I NEVER would have considered even the most remote possibility that I had ADHD. I’d seen ADHD—it affected some lads at school who couldn’t sit still, shouted out in class, and generally got written off as naughty kids. And anyway, ADHD was just a parenting problem, right? RIGHT?!
My first real encounter with ADHD as an adult was through a close friend. He was impulsive, exciting, a risk-taker, and utterly amazing. He was everything I wasn’t. I’m risk-averse, a meticulous planner, a rule follower, and someone who pays (or thought I paid) careful attention to detail. Despite our obvious differences, we had a strong bond and went on many adventures together.
A few years later, after marrying my husband, I came across the description of inattentive ADHD for the first time. Forgetful, unable to focus, always losing things, and unable to organise himself despite making so much effort—this was my husband to a tee. I joked that I’d married the human embodiment of a ditzy golden retriever. ADHD, it seemed, came in different forms, not just the “hyperactive” version I’d grown up recognising.
But none of this applied to me. I definitely didn’t have ADHD… right?
The Whiplash Moment
When I finally came to terms with being autistic, I decided to reach out for professional help managing the unmasking process. During my first session with a neurodivergent-specialist therapist, I spilled everything—my struggles, frustrations, and daily challenges—like I’d shaken up a can of fizzy pop and let it explode.
About halfway through my monologue, my therapist tilted her head and calmly said, “Do you realise you present VERY strongly as someone with ADHD?”
Wait. What? Me? ADHD?
It felt like a whiplash moment—one of those cinematic instances where the camera zooms in dramatically while the background stretches out in slow motion. My therapist didn’t elaborate much during that session, probably sensing my need to process the comment first, but suddenly my whole life was thrown into focus.
A “Well, That Makes Sense” Revelation
When I relayed the therapist’s words to my husband, he burst out laughing: “Well, that makes SO much sense!”
I was baffled. What did he mean? I wasn’t bouncing off the walls like a toddler on Red Bull. I wasn’t impulsive or reckless. I was the exact opposite—a planner, a perfectionist.
Still befuddled, I did what I do best: research. And what I learned hit me like a freight train. ADHD, particularly in women and especially in autistic women, often doesn’t look like the hyperactive stereotype we grew up seeing. Instead, it manifests in ways I’d lived with my entire life but never thought to question.
What ADHD Actually Looks Like for Me
1. Restlessness
I always assumed restlessness meant someone who couldn’t sit still, constantly pacing or bouncing their legs. But for me, it’s subtle. I’m always moving—wiggling my fingers, twirling my hair, or chewing the inside of my cheek. I never thought this counted, but I literally cannot be still.
2. Racing Thoughts
I thought everyone’s brain raced at 100mph. I thought it was normal to have overlapping thoughts accompanied by snippets of music that play on loop, 24/7. Mix in my autistic tendency for repetition, and I’ve got a recipe for the same song lyric or word blaring on repeat for days.
3. Focus… and Lack Thereof
I can focus—look at me writing this blog post! I’m focused… but also listening to a podcast, mentally noting my endless to-do list, and desperately hoping I don’t get interrupted. The second I am? It’s game over.
4. Hyperfocus
I’ve always had these bursts of extraordinary productivity. At work, I could complete an entire day’s worth of tasks in one furious hour of typing. But then… nothing. I’d spend the rest of the day staring at the clock or fighting to keep my eyes open. I can’t summon or control hyperfocus—it just happens when it happens.
5. Deadlines: My Frenemy
I want to get started early on projects. I want to pace myself. But no matter how much I plan, I’ll leave it until the very last moment and then bash out something in a frenzied panic. This drives me crazy because I know what needs to be done—I just can’t seem to do it until the pressure is unbearable.
6. Oversharing
Put me near another human, and I lose all control over my mouth. I interrupt, finish people’s sentences, and overshare to the point of embarrassment. It’s like I’m a bystander in my own body, watching helplessly as the chaos unfolds.
7. Task Paralysis
I’ve always labelled myself as lazy. Basic life chores feel impossible, and I can spend an entire day doom-scrolling Instagram while stressing about the ten things I should be doing. In reality, I have so many tasks swirling in my brain that I can’t figure out where to start.
8. The Routine Paradox
I thrive on routine. I desperately need routine. But I can’t create one for myself. Any structure I implement (a new planner, chore chart, or morning schedule) will fall apart within weeks because I’ll genuinely forget it exists.
For years, this cycle of enthusiastic starts followed by quick burnouts had people suspecting I had bipolar disorder. The truth? I was just trying to force my brain to function in a way it fundamentally doesn’t.
“Not Lazy, Not Useless”
Coming to terms with my ADHD revelation has been liberating. I’ve spent so much of my life convinced I was lazy, inconsistent, or incapable of functioning like a “normal” adult. But as my therapist pointed out, it’s not my fault. I’ve been trying to drive a car using the instructions for flying a helicopter.
It’s both validating and frustrating to realise how misunderstood ADHD—and neurodivergence in general—has been, especially in women. I’m not a failure; I just haven’t had the right tools.
Moving Forward
I won’t pretend the future doesn’t still feel daunting. Unlearning decades of self-criticism is no small feat. But now, when I struggle with focus, deadlines, or task paralysis, I remind myself that this isn’t a personal failing. It’s just my brain doing what ADHD brains do. I now have the information I need to try and find methods (and maybe even medication) that will help me find a calmer place.
I spent years denying the possibility that I could have ADHD because I didn’t fit the stereotype. Now I know better—and I hope sharing this helps someone else realise it’s okay to question what they’ve been told about themselves.
If any of this resonates with you, it might be worth exploring further. You might not be “lazy” or “bad at life” after all—you might just need a new instruction manual.
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