The more I learn about myself, the more I realize that ADHD has always been a part of me—long before I even knew its name. Looking back, it feels as though I have been solving a puzzle without knowing what the picture was supposed to be. Every behavior, every struggle, every moment of self-doubt suddenly makes sense in a way it never did before.

In the past, I was informed that I might have ADHD. But when I brought it up to my mom, she quickly dismissed the idea, telling me that I didn’t have it. And so, I believed her. I trusted that she knew me better than anyone, that if something were truly wrong, she would have seen it. Instead of questioning it, I pushed away the thought and tried to fit into the world as if nothing was different about me. I didn’t advocate for myself because I assumed she was right.

But as time passed, I kept struggling—struggling with focus, with time management, with impulsivity, with emotions that felt overwhelming and out of my control. I kept wondering why things that seemed so easy for others felt like climbing a mountain for me. I kept feeling like I was failing, like I just wasn’t trying hard enough. And yet, deep down, something always felt off, like there was a missing piece to the puzzle of who I was.

For years, I thought I just needed to be more disciplined, more structured, more like everyone else. I wasn’t lazy—I was always doing something, always moving, always taking on new ideas and projects. My mind would race with excitement and possibilities, jumping from one task to the next. But the problem wasn’t starting—it was finishing. I would postpone, put things off, tell myself I had more time… until suddenly, I didn’t. I always got things done, eventually, but often later than expected. And that disappointed people.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care. In fact, I cared too much. I wanted to be reliable, to meet deadlines, to follow through on my promises. But time felt slippery in my hands. What seemed like a manageable delay in my mind felt like a broken commitment to others. The guilt of letting people down weighed on me, making me feel like I was constantly failing at something so basic—managing my own time.

And then, there was communication. Conversations that I thought were clear would leave others confused. I’d provide the big picture without key details—missing dates, jumping between events, leaving out context that made the story make sense. My thoughts moved too fast, and I often assumed people could follow along, only to realize later that I hadn’t really explained things properly. When people asked for clarification, I sometimes struggled to provide it, not because I was hiding anything, but because I didn’t even realize what I had left out. This made interactions frustrating—for both me and the people around me.

It was even harder when I was asked to give specific answers. My mind would start racing, scrambling to find the “right” response while a flood of thoughts and possibilities overwhelmed me. I knew the answer was somewhere in my head, but trying to grab hold of it felt like chasing a moving target. Anxiety would kick in, my emotions reacting faster than my logic. The pressure to provide a clear, immediate answer only made it worse, leaving me flustered, confused, and sometimes completely stuck. People would see my hesitation and assume I didn’t know or wasn’t paying attention, when in reality, I was overthinking—processing too much at once, paralyzed by the need to get it just right.

But the hardest part? My impulsivity. I would cut people off mid-sentence, eager to share my thoughts, not realizing I wasn’t actually listening. My mind was always racing ahead, already trying to finish their sentences, already thinking of my response. I wasn’t trying to be rude—I just couldn’t slow down. And in those fast-moving thoughts, without thinking, I sometimes said things that were inappropriate, words that came out harsher than I intended, words that hurt people’s feelings. And the worst part? I didn’t even realize it until I saw the hurt in their eyes.

The regret hit me like a wave every time. I would replay conversations in my head, wondering why I couldn’t just pause, why I couldn’t stop myself from speaking before thinking. I never meant to offend, yet I often did. I never meant to dismiss someone’s feelings, yet my impulsivity made it seem like I did. And the shame that followed was heavy—because deep down, I wanted to be someone people could trust, someone who made others feel heard and valued.

Then there were finances. My impulsivity didn’t just affect conversations—it affected my wallet. I spent too much without checking, making purchases in the moment without fully considering the consequences. Sometimes, it was out of excitement, chasing the thrill of something new. Other times, it was to self-soothe, convincing myself that buying something would fix the stress, frustration, or boredom I was feeling. I didn’t think about my financial situation in real-time, and when I finally did, it was often too late—I had already spent too much. Budgeting felt overwhelming, and tracking expenses seemed impossible because, like everything else, it required consistency and routine, two things that my ADHD brain constantly struggled with. The cycle repeated: impulsive spending, regret, a promise to do better, and then slipping back into the same patterns.

Discovering I have ADHD was a revelation. It explained why my brain constantly craved stimulation, why I hyperfocused on things I loved but struggled with tasks that didn’t immediately grab my attention. It explained why I could juggle multiple ideas at once but struggle to complete them in a timely manner. It explained why communication felt so natural in my mind but often came across as scattered and unclear to others. And most painfully, it explained why my words sometimes hurt the people I cared about, even when that was never my intention.

This realization has been both freeing and overwhelming. I now understand that my brain doesn’t operate within traditional timelines. I work in bursts of energy, in waves of motivation, in deep dives and sudden stops. And while this way of functioning doesn’t always fit neatly into the world’s expectations, it is mine to embrace, refine, and navigate in my own way.

I still struggle with timing. I still find myself postponing things longer than I intend to. I still need to work on providing clearer communication. I am learning to be more mindful in conversations, to slow down, to listen more, and to pause before speaking. And I’m working on my financial habits—learning how to pause before spending, setting reminders to check my accounts, and finding ways to create a system that works for my brain instead of against it.

But now, I turn this question to you: If you recognize ADHD in someone—if you see them struggling with timing, communication, impulsivity, or even finances—how will you respond?

Will you show patience, knowing that their mind moves differently but not with bad intentions? Will you offer support, recognizing that they are likely harder on themselves than anyone else? Will you create space for them to feel understood rather than judged?

ADHD isn’t an excuse—it’s an explanation. And with that understanding, we can foster compassion instead of frustration. So, what will you do?