I’ve never been diagnosed with ADHD, and I haven’t sought a diagnosis, but at 67 I’ve no doubt in my mind that I have it. I tick nearly every box going.
Perhaps you can relate? Have you ever been midway through mowing the lawn, only to abandon the mower to wash your crystals in the bath, while your bedroom sits upside down from a half-finished de-cluttering mission you started earlier, and the hoover has been plugged in, unused, in the middle of the lounge, for two days? Then you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.
It was a lifelong pattern: misplaced keys, text messages half-written and never sent, shopping lists devotedly written out and then left forgotten on the dining room table. You get the picture.
But, on the other hand, when my brain found something it loved, it went to the opposite extreme. I could become so hyper-focused that I’d be fixated on a project for hours, even days or weeks, completely absorbed and happy, and at times, oblivious to everything else. I’ll never forget sitting with a client many years ago, so deeply focused that I was oblivious to the numbness creeping into my leg. As I stood up and realised my leg felt dead, I took a few steps anyway, trying to stay professional, and crashed to the floor. My leg had gone so numb it had buckled beneath me. My poor client was deeply concerned, and I was mortified.
It was a lesson learnt the hard way and nowadays I’m more in tune with my body (it does prove what we’ve always been told: don’t sit with your legs crossed.)
Looking back
For decades, I simply thought I was a bit chaotic, easily bored, and prone to leaving a trail of half-finished projects in my wake. In my 40s, a quiet suspicion began to creep in that my brain didn’t quite work like everyone else’s. Looking back at my childhood with that awareness, the signs were glaringly obvious. I was the kid expelled from school, so under-stimulated by boredom that I was always looking for ways to entertain myself. I became labelled ‘a troublemaker’, ‘disruptive’, ‘a problem’, and I’d challenge any teacher I thought was unfair or illogical.
Growing up in the 1960s and 70s, ADHD simply wasn’t on anyone’s radar. There were no accommodations, no understanding of neurodiversity, and no language for a brain that processed the world differently. If it was a struggle to sit still, focus, or conform, you weren’t seen as having a different neurological blueprint. You were ‘difficult,’ ‘disobedient’, or ‘lazy’.
That wiring followed me into my working life. I spent ten long years in the Civil Service, constantly beating myself up and wondering why on earth I kept making such ‘stupid mistakes’ on routine tasks. I didn’t realise then that my brain wasn’t careless. It was starving for the stimulation it needed to stay awake during repetitive paperwork.
The Penny Drops
The first spark of real recognition came several years ago, while I was reading up on ADHD for my clinical work. As I went through the traits, I realised the text was perfectly describing my son. Then, as I read further, I saw that it also applied to my daughter. And finally, the penny dropped: it was describing me too. It was a real ‘aha’ moment.
To confirm what my gut already knew, I recently took the World Health Organisation’s adult ADHD screening test and scored 5 out of 6. It felt entirely predictable. ADHD is highly genetic, and with neurodivergence running clearly through my own family, the pieces of the puzzle finally locked into place. Decades of beating myself up over disorganisation, poor timekeeping and forgotten birthdays simply fell away. It wasn’t a character flaw. It was biology.
Mourning the “what ifs”
But alongside that immense relief, there’s often something heavier that almost every late-identified adult has to face: a deep sadness for the years before you knew.
When the penny drops later in life, it can bring a profound sense of loss. You look back at the past through a completely different lens and mourn the person you might have been if only someone had noticed sooner. There can be a real sadness, even a grief, in seeing how much easier things could have been, how many opportunities slipped away, and how much energy was spent forcing a round-peg brain into a square-hole. This mourning isn’t linear either. It can be a messy, but necessary, process of untangling decades of internalised shame.
Building my own toolkit
Yet once you allow yourself to process that loss, something quietly joyful can unfold. There’s a deep satisfaction in taking control on your own terms. Over the years I instinctively reverse-engineered my own strategies, learning to work with my brain’s natural chemistry rather than against it.
When I struggle with time blindness, I break my routines into short, staged deadlines. When a big task feels paralysing, I give myself permission to ‘flit’ productively between jobs. I break down tasks into manageable chunks – the less desirable the task, the smaller the chunks need to be. Just today I got my lawn mowed by striking a deal with myself -finish the grass, and earn 20 minutes of guilt-free YouTube.
Lists have become my secret weapon too. I used to write them devotedly and then leave them forgotten, but now they’re where I get my dopamine hits. Crossing a task off gives me a tiny rush of reward, and my brain loves it so much that I’ll sometimes break a task down into even smaller chunks just so I get more dopamine hits for my money! It’s a bit like tricking my own brain into doing what I need it to do.
I’ve also learned to build habits so that my brain does things automatically, without needing to remember. My keys, for example, always go on the same hook, every single time, (oh ok, maybe I’ll rephrase that – most of the time). I rarely misplace them now, and I can’t tell you how much stress this eliminates. When something becomes automatic, it stops relying on a brain that’s busy thinking about something else entirely.
Why I’m at peace without a label (and why you might choose differently)
I’ve built a custom scaffolding for my life, and it works for me. And because I don’t want or need medication at this stage of my life, I’m entirely at peace without a formal diagnosis.
But that’s my path, and it isn’t right for everyone. For many people, a diagnosis is exactly the right step, and for good reasons. It can feel deeply validating, a way of finally hearing “it’s not you, it’s how your brain works”, from someone who’s qualified to say it. It can open doors to support, whether that’s workplace adjustments, support at school or university, coaching, or medication if that’s something you want to explore. No choice is better than the other. What matters is that you do what feels right for you.
A clinical superpower
As a therapist, I’ve come to see my ADHD wiring as a real clinical strength, not a disorder. Because I’m deeply, genuinely interested in my clients, my hyperfocus kicks in during our sessions. When I’m sitting with someone, I tune in so completely that the rest of the world vanishes. Traffic, barking dogs, even a crying baby outside are all outside my awareness. My attention is 100% yours.
If this is you too
I’m sharing this because so many of my clients navigate their own neurodivergent journeys every day. I want you to know there’s no single ‘right’ way to do it. Self-awareness, deep self-forgiveness and a personalised toolkit are all valid, and so is a formal diagnosis.
There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s just a difference in wiring. I’d like to emphasise my own opinion here – it’s a difference – not a disorder. Realising this difference can be a winding road of relief, sadness and rediscovery, but learning to embrace that difference can be one of the greatest blessings of your life.
If any of this sounds like you and you’d like support or a space to talk it through, I’d be glad to hear from you. You don’t need a diagnosis, or even a clear idea of what you’d like to say. You can get in touch here for a no- pressure chat about whether working together might help.
