The Things I Thought Were Character Flaws

I don't think I ever realised how much of my childhood was spent believing there was something wrong with me.

At school, I was the kid who could talk for hours about something I was interested in but couldn't remember to bring the worksheet we'd been given five minutes earlier. I could finish an entire project in one night if the deadline was the next morning, but somehow couldn't make myself start it three weeks before when I was actually supposed to. Teachers called me lazy, careless and easily distracted, and I heard those words often enough that eventually I started using them for myself.

Homework was probably the biggest battle. I'd sit at my desk knowing I needed to do it, sometimes staring at the same page for half an hour without actually processing what I was looking at. Then I'd get frustrated with myself, wander off to do something else and feel guilty about it later. My parents thought I just needed more discipline, and honestly, I thought they were probably right.

I wasn't diagnosed with ADHD until I was in my early twenties.

Looking back, so many things suddenly made sense. The constant mental noise, the difficulty starting tasks, the way I could become completely absorbed in something I loved and lose track of time, the forgetfulness and the ridiculous amount of energy it took to keep myself organised. It was almost a relief, but there was also a strange sadness in realising that I had spent years thinking I was failing at things that other people seemed to find easy.

Eventually, I found a job in an office. I actually loved the work. I was good at solving problems, coming up with ideas and talking to clients, and when something genuinely interested me, I could get completely absorbed in it. The problem was that my workplace seemed to value one particular way of working, and I didn't fit neatly into it.

My manager wanted everything done exactly the same way, at exactly the same time, with constant interruptions throughout the day. I'd be expected to stop halfway through something complicated to answer an email, then immediately switch back to another task, and somehow remember everything I'd been doing. If I asked for written instructions or tried to explain that I worked better when I could focus on one task at a time, I was told I needed to "learn to cope like everyone else."

I tried. God, I tried.

I started working earlier, staying later and writing lists for my lists. I put reminders everywhere, colour-coded my calendar and kept notebooks beside my computer. I stopped asking for help because I didn't want management thinking I couldn't handle my job. The more exhausted I became, the more mistakes I made, and the more mistakes I made, the more convinced I became that everyone else was right about me.

Eventually, I had a meeting with my manager where I was told that my performance was becoming a concern. I remember sitting there feeling embarrassed and angry at the same time, because I knew I was capable of doing the job. I just couldn't keep doing it in a way that was making me feel like I was constantly failing.

For the first time, instead of apologising, I explained what I needed.

I asked for instructions to be provided in writing where possible, fewer unnecessary interruptions when I was working on complex tasks, and a little flexibility around how I organised my workload. None of those things seemed unreasonable to me, but my manager made it clear that they weren't interested in changing the way the team worked for one person.

That meeting hurt more than I expected it to. But strangely, it was also the moment something changed. I stopped trying so hard to prove that I wasn't difficult. I started looking for a workplace that valued what I actually brought to the table rather than constantly measuring me against someone else's idea of a "good employee." 

A few months later, I found another role.

My new manager didn't treat my ADHD like an inconvenience. When I explained how I worked best, she asked, "Okay, what would help?" That question nearly made me cry. It turned out I wasn't lazy. I wasn't careless. I wasn't incapable of being organised, and I certainly wasn't stupid. I simply needed to understand how my brain worked and find environments and systems that worked with it rather than constantly fighting against it.

I'm still learning. I still forget things, lose track of time and occasionally spend three hours hyperfocused on something that absolutely did not need three hours of my attention. I still have days where my brain feels like twelve browser tabs are playing different music at the same time.

But I don't hate myself for it anymore.

These days, when I think about the kid sitting at his desk staring at his homework and wondering why he couldn't just be like everyone else, I wish I could go back and tell him something.

You aren't broken. Your brain just works differently.

And one day, you're going to stop trying to make yourself fit into every room you're standing in and start looking for rooms where you can actually be yourself.

That made all the difference for me.