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”

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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

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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.

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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

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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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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I grew up in a music-obsessed family. I was named after Roberto Carlos, the renowned Brazilian singer. (Another option was “Fernando,” after the ABBA song.) My father was a serious vinyl collector, and rarely was our home silent. My parents instilled in my siblings and me an appreciation for all music, teaching us never to dismiss any artist or song but rather to express, “This music doesn’t speak to me now.”

I’ll never forget the first time I heard “We Got the Beat” by the Go-Go’s. The opening drum line, fast and strong, flipped a switch in my 10-year-old brain. I had never been instantly hooked like that by anything. Their album, Beauty and the Beat, was the first I ever bought, and it helped carve out my own musical identity. (All these decades later, the magic of this album endures.) From The Cure’s moody sounds and Sinéad O’Connor’s raw vocals to Tito Puente’s vibrant rhythms and Linda Ronstadt’s soulful voice, I listened to it all, and I still love discovering new music.

Fifth-grade me may have been a little dramatic when I wrote this in a school essay: “Music is my religion, my drug, my validation, and my salvation.” Theatrical, but not wrong. As a kid with undiagnosed ADHD, I innately understood that music was more than enjoyable; it was necessary. I gravitated toward it to manage symptoms I later recognized as ADHD.

I turned facts into songs for better recall. While studying, I drummed on random surfaces, and by test day, I “felt” the rhythm again to recall what I learned. My earliest attempts at writing were supercharged by music. I distinctly remember staring at a blank page, frozen, unable to start my assignment. Something compelled me to play Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” on my tape recorder. The iconic opening bassline unblocked my brain and lifted me out of paralysis. I am forever grateful to my dad, who could have shut off the music, but believed me when I said it was helping. Sure enough, the essay poured out in minutes. Today, I always have music — sometimes soft, but often loud and cacophonous — playing when I need to focus. In fact, I wrote my dissertation to bands like Green Day and Ministry.

Looking back, I admire how my parents used music creatively to support me. To keep me from lingering too long in the shower, my mom put a radio in the bathroom and said, “If you listen to more than four songs, then you’re in the shower too long.” My dad, who liked to listen to music in layers, replayed songs so I could focus on different instruments each time. He didn’t know that this way of appreciating music was a form of mindfulness – just what my ADHD brain needed.

Music has a special place in my life. I firmly believe in its power to connect, heal, and reveal the best in us. I’m passionate about sharing this truth, including with my patients. Whether creating playlists to validate feelings or dancing away social anxiety, I help others lean into music to improve their lives.

My ask: be an open-minded listener. Try a genre you’ve never explored or revisit a song you once dismissed — it might speak differently to you today. Here’s to discovering the next song that lights up your brain.

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When my passion is ignited and my emotions are triggered, writing is my tried-and-true release. Since I first learned about my own ADHD and autism as an adult, I’ve devoted myself to dismantling misinformation about neurodivergence through writing. I share my thoughts on multiple platforms. I amplify other AuDHD voices and spend hours researching and writing, swirling learned information with lived experience. The work has been immensely rewarding, connecting me with community and other AuDHD folks who tell me that my writing has helped them. That, in itself, makes it worth the effort.

But there’s another side to advocacy that I’ve come to experience more and more in this political climate: rejection sensitive dysphoria (RSD) – the bane of my existence and truly one of the most disabling aspects of my ADHD.

Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria and Gut-Punch Advocacy

Fear of rejection and criticism — real or perceived — has always affected me deeply. RSD shows up for me as physical symptoms like nausea and vomiting, sweating, shaking, and extreme restlessness. My nervous system kicks into overdrive. I pace. I obsess. I’m left with little mental capacity for daily tasks. When I’m out of the proverbial woods, I often sob with gratitude, then sleep it off for 24 hours. So, when I say RSD is paralyzing, I am not being hyperbolic.

My writing on neurodivergence is not terribly controversial or polarizing, but it’s been harshly brought to my attention that some people have problems with me. The number of vitriolic comments I’ve deleted on my Substack is astounding. I’ve endured spiteful attacks and criticism simply for sharing my personal experiences and thoughts as an AuDHD woman. Attacked simply for stating the truth, with sources to back it up. I am consistently startled by the fact that many people really, really hate information. Many people are highly opposed to listening and learning.

I find myself feeling like two distinct people. One is a leader, a fearless and fierce advocate who will stop at nothing to dismantle and correct harmful narratives. The other is a scared little girl crouched in the corner, shaking like a leaf.

I get dreadful nausea just before hitting the publish button. The fear of criticism from faceless bullies and the very people whose minds I am attempting to change rises in dizzying waves. As reposts and positive comments roll in, the nausea decreases, but one hurtful comment in a sea of praise sends me crawling back to my corner. I cry, I rage. I become consumed with my two selves; the one who insists that I persevere and continue to be a voice for my community, and the one who tells me to run, to hide, to place self-preservation at the top of my list.

We’ll Make It Through, As We Always Do

The reality of being AuDHD is that I burn for justice, am sickened by the lack of it, and become inflamed by fallacies. But inextricably woven into that reality is another one: I fear rejection so intense that a single comment can leave me bedridden.

Friends, I would love to end this post with a solution to quiet RSD so we can advocate tirelessly. Sadly, there is no panacea except to accept these opposing needs. To show myself radical compassion and to honor whatever I’m feeling at any given moment. With this comes the realization that much of the AuDHD community is feeling the same way.

To my community, my message is this: Give yourself grace.

Write the post. Engage if it feels right. Speak. Scream if you want to. Delete it if that feels safer. Whisper to the tears on your pillow if that’s what you need. Move in silence if that’s what your heart tells you to do.

It is OK if you need a break from advocacy. It’s OK to block people. As painful as it is to admit, we cannot and will not change the minds of those who are married to their ignorance about neurodivergence. We cannot inspire empathy in people who see no benefit in it. All we can do is speak the truth, be loyal to our own experiences, and give it our best shot. Change isn’t always immediate or quickly visible.

When RSD feels like a gut punch, remember that there are others who know exactly how it feels. I know it feels like your world is being turned upside down and shaken by the hand of a cruel, callous giant.

But RSD is not cause for shame. We’ve made it this far — despite every ounce of rejection, and we will continue to make it through one day at a time.

In dark times, we must remember that there will always be people who uplift and support us. And we always have ourselves, our values, and our non-negotiable truths. We must cling as tightly to this as we can; like-minded community and inner knowing will carry us through.

This too shall pass. I know that’s a tired platitude, but it’s also true. No state is permanent.

I realize that positivity can sometimes feel so irritatingly over-simplified, especially in times like these. But the truth is, we have no choice but to take it one day at a time. Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow will bring a fresh sky.

Tomorrow might just be our North Star.

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“Why Don’t I Like Kissing?” The ADHD Sensory Block

For many of my clients with ADHD, kissing isn’t always the warm, intimate act it’s “supposed” to be. Instead, it can feel like a sensory storm.

There’s too much saliva and not enough breathing. You can taste hints of what your partner ate for lunch earlier. There’s the irritating texture of stubble on their face. And distractions coming from the TV or a buzzing phone. You notice your hair is stuck to your lip. You’re suddenly hyperaware of how close you are to someone’s face.

ADHD brains are already processing an abundance of sensory input on a good day. Add in an intimate situation with high emotional stakes, and you’ve got a recipe for distraction, discomfort, or shutdown.

But It’s Not Just Sensory: Kissing and Mental Bandwidth

Neurotypical intimacy scripts treat kissing as a baseline requirement for intimacy and for building a relationship. But when kissing is uncomfortable or dysregulating, partners can misinterpret that as rejection, lack of attraction, or emotional disconnection.

Intimacy challenges aren’t always about desire or love, as neurotypical advice would have us believe. Beyond sensory blocks, they are sometimes about the brain’s ability to regulate attention, emotion, and working memory (i.e., executive functions) under real-time, sensory, and social pressure.

• If you’re spending mental bandwidth on managing discomfort instead of enjoying the moment, that can lead to emotional regulation fatigue.
• If you have to remember to initiate kissing to keep your partner happy, that’s pressure on working memory.
• If you’re trying to prevent your partner from feeling rejected, you’re layering in impulse control and social monitoring — hotspots for ADHD burnout.

Ideas to Feel Close: Alternatives to Kissing

Kissing is only one of many ways to connect and it’s not automatically the most intimate or sensual.

Think of intimacy like a playlist: You don’t need to play the same track every time to keep the mood alive. Sometimes you need options.

• Forehead or temple kisses: gentler contact with less sensory overwhelm.
• Playful micro touches: a squeeze of the hand, a brush of the fingers, a tap on the hip while passing by.
• Shared sensory anchors: holding hands under a blanket, sitting with your legs intertwined, leaning shoulder to shoulder during a show.
• Parallel play intimacy: being together in the same space doing different activities (reading, cooking, gaming) while staying connected through the small glances or shared commentary.
• Eye contact: short bursts of focused connection without physical touch can sometimes feel more intimate than kissing ever could.

ADHD and Kissing: Start the Conversation

If kissing feels like a block for you, the first step is honesty with your partner.

1. Name the experience without apologizing for it. (“It’s not that I don’t want to be close to you, it’s that kissing can trigger sensory overload for me.”)
2. Explain what does work for your brain and body.
3. Make it collaborative by inviting your partner(s) to explore new options together.

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September 30, 2025

The Trump administration continued its attack on autism last week, this time by linking Tylenol (acetaminophen) use in pregnancy to autism and strongly discouraging its use. (“Fight like hell not to take it” and “tough it out,” Trump told expectant moms.)

White House Press Secretary Karolina Levitt said, “The Trump administration does not believe popping more pills is always the answer for better health.”

Hold on: I am healthy. So are my autistic friends — and if they aren’t, their health problems aren’t ASD.

Trump isn’t offering a cure for autism. Instead, he and RFK, Jr., are contributing to the burden of stigma that autistic people deal with every day. Autism is not a disease or a mental health condition. It’s both a disability and a kind of neurodivergence.

“Curing Autism” Is Ableist

First off, blaming autism on pregnant people taking Tylenol isn’t just wrong — it’s potentially dangerous. Since ibuprofen and aspirin are known to harm developing fetuses, acetaminophen remains the only painkiller available and safe for pregnant people, as backed by the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, the Society for Maternal-Fetal Medicine, the Autism Science Foundation, and the American Academy of Pediatrics.

During each of my three pregnancies, round ligament pain left me nearly unable to walk. If I had not been allowed to take Tylenol, I would have been bedridden, which can cause deep vein thrombosis, a loss of bone mass, and injury to the heart and lungs.

It’s true that many parents and children would benefit from a better understanding of autism, as well as improved therapies that emphasize accommodation and communication strategies.

Manifestations of autism, to be sure, can cause difficulty and frustration. Challenges with social communication and interaction, as well as “restrictive and repetitive behaviors,” can lead to friction. And autism is a spectrum condition — some people can “mask” their autism and pass for neurotypical. Others may have difficulty communicating their basic needs. For some parents, the difficulties inherent in caring for so-called “low-functioning” autistic children can be enormous. (Though it’s important to recognize that terms such as “low-functioning” are also inherently ableist; autistic people all function differently.)

Those parents need both support and improved interventions. But their children’s brain differences don’t need to be “cured.” We don’t want a “cure.” We want accommodation and understanding.

Claiming that autistic people need to be cured to fit into everyday society implies that neurodivergent people are a burden. “These are kids who… will never pay taxes,” RFK, Jr. said. “They’ll never hold a job, they’ll never play baseball, they’ll never write a poem, they’ll never go out on a date. Many of them will never use a toilet unassisted… and we need to put an end to it.”

As a published poet, I can only assure you that autistic people do indeed write poetry. Beyond that, this language and framing of autism are terrifying — echoing rhetoric that has fueled some of the darkest moments in human history. (That people are linking this administration’s language and policies to eugenics is not an overblown reaction.)

We Don’t Want a Cure for Autism

The vast majority of autistic people don’t want a cure. The idea of curing us pathologizes the way we think, feel, and interact with the world. Instead of a cure, we need help and accommodations from a society structured to favor neurotypical people.

“This administration seems to care a lot about autism as a supposed epidemic,” said Colin Killick, the executive director of the Autistic Self Advocacy Network. “It does not seem to care much at all about autistic people.”

If this government cared, it would enact comprehensive disability legislation (currently being gutted), fund special education for autistic children (also on the chopping block), and provide adequate workplace accommodations and protections for autistic adults (harder to do with the DEI rollback). Instead, our existence is being called “a family tragedy.”

This rhetoric belies the administration’s claims to care about autistic people. Instead, it tells us that priorities lay with eradicating and demonizing people it misidentifies as a societal burden. But we’re far from a burden. Autistic people have the same rights as any other American: the right to joy, the right to self-determination, and the right to make medical decisions without government interference.

We don’t want a cure. We want our value to be acknowledged.

Understanding Autism: Next Steps

• Free eBook: The Truth About Autism in Adults
• Read: 4 Big Questions About Tylenol and Autism — Answered by Doctors
• Read: Trump Irresponsibly Links Tylenol to Autism — and Revives Mother-Blaming Myths

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Enjoy the audio version of this post!

Do you feel like your attention span is that of a rock? Is TikTok rotting your brain to the point where you hyperventilate if you forget to bring your phone with you to the bathroom? (Shout out to those who had to read the backs of shampoo bottles to pass the time when they were kids!) Here’s a novel (the pun should hit you any second) idea to repair it: the mystical art of… reading.

For people with ADHD, the benefits of reading are many:

1. Reading lets you train your brain to focus on something less stimulating than, say, television, social media, or video games.
2. It can support executive functions like working memory.
3. It lets you escape reality for a bit.
4. Finishing a book does wonders for your self-esteem.

But, as someone with ADHD, I know how absurd it sounds to say, “Just sit down and read!”

Reading isn’t so simple if you’re fighting against the weight of inattention, impulsivity, low boredom tolerance, dyslexia or another learning difference, and have a brain that’s accustomed to the overstimulating content on social media. It can feel like having leg weights on your brain 24/7.

The good news is, reading really can be for everyone. With the right mindset, you can slowly re-introduce reading into your life and reap all its benefits, one of the biggest being strengthening your attention muscles.

1. Read what interests you

In college, I struggled to read because I couldn’t play to my interests. Reading for classes became a chore, so I lost all motivation for it. Unless you’re forced to power through reading assignments, find genres that interest you.

• Ask:
  • What did I like reading/watching as a kid?
  • What books, movies, and TV shows do I enjoy now?
  • What genres (horror, sci-fi, romance, fiction, nonfiction, etc.) do I gravitate to?
• If you know what books you like, use this website to find similar titles: meetnewbooks.com

[Read: What Is Dopamine Fasting?]

2. Find music that gets you in the zone

Some people need complete silence to begin reading, but I find that listening to instrumental music helps get me in the zone for focus. YouTube hosts a library of genre-specific playlists that you can have on while reading. I lean toward video game soundtracks, since they are often composed to maximize engagement.

Here are some of my favorites that promote focus for reading:

• Any John Williams (He’s the GOAT) or Hans Zimmer film scores
• Legend of Zelda playlists with ambient (rain, wind, etc.) sounds on YouTube
• Elder Scrolls: Skyrimoriginal soundtrack, also with ambient sounds

3. Read at an easy-for-you level

If you’re not much of a reader, or if it’s been a while since you’ve spent time on a book, don’t be ashamed to read books that are “easy” for you or meant for younger readers.

[Read: How to Channel Your Attention]

For example, I read the Percy Jackson series for the first time recently and had a great time with it. I would have loved the books when I was a kid, but, even as an adult, they were great fun to read. I connected with many of its themes, and, as a bonus, Percy also has ADHD that’s presented as more than just the stereotypical hyperactivity. Yay, representation!

Bonus Book Tip: If anyone gives you a hard time about your reading choice, you have a book you can throw at them.

4. Audiobooks count as reading

Some argue that audiobooks don’t count as reading, and they are entitled to their horribly wrong opinions.

Audiobooks are great for focusing busy minds. When I’m in a cleaning frenzy because people are coming over and the house looks like it was ransacked by a thief, I put a book in my ear and get to work. An engaging story helps kick me into gear for the otherwise mind-numbing work of cleaning.

Bonus Book Tip: Listening to an audiobook while reading is a great way to double-focus on the text. This can be particularly helpful if you’re assigned to read things outside of your interest.

5. It’s OK to stop reading

If a book isn’t clicking with you, move on. Your interest-based brain will tell you when to set down a book; listen to it. If you’re reading the same sentence over and over, or your mind wanders more often than normal, it may be time to try another book.

To mitigate the financial burden of DNFing (Did Not Finish) a lot of books, which may happen while you are trying to get into reading, I recommend either using the “Download Sample” feature for Kindle Books on Amazon or getting a library card. (Most libraries grant access to e-books and audiobooks on top of print versions.)

A Final Word

If your goal with reading is to increase your attention span, great. But I’d encourage you to think about other benefits that come with focusing your attention. I have no doubt that reading has made me a better person and has helped me manage different aspects of my ADHD, most of the time without even realizing it.

ADHD and Attention Span: Next Steps

• Read: Screens Are Embezzling Your Attention. Steal It Back — Now.
• Read: “How Anne of Green Gables Comforted and Inspired Me”
• Read: Never Enough? Why ADHD Brains Crave Stimulation

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