gut.

We Deserve Fulfilling Lives

Learning that I had ADHD as an adult changed everything for me. It helped me understand my relationship to work and the fact that I — and many women — are navigating a world that largely wasn’t built for minds like ours. I’ve learned to forgive myself for my perceived failings, and I encourage women who see themselves in my story to do the same.

Unconditional acceptance of your strengths and areas of need, strategic self-advocacy, and out-of-the-box thinking (perhaps even entrepreneurship) are key. But it’s not just on us — workplaces would benefit from learning how to support neurodivergent employees, which may need to come at a public policy level. It’s my hope to help create pathways that support neurodivergent women in reducing shame and building fulfilling and autonomous professional lives that allow them to access their full potential.

SUPPORT ADDITUDE
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Sources

¹ Jangmo, A., Kuja-Halkola, R., Pérez-Vigil, A., Almqvist, C., Bulik, C. M., D’Onofrio, B., Lichtenstein, P., Ahnemark, E., Werner-Kiechle, T., & Larsson, H. (2021). Attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder and occupational outcomes: The role of educational attainment, comorbid developmental disorders, and intellectual disability. PloS one, 16(3), e0247724. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0247724

² Foley-Nicpon, M., Rickels, H., Assouline, S. G., & Richards, A. (2012). Self-Esteem and Self-Concept Examination Among Gifted Students With ADHD. Journal for the Education of the Gifted, 35(3), 220-240. https://doi.org/10.1177/0162353212451735

Be more consistent.
Follow through.
Set firmer boundaries.
Stick to the plan.

But if you are raising a child with ADHD, as I am, you hear these phrases all year long. They come from friends, family members, teachers, neighbors, and strangers who see our children on their hardest days and decide they understand the whole story.

If you were more consistent, your child would behave.
If you enforced consequences, they would learn.
If you just did something different, your child would be fine.

Unsolicited comments about our parenting land like resolutions we never made and quietly turn into failures we carry.

💡 Read: An Unusual New Year’s Guidebook for People Who Think Different

ADHD Parenting Resolutions I Never Chose

I have tried the charts and the routines. I have tried the calm voice and the firm voice. I have tried sticker systems, time outs, time ins, early bedtimes, later bedtimes, warnings, countdowns, and consequences that were supposed to fix everything. I have done these things consistently. I have done them desperately. I have done them while questioning myself every step of the way.

None of them changed the reality of what it is like to raise a child with ADHD.

ADHD is not defiance for the sake of defiance. It is not poor discipline or lack of effort. ADHD is emotional dysregulation so intense it hijacks the body. It is rage that comes without warning. It is despair that feels bottomless. It is not choosing chaos but drowning in it. It is a nervous system flooded to the point that logic cannot reach it.

Still, the advice keeps coming.

If you just followed through…
If you just stopped negotiating…
If you just stayed calm…

Most parenting advice assumes a child who can consistently pause, reflect, and comply. ADHD breaks that assumption. Tough moments and inconsistency will always be part of ADHD, and they cannot be stamped out with discipline like a resolution. That is why well-meaning advice hurts and turns into intrusive thoughts: What am I missing? What am I doing wrong? Why is this still so hard?

 Read: 10 Things People Say to You When You’re Raising an Extreme Child

A Different Kind of New Year’s Resolution

I am not trying to raise a child who looks well-behaved to strangers. I am trying to raise a child who feels safe in his own body. I am trying to teach him that his emotions do not make him bad. I am trying to help him come back from places many adults never see, let alone understand.

The problem is not that ADHD families need better resolutions. The problem is that the world needs a better understanding of what ADHD actually is.

Until that changes, parents like me will keep standing in the wreckage of well-intentioned advice, trying to explain why it does not work, and wondering why we feel like failures while doing some of the hardest parenting there is.

I am done resolving to fix my child.

Instead, I will work to shift how we collectively see ADHD. It is not a discipline problem. It is not a parenting failure. It is a neurological reality that requires compassion, patience, and support. That is the resolution ADHD families truly need.

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He is my son, but he is also my reflection. The scattered thoughts, the lost shoes, the emotions that rise and fall without warning; I know them all. Parenting a child with ADHD while living with it myself feels like steering two race cars at once. Some days we glide forward. Some days we spin out.

I used to think my job was to calm him. The world rewards quiet children and those who can smoothly transition. He was born in motion. He notices everything — the flicker of lights, the hum of the refrigerator, the way a room changes when people get tense. He cannot filter life, and neither can I.

🏠 Read: I Had No Safe Place. Can I Build One for My Son?

When I was young, teachers told me I had potential — if I would only focus. That word, focus, has followed me ever since. I hear it now when I watch my son trying to finish homework or listen to directions that last too long. His eyes glaze over the same way mine used to. I know exactly where his mind goes when it drifts. Everywhere at once.

Living with ADHD is like carrying a thousand radio stations in your head and trying to tune in to one. Parenting a child on that same frequency means the noise never stops. Some days I am patient. Other days I am not. He melts down, and I feel myself melting, too. I tell him to breathe, forgetting I need to inhale, too.

But there is also an understanding between us that words cannot explain. When he cannot describe what he feels, I already know. When others call him impulsive, I see the effort behind his eyes. When he blurts out something too honest, I hear the truth in it. We do not hide emotion well. That might be our biggest flaw and our biggest gift.

There are days when we spiral together, both of us overstimulated and unsure how to stop. But there are also days when we find our rhythm. We walk the dog and talk about everything that crosses his mind. He asks questions faster than I can answer, but I try anyway. Those are the moments that bring peace. I stop trying to change him and start remembering what it felt like to be him.

❤️ Read: The Blessings (and Trials) of Parenting with ADHD

At night, when he finally falls asleep, I think about how hard he works just to make it through the day. People see a boy who cannot sit still. I see a boy who fights invisible battles from morning to night and still finds ways to laugh.

He has made me see my own mind differently. I used to think ADHD made me disorganized and too much. Now I see creativity and empathy in the same traits I once resented. He feels everything deeply, and so do I. Maybe we are not broken. Maybe we just move through the world differently.

Some days I worry about how others will treat him. Other days I believe he will change the world instead of trying to fit into it. His mind is bright and restless. His curiosity has no limits. His energy wears me out but also keeps me alive.

We are mirrors, he and I. His reflection shows me the parts of myself I used to hide and the parts I am finally learning to love. When I help him find calm, I find it too. When I remind him that being different is not wrong, I believe it a little more for both of us.

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I don’t need to tell you that anxiety has a way of hijacking the ADHD brain’s attention and focus. That it shows up unannounced, derailing our plans and schedules. But what if you could turn the tables and put anxiety itself on a schedule?

Giving your worries a scheduled time slot — and pairing them with healthy reframing and other worry-busting skills — isn’t about suppressing or trying to stop anxiety. It’s about staying in control, a form of emotional regulation in action. You’re training your brain to avoid hours of rumination so you can stay more calm, present, and productive.

Worry Time: How to Timebox or Delay Anxiety

1. When anxiety and worry come up — like on your way to a doctor’s appointment, or just before taking a difficult exam, or as you think about a difficult conversation you need to have — immediately set a 15-minute timer. (Or whatever time frame is feasible.)

2. Over the next 15 minutes, write or say aloud all your worrisome thoughts. What if I have a serious disease? What if I make a fool of myself? What if I fail my test? Give your full attention to your thoughts, no matter where they take you.

💭 Read: Why Do I Assume the Worst-Case Scenario?

3. As the minutes pass, you may find that you feel much better just by venting. You may have also challenged some of your thoughts:

• How likely is that to happen?
• What evidence do I have for this supposed outcome?
• Where am I jumping to conclusions?
• Am I doubting my ability to handle the outcome I fear? When have I faced a similar situation?
• Is the problem in my control? What can I do about it if so? Which of my traits and strengths can I use to help me?

If you find yourself devoting your entire session to worrying (or if time blindness is a factor), consider a timer within a timer — one to signal that it’s time to switch to problem-solving and thought-challenging mode.

4. When the timer is up, stop worrying and return to your schedule. Close your notebook and say to yourself, “Worry time is finished.” Follow worry time with a pre-chosen anchor activity, like taking a shower or preparing dinner, to ease your mind off worrying.

😌 Read: 6 Ways to a Worry-Free Mind

5. In lieu of setting a 15-minute timer for worrying as soon as it appears, set a standing 15-minute appointment on your calendar for worrying, like you would for any other activity. When worries come up, jot them down and tell yourself that you’ll get to it later. Go ahead and tell your worry to wait. “I’ve got you on my calendar!”

Linda was studying for the LSAT when the thought, “What if I fail?” kept flashing like a neon sign through her mind. Instead of spiraling and using up her precious study time, she scheduled two standing worry appointments — Tuesdays and Thursdays from 4:15 p.m. to 4:30 p.m. Whenever anxiety crept in, she reminded herself, “Not now — it’s on the calendar.” By the time her worry slot arrived, her mind was calmer and ready to problem-solve.

So, the next time your brain insists, “What if I fail?” Try replying, “Great question! I’ll worry about it at 4:15 p.m.”

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If shame weighs on you, loosen its grip by incorporating these two short exercises (the same I share with my clients) into your days. Over time, these activities will rewire your mind and shift your focus from perceived inadequacies to self-compassion, growth, and progress.

Anti-Shame Activity: Alternative Endings

Think of an incident that triggered shame. (Start small.) Come up with three different endings for this uncomfortable, even painful, situation that you can feel better about.

⚡ Read: Are You Your Own Worst Enemy?

Say you felt ashamed recently for talking over an acquaintance. You can imagine an ending where you gently laughed off the interruption and said to them, “Sorry, I got so excited there that I couldn’t hold it in. Please, continue — I really want to hear what you have to say.”

Develop goals based on what you learned from this activity. For example, you may want to come up with mantras to help you stay present and actively listen. You may also want to build a habit of quickly acknowledging, apologizing, and moving on when interruptions happen (which takes practice!).

Imagined endings are not denial or daydreaming. They are therapy-based tools that force you to reckon with shame. They teach your brain a new route, encourage you to forgive yourself, and weaken shame’s hold. Don’t worry if this exercise feels awkward at first — forming new grooves takes time and practice.

Anti-Shame Activity: Hidden Gifts

Think of three people you know well in your life. For each, write down three of their strengths or good qualities. Then, ask them to do the same for you. You can say, “I’m doing an insights exercise. Would you be willing to share three strengths that you see me use when things get hard? One sentence is perfect.”

💡 Read: What Happens When We Log Tiny Wins

It may feel awkward to do this activity, but the response from my clients is overwhelmingly positive. Many note that it’s a profound experience filled with many surprises.

Don’t think of this activity as your typical strengths and weaknesses list. Its purpose is not necessarily self-improvement, but self-insight and self-appreciation — strong antidotes to shame and feelings of inadequacy.

Set a goal to review the responses regularly. Consider creating a reminder or monthly appointment on your calendar to nudge you to read through the responses.

If your shame is tied to trauma, depression, or thoughts of self-harm, bring these exercises to a licensed clinician to ensure you have support.

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This behavior may look like defiance, but I argue that it’s a sign of dopamine withdrawal. No, that’s not far-fetched. We know that short-form content — think TikTok, YouTube Shorts, Instagram Reels — is carefully engineered to activate the brain’s dopamine centers.¹ We also know that excessive consumption of short-form content is linked to poorer attention, depression, anxiety, stress, and loneliness. Difficulty disengaging and regulating emotions offline is a common result.²

It stands to reason that youth with ADHD, whose brains are wired for novelty and stimulation, and who have difficulty regulating, feel the effects of these digital dopamine hits (and withdrawals) more intensely.

📱 Read: Why Screens Mesmerize Our Teens — and How to Break the Trance

So, what can you do to release the latest brain rot’s hold over your child? Once you understand how dopamine drives your child’s reactions, the next step is to guide that chemistry instead of fight it. The strategies below will help your child regain calm and control and build healthier reward patterns.

1. The Power-Down Countdown

“Five more minutes” doesn’t mean much to ADHD brains. Visuals say a lot more. Try color-changing timers, countdown apps, or lamps that fade from green to red to signal that it’s almost time to switch away from screens. You can even turn it into a challenge: Log off before the light turns red to earn more allowance.

2. Dopamine Down Shift

Abruptly shutting off a heavy stream of dopamine destabilizes ADHD brains. Instead, move your child into a dopamine replacement activity that is short, satisfying, and active. That can be shooting a few baskets, racing around the living room, drawing for five minutes, or solving a short puzzle — anything will do, if it’s a real-world activity that reinforces to kids that stimulation is possible outside of digital realms.

3. Cool Down Bridge

To further help your child’s brain transition, try a cool down bridge — a short sensory ritual — to help soften the landing off devices. Some kids pace while listening to a favorite song, others stretch or splash cold water on their face. It doesn’t matter what the in-between activity is, only that it signals to the brain that it is time to switch gears to a calmer state.

🕹️ Read: An “Ethics Manual” for Your Teen’s Electronics

4. Collaborative Control Plans

Chances are that your teen doesn’t want to have meltdowns, either. When your child is calm, invite them to help you come up with a plan to transition away from screens and devices. Ask, “What would help you stop without becoming too upset?” or “How could we make this easier next time?” Ownership builds cooperation.

5. Dopamine Diversity Days

Make one day each week a screen-break day. Go hiking, cook together, build something, or play music. Try not to frame the day as a loss, but as something your family is gaining. Say, “We’re giving our brains a different kind of fuel today.”

6. Reclaim Dopamine Autonomy

The goal is not to eliminate games, screens, or content from your teen’s life. It is to help them understand what certain forms of content do to their brain, health, and ability to stay in control. You can appeal to your teen’s natural desire for autonomy by talking about digital tactics that are meant to hijack their decision-making:

“That streak is trying to trick your brain into FOMO.”

“That timer wants you to log back in.”

Celebrate when they skip a reward on purpose. Challenge them to see missing a “daily login” as proof of control.

7. Examine Your Own Brain Rot

Teen screen use is directly correlated with parental screen use.³ While you may not consume the same content as your child, it’s likely that your screen time could use some work. Set screen-free zones and times, such as during dinner or while doing homework. Try to keep devices out of bedrooms. Use timers and rituals to transition away from devices, too, (and make sure your child sees you doing so). Encourage ongoing, open conversations about screen use, its pros and cons, and its impact on mental health.

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Thank you for reading ADDitude. To support our mission of providing ADHD education and support, please consider subscribing. Your readership and support help make our content and outreach possible. Thank you.

Sources

¹ Su, C., Zhou, H., Gong, L., Teng, B., Geng, F., & Hu, Y. (2021). Viewing personalized video clips recommended by TikTok activates default mode network and ventral tegmental area. NeuroImage, 237, 118136. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.neuroimage.2021.118136

² Nguyen, L., Walters, J., Paul, S., Monreal Ijurco, S., Rainey, G. E., Parekh, N., Blair, G., & Darrah, M. (2025). Feeds, feelings, and focus: A systematic review and meta-analysis examining the cognitive and mental health correlates of short-form video use. Psychological Bulletin, 151(9), 1125–1146. https://doi.org/10.1037/bul0000498

³ Nagata, J. M., Paul, A., Yen, F., Smith-Russack, Z., Shao, I. Y., Al-Shoaibi, A. A. A., Ganson, K. T., Testa, A., Kiss, O., He, J., & Baker, F. C. (2025). Associations between media parenting practices and early adolescent screen use. Pediatric Research, 97(1), 403–410. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41390-024-03243-y

December 10, 2025

As a director of disability services in higher education, I am deeply troubled by the framing and assumptions of such services in “Accommodation Nation” an article recently in The Atlantic that positions college accommodations as a burden, casts suspicion on students with disabilities, and erodes decades of progress made by disability advocates who have fought for equal access to education.

Accommodations Are Not “Easily Gamed”

It’s true that the number of students seeking accommodations has risen over the years as rates of diagnosed ADHD, anxiety, and other conditions have increased. But this is because diagnostic tools have improved dramatically, leading to increased identification. Increased identification is not a sign of manipulation, as The Atlantic article insinuates. It is the result of better science and long-overdue recognition.

Yet articles like “Accommodation Nation” use these realities to cast doubt on students’ lived experiences. At my institution, students must go through multiple steps before accommodations are considered. They complete a detailed online application, provide documentation from licensed professionals that identify which major life activities are impacted by their condition(s), and outline specific functional limitations. I regularly follow up with providers to better understand the applicant’s diagnosis. Then I meet with the student to explore their needs, discuss barriers, and determine appropriate accommodations.

Free Guide: How to Get Accommodations in College

This is not a casual or “easily gamed” process, as The Atlantic suggests. It is a careful, legally grounded, individualized assessment rooted in education, awareness, and advocacy.

The Right to Education, Not Exploitation

What concerns me most about The Atlantic article is how it reinforces the false narrative that students with disabilities are inflating their needs or receiving unearned advantages. Disability services offices are not handing out “perks.” Rather, we are ensuring that students can access the same educational opportunities as their peers. That is the foundation of civil rights laws.

The disability rights movement began in the 1960s and, before that, many individuals with disabilities were banned from education altogether. Today, that access to education translates to employment, independence, and contributions back to society. Undermining accommodations threatens to send us backward at a moment when the Department of Education itself is being dismantled and national conversations around mental health, ADHD, and neurodivergence are already steeped in stigma.

Students with disabilities are not a burden. They are welcome at the table of higher education.

Read: 4 Hallmarks of ADHD-Supportive Colleges

Accessibility Is Not a Loophole

One in four Americans lives with a disability. At my small college, roughly 25% of students are registered with disability services; I suspect there are another 10% who would qualify, but choose not to come forward because of stigma. Smaller schools often attract students seeking supportive, high-touch environments, and many students come to our offices only after years of struggling without assistance. For some, college is the first time they have access to health insurance, counseling services, and the availability of diagnostic testing.

On that note, the Atlantic article also ignores pressing questions about youth mental health. Beyond increased awareness and better diagnostic tools, why are today’s young people experiencing higher rates of trauma  and mental health challenges? Could it have anything to do with the fact that today’s college students — who have grown up with active-shooter drills, unfettered access to largely unregulated social media platforms, and who are entering adulthood in an economically unstable, politically volatile, and rapidly changing world — have endured circumstances no previous cohort has faced?

Ultimately, “Accommodation Nation” fails to acknowledge that an increase in student support does not signal abuse. It shows that students finally feel safe enough to seek services to bolster their education. It signals progress. At a time when students with disabilities already navigate bias, skepticism, and physical and attitudinal barriers, we do not need narratives that delegitimize their existence or imply their success is suspicious.

We need investment, compassion, and the understanding that accessibility is not a loophole, but a civil right. We should be examining why students need support, not doubting whether they deserve it. We should be investing in and expanding accessibility, not undermining it. And we should be building universities that see disability not as an inconvenience, but as a natural and valuable part of the human experience.

Jillian Lillibridge Heilman, Ph.D., CRC, is a disability expert with more than 20 years of experience in disability education and advocacy. She is the Director of Student Accessibility Services at a small New England college and provides training to other colleges and private organizations that seek to better serve individuals with disabilities.

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The Upside Down Is My Normal

When 12-year-old Will Byers goes missing from the fictional town of Hawkins, Indiana, in 1983, his family and friends don’t realize that he’s actually right there beside them. He’s just in an alternate dimension called the Upside Down, which parallels the real world. The Upside Down is a colder version of home, a world of intense electrical storms, strange bloodthirsty creatures, and darkness.

Living with ADHD is a lot like being in the Upside Down. I’m amongst people in the real world, but they don’t see what’s in my dimension. While others go smoothly from Point A to Point B, I have fog, toxic quicksand, and squelching monsters that keep me from moving freely.

Stuck in a Loop

“Stuckness” appears throughout the show. Sure, there are the characters who become stuck in the Upside Down. But the Upside Down itself is also stuck. Even as time in the show’s world moves ahead, the Upside Down stays in 1983. Then there’s the mother of Eleven (a young girl with psychokinetic abilities) who is stuck in a catatonic state, caught in a mental loop that replays the events leading to her daughter’s kidnapping.

If my ADHD brain had a dial, “stuck in a loop” would be its default setting. It cycles endlessly through memories of childhood starring young me as a brilliant, shining disappointment. This loop replayed with intensity after I was diagnosed with ADHD in my 20s. I experienced my memories with a fresh set of eyes, mourning all the time I struggled socially and emotionally without understanding why. I become enmeshed in the loop less often these days, but it remains a constant presence.

☁️ Read: Getting Unstuck from the Cloud of ADHD Stuck-ness

The Mind Flayer

The powerful, massive, spider-like monster of the Upside Down — the show’s antagonist for most of its run — can connect to and command surrounding creatures and entities even as they venture outside the alternate dimension.

Sometimes, living with ADHD feels like living with a creature that’s flaying my body and mind. It tears through my brain, causing symptoms and challenges I’d rather bypass. But sometimes my ADHD acts like a living, breathing partner. Like when it drives me into hyperfocus and allows me to be extremely, but selectively, productive.

Vines and Tunnels

When Will becomes possessed by the Mind Flayer, he begins to erratically draw a series of tunnels and vines. His drawings, initially dismissed, are later discovered to be a map of the Upside Down growing beneath the town. The tunnels twist and turn, and the vines have minds of their own.

ADHD thinking patterns can operate like the vines and tunnels of the Upside Down. One thought gives birth to another, growing out of hand, spreading until I burn out. Or, without warning, a thought can stop. A brilliant idea becomes a dead end, abandoned.

💡 Read: The True Value of ADHD Side Quests, Rabbit Holes, and Tangents

Who’s In Your Party?

The teen protagonists of the show call themselves the Party, borrowing from a Dungeons & Dragons term for an allied group of players. The party and the entire town unite to confront the forces besieging their home.

When no one else knows I’m drowning, even those closest to me, I remind myself that the Upside Down is invisible. I need to let them know it’s trapped me. When I do, I have faith they’ll show up and help me fight every scary monster. When we feel broken, we can heal together.

Life is better with a Party.

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