5 Critical Lessons I Learned From My Adult ADHD Diagnosis

Trigger warning: This article includes mentions of suicidal ideation.

I was 37 years old when I received confirmation that, like an estimated 15 to 20% of the global population, I was neurodivergent, a term for a range of neurological and mental health reasons why a brain processes and reacts to information in ways that diverge from the typical. Some neurodivergent people are autistic, dyslexic, or dyspraxic. I am ADHD—an acronym that stands for attention deficit hyperactivity disorder—also known as ADD.

Until recently, I knew almost nothing about ADHD. I'd received a series of incorrect diagnoses to explain the extended mental health crisis I was in the grip of generalized anxiety disorder, depression, and clinical perfectionism. Neurodivergence had never occurred to me or anyone else, and I had no idea why so many aspects of my everyday life felt increasingly like shameful, desperate struggles. 

Finally, in late 2019, I stumbled on an article about women living with ADHD. I read their words and found my own life reflected back: outwardly performing success yet going beyond the breaking point to achieve what seemed to come more easily to others. Aspects of life felt so hard to me because they were hard for me.

ADHD means I am twice as likely to die prematurely as a neurotypical person is. In 2021 a Canadian study found that ADHD people were five times more likely to attempt death by suicide than their neurotypical peers, showing far greater risk of developing depression, PTSD, anxiety, and other mental health conditions. In women the disparity was even more profound. Among women with ADHD, 23.5% said they had attempted death by suicide compared to 3.3% of women in the general population. 

I used to think that ADHD meant a person couldn't pay attention, wouldn't sit still, and was constantly distractible. Yet as a schoolgirl I'd sat nicely, faced front, and kept quiet. I'd grown into a woman who appeared calm and organized, writing 90,000-word books and becoming a charity CEO. The negative consequences of my undiagnosed ADHD were largely internalized, and so I didn't seem to fit.

ADHD also presents differently in different people. Though experts have called for urgent change, confirming that women are four times less likely to be identified and helped because their behaviors and traits are different, the DSM-5 criteria for diagnosis2 still focuses on the ways ADHD has traditionally been understood in boys and men. 

As I learn more about other neurodivergent experiences, I'm tuning in to the wild ways in which my neurodivergent mind works. My hatred of talk radio, children's birthday parties, and grocery stores is because of how quickly I become overwhelmed by sounds and harsh lighting.

Sensory stimulus is a huge part of my ADHD life—trying to avoid too much of it but also craving things that help my brain process and engage. Walking around our small homestead, I now notice my constant need to touch things. As my fingers run over tree bark or dip into the cool liquid in an animal's water bucket, I realize that I see things more clearly when I use my hands as well as my eyes.

Living in the world as an ADHD person does cause me to struggle, and I rely on therapy and medication to keep myself well and functioning. Yet knowing who I am and beginning to accept, love, and advocate for my complicated brain is the most important lesson I'm trying to learn. 

In our final appointment, the doctor who diagnosed me spoke of a study focused on the Ariaal people, a traditionally nomadic tribe of northern Kenyan cattle herders, who researchers tested for a gene linked to ADHD behaviors. They discovered that when the gene was found in those still living a nomadic life, they were the healthiest and most successful in the group but that the carriers who had moved to a static existence were the least healthy and faced more struggles. The traits that made them leaders were the same things that made them suffer when the world around them changed.