Adding Letters to My Name Has Always Meant Another Qualification. This Time, It Meant Finding Myself.

If you've followed my work for a while, you'll know that adding letters after my name has become something of a habit. Certificates. Diplomas. Qualifications. More learning. More curiosity. More understanding. But this year, I added a very different set of letters. ADHD. Officially, I am now an AuDHD adult. I don't think I fully appreciated just how significant those four letters would become until I began treatment.

In late May, I started my journey with Tyvanse. I'm still titrating to find the dose that's right for me, so I'm very aware that this is just the beginning. I genuinely don't believe I've reached the point where I'm experiencing its full benefits yet. But even so, the changes I've noticed have filled me with equal measures of joy and grief.

The joy comes from finally beginning to understand what my brain is capable of when it's supported in the way it always needed to be. For the first time in my life, I can begin tasks that I find boring or uninteresting. I cannot tell you what a remarkable sentence that is to write. The admin, the paperwork, the emails, the jobs that have sat on my to-do list for weeks because my brain simply couldn't find the ignition key. They're still not exciting, but they no longer feel impossible.

I've also noticed my capacity building. My head feels just a little quieter. Not silent, because I don't think that's how my brain is wired, but calmer. There is a little more space between one thought and the next. For someone whose internal world has often felt like standing in the middle of a motorway at rush hour, that small amount of quiet feels extraordinary.

Alongside that joy has come grief. Not grief for my diagnosis. Not grief for who I am. Grief for how incredibly hard I have had to work for 46 years without understanding why everything seemed to take so much more effort. I think back to the countless all-nighters I've pulled to meet assignment deadlines that could have been comfortably achieved had I been able to start when I intended to. The tax returns that somehow always began on the final day for filing. The endless cycle of procrastination, panic, adrenaline, completion, exhaustion... and then doing it all again.

I think about the nights where I desperately wanted to sleep, but my brain simply wouldn't stop. The racing thoughts. The constant mental tabs left open. The internal negotiations. Thinking I was a broken human for not being able to navigate this life as easily as others. For decades, I genuinely believed all of this reflected a flaw in my character. Now I understand it was my neurology. There is something both incredibly beautiful and profoundly heartbreaking about finally having language for your own experience. 

Interestingly, my ADHD remained hidden until I had begun supporting my Autistic brain. My autism identification at 40 felt blindingly obvious in the months leading up to it. Once I understood my sensory needs, reduced masking, created more predictable routines and started working with my nervous system instead of constantly pushing against it, life became gentler. It was almost as though, once my Autistic brain finally felt heard, my ADHD stepped forward and said, "My turn." Suddenly I could see the executive functioning difficulties, the inertia, the racing thoughts and the constant search for stimulation with a clarity I'd never had before. Had you asked me nine years ago whether I was neurodivergent, I would have told you I was anxious and experienced bouts of depression. Looking back now, I don't believe anxiety and depression were the whole story, simply a chapter. They were the understandable consequences of living for decades with an unsupported, misunderstood AuDHD brain that was working tirelessly just to keep up.

People often ask me why I bothered pursuing an ADHD assessment at 46.

"You've managed this long."

"You've built a successful business."

"You've lectured in university for years."

"What difference could it possibly make now?"

The honest answer? It makes every difference. Because surviving is not the same as thriving. From the outside, I probably looked like I was coping. I built a career. I achieved academically. I worked hard. Very hard. I smiled through panic and confusion. But nobody saw the cost.

Nobody saw the hours spent trying to force my brain to begin tasks it simply wouldn't engage with. Nobody saw the emotional energy it took to keep all the plates spinning. Nobody saw the mental exhaustion that came from constantly managing a brain that felt like it was operating at full volume from the moment I woke until the moment I fell asleep.

Success and struggle can exist in the very same person. Achievement does not cancel out disability. Being capable does not mean things are easy. That is something I wish more people understood, particularly when it comes to late-identified neurodivergent adults. So many of us became experts at compensating. We relied on anxiety to fuel productivity. We overprepared. We overworked. We masked. We internalised every struggle because from the outside everything appeared to be functioning. Until one day, our nervous systems simply couldn't sustain it anymore.

This journey has only strengthened my professional conviction. Every day I meet children, teenagers and adults asking the same questions I spent decades asking myself.

"Why is this so hard for me?"

"Why can everyone else seem to manage?"

"Why do I feel like I'm constantly swimming against the tide?"

I don't want them waiting until they're in their forties to find those answers. Not because identification solves everything. It doesn't. But because understanding yourself changes everything. When we understand our neurology, we stop measuring ourselves against systems that were never designed with our brains in mind. We stop mistaking difference for deficiency. We stop believing we simply need to try harder. Instead, we begin learning how to work with our brains rather than fighting against them every single day.

There is still a long way to go on this journey. I'm still finding the right medication. I'm still learning. I'm still discovering parts of myself that suddenly make perfect sense. But I already know this much. Choosing to pursue an ADHD assessment was never about collecting another label. It was about finding freedom. Freedom from self-blame. Freedom from decades of misunderstanding. Freedom to recognise my needs without shame. Freedom to stop apologising for the way my brain works.

People often ask me what the greatest act of self-care has been in my life. They expect me to talk about meditation, exercise, breathwork, boundaries or therapy. Those things have all helped. But none of them comes close. The greatest act of self-care I have ever given myself was choosing to understand my own brain. Because understanding doesn't change who you are. It changes how kindly you treat yourself. And after 46 years of believing I simply needed to try harder, that may be the greatest gift I have ever given myself.