If you’ve never met me before, I’d describe myself as someone who cares deeply and works hard. I’m the kind of person who likes things to make sense. I like structure, clear expectations, and systems that actually work. I’m also fiercely loyal, especially to people I trust. I’m the person who will problem-solve and keep going even when I’m running on fumes… which, looking back, explains a lot!
I’ve always had a few quirks that make me me. I can hyperfocus like it’s an Olympic sport when I’m interested in something. Building processes, making things more efficient, finding ways to improve the way we work – I love all that. My brain is constantly busy – it’s either in full sprint mode or it’s refusing to move at all.
For me, a good day looks like achieving through meaningful work, supporting others, solving something that’s been stuck, and still having enough mental energy left to be present at home. It’s the kind of day where I finish feeling satisfied rather than drained. Those days are gold.
Before my diagnosis, I used words like “busy” and “all over the place” to describe how my brain worked. In reality, it felt like I was constantly managing myself.
When people think of me, I hope the first thing they see is not the diagnosis! I want them to see someone capable. Someone reliable. Someone who genuinely cares – a person who wants to do things properly and make things better, not just for myself but also for the people around me.
When I look back now, there are so many parts of my life that make more sense since diagnosis.
I could be incredibly driven, productive, and switched on … and then suddenly hit a wall. I could hold huge responsibilities, yet feel completely overwhelmed by small tasks. And I could keep everything together at work but then feel like I’d fall apart the second I got home. I could be organised in some areas, but totally disorganised in others – not in any typical way, but in a “why is this so hard for me?” way.
There were absolutely moments where I felt different and couldn’t explain why. It always felt like I was working twice as hard just to keep up with the basics. I didn’t necessarily think I was failing – I just thought I was … exhausted.
Over time, I developed coping strategies without even realising what they were. I relied heavily on task lists, even if I didn’t complete them, and created systems to hold my life together. I learned how to mask, especially in professional environments – looking calm, capable, and in control while my brain was doing backflips behind the scenes.
I learned how to push through. And I got very good at it. It was exhausting.
Strengths were always there, too; I just didn’t understand them properly. My ability to see patterns, to problem-solve, to focus deeply when something mattered, to work fast under pressure, to care about people and outcomes. Those things weren’t new after diagnosis, they were present all along.
However, so were misunderstandings. The biggest one was a story I told myself: that if I was struggling, it meant I wasn’t trying hard enough – or that I was lazy. Other people misunderstood too sometimes, assuming if you can do the big things, you can also do the small things. But they don’t see how much energy it takes to get there.
I didn’t seek a diagnosis because I suddenly woke up one day and just decided to. It was more like I reached a point where I couldn’t ignore the patterns anymore, especially after having my daughter and those patterns got stronger.
I’d spent years working so hard to stay on top of everything. It worked – until it didn’t. Burnout cycles became more obvious. Overwhelm felt heavier. The mental load was constant. I started to realise that I wasn’t dealing with “stress” or “life.” I was dealing with something deeper in how my brain processed the world.
There wasn’t a single turning point, but many moments that stacked up. Moments where I’d think, “it shouldn’t feel this hard”. Moments where I was doing everything “right” but still struggling. Moments where people would say “just do it” and I couldn’t.
I saw information about ADHD in adults, especially women, and something clicked.
Of course, I had fears and hesitations, and questioned myself constantly. Worrying I was being dramatic, I was afraid I’d be dismissed. I worried that it would seem like I was making excuses. And I worried people wouldn’t take me seriously because I was “functioning.”
If I’m being honest, part of me stressed that if I got assessed and didn’t get a diagnosis, I’d be back at square one with no explanation and no direction.
The process surprised me in a few ways. For one, it was more emotional than I expected. Not just about ticking boxes, I had to reflect on my whole life, revisiting childhood experiences, school, relationships, work … I saw the same patterns at every stage. It was validating, but also confronting.
During the waiting period, my brain did what it does best: it analysed everything. I was constantly reflecting, replaying, second-guessing, and connecting dots. It felt like I was standing on the edge of an answer without being able to grab it yet.
When I received my diagnosis, I didn’t feel one emotion – I felt a huge mix of them.
The biggest was relief, a real, physical relief. Like someone had finally handed me the missing piece of the puzzle. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t failing at life in secret.
There was also grief. Grief for younger me, and for all the years I spent being hard on myself. Grief for the times I pushed through when I needed support. Grief for the times I thought I was broken.
There was validation too. And some confusion. Even when something makes sense, it still takes time to absorb it. It shifts the way you see your past and your present at the same time.
I did see myself differently after diagnosis. Not as someone who was both “too much” and “not enough”, but as someone whose brain is wired differently, someone who coped without understanding why.
First, I told people I trusted, people I knew wouldn’t judge me or minimise it. I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want a big emotional moment. I wanted to be understood.
Giving myself time helped me process it in a healthy way. Talking things through. Reading. Learning. Reflecting – and letting myself feel what I felt without trying to rush a “positive spin.” Because it’s not one feeling, it’s a whole journey.
Since diagnosis in June 2025, a lot has changed internally, even if externally it looks similar.
I’m still me. I still work hard. I care a lot. I still love systems, structure, and improving how things run. But I understand myself now – and that has changed everything.
I’ve become more intentional about how I work and communicate, and learned that I need clarity. I need structure, with time to focus without interruptions, planning my energy and not only my time. My boundaries are necessary – and I’ve stopped treating burnout as a personal failing.
Some adjustments have supported my wellbeing. I’m more aware of overwhelm and realistic about my capacity. I’m more willing to say, “I need this in writing,” or “I need time to think.”
The strengths of my neurodivergent identity are huge. My hyperfocus. My ability to solve problems fast. My drive to improve systems. My ability to think strategically and connect dots quickly. Creativity. Passion. Emotional insight. These are not “random personality traits”, they’re part of how my brain works.
One misconception I would love to challenge is that neurodivergence equals inability. It doesn’t. It means difference. The environment and systems matter – a neurodivergent person thrives, not by becoming someone else, but by being supported to work in a way that matches how their brain functions.
If you’re thinking you might be neurodivergent but you don’t have a diagnosis, the biggest thing I can say is, you’re not making it up. And you’re not alone.
You don’t need to wait for a diagnosis to learn to understand yourself. Notice your patterns. Learn about neurodivergence from credible sources. Reflect on what helps you thrive and what drains you. Talk to safe people. Give yourself permission to explore without shame.
Other support options beyond a formal diagnosis include therapy, coaching, work accommodations, peer support and practical strategies. Self-awareness alone is life changing. Diagnosis can be helpful, but isn’t the only path to self-understanding.
Everyone’s journey is different, because everyone’s brain, life experience, trauma history, personality, and environment are different. Some people seek diagnosis early, some late. Some never. Some have access to support while others don’t. There’s no “right” way to do this.
For colleagues, leaders, and allies, inclusion is often simpler than people think, starting with communication that’s clear and respectful. It looks like giving people information in their preferred format, or setting clear expectations without assuming everyone processes the same way. It looks like flexibility and trust.
What helps me feel supported is not being treated as though I’m fragile. It’s being treated like I’m capable, with the understanding that my brain works differently. Meaningful inclusion exists when workplaces not only talk about diversity, but design systems that allow different brains to succeed.
Neurodiversity awareness, to me, means understanding that difference isn’t a flaw.
Recognise that people bring different brains, processing styles, and strengths to the table. Move away from the idea of “one right way” to work, or communicate, or succeed.
One message I’d love readers to take away from my story, is this: you can be successful and still be struggling. You can be high-performing and still be exhausted. You can look like you’re coping and still be drowning inside.
Today, my self-acceptance looks like working with my brain instead of fighting against it. I've built support systems instead of relying on sheer willpower. I’m kinder to myself, not because I’m making excuses, but because I finally understand my truth.
My understanding of “difference” has massively evolved. I used to see difference as something to hide. Now, I recognise it is something to understand. To work with. Differences are strengths, not despite them, but because of them.
Honestly, I’m still learning. But I’m learning from a place of compassion now, not criticism.
And that’s made all the difference.