How do I overcome my ADHD?

This question is everywhere. I’ve been asked it by clients, friends, family. I’ve seen it all over social media. I’ve asked myself this question too. It makes sense to want to put it in a box, to separate out the diagnosis from your self. Especially among those of us who were diagnosed as adults, it can even be relieving to recognise which parts of your life were impacted by ADHD, to have an explanation, and to feel like you can ‘get over’ it.  

I wish I could tell you that there was a course of treatment, a book, a strategy, and you’d never be impacted by the struggles of ADHD again, that you could keep the good parts and get rid of the hard parts forever. That’s not true though. It’s all you. It’s your brain.

I prefer the term neurodiversity to disorder - many of us do. Because there isn’t the you part and the ADHD part. It’s all you. And it’s all ADHD. Yes, our brains work differently to others. They also share characteristics with other ADHDer’s. That doesn’t mean we’re deficient. That doesn’t mean that we have to ‘overcome our ADHD’. To extract the ADHD part would be the same as saying that there’s you and then there’s your curiosity. Or your intelligence. Or your natural inclination towards sport/theatre/music metaphors. We don’t have to fix, workaround, overcome. We have to work with ourselves, find ourselves, love ourselves. 

I don’t fix. I refuse to believe that I, you, or anyone is broken.

I’m frequently asked whether I help people figure out life, or do I help them figure out their ADHD? It’s a fair question - the banner on my website states Life & ADHD Coach. So which is it?

It’s both.

When we’re diagnosed, we are given this title. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Disorder. It’s categorised, diagnosed, it’s a deficit. Apparently. Don’t even get me started on how the rest of it is frankly wrong (seriously, try telling my thirteen-hour Sims marathons without a single bathroom break that I’m lacking in attention). It’s incredibly common when recently diagnosed to ask ‘what’s me, and what’s the ADHD?’. It’s natural to try and delineate, to compartmentalise. To figure out the fixes for this new information that you suddenly hold. 

I don’t do that. I can’t do that.

Sure, I coach people on accountability, on focus, on organisation and procrastination. But I also coach people on their lives. Every moment of my day exists with ADHD. Because it is my brain. It is how I receive information, how I communicate, how I experience my world. It is all a part of who I am. And it is just a part of who I am.

If you came to me as a client wanting to work on your ability to organise a space, it would be easy enough to refer you to a blog, a website, a book. I could offer you a checklist, a step-by-step guide, accountability and an action plan. There are tips and tricks galore for exactly your situation. I know that, and you know that. If they worked, I wouldn’t have a job. 

I’m not going to deny that ADHD makes life harder some, or a lot, of the time. The first day I took ADHD medication, I cried. Not because of the fact that my thoughts were clear for the first time, and not because I was suddenly able to choose what I focused on. It wasn’t because for the first time I was able to exist without a song playing in the back of my mind. And I had already cried for the girl who never managed to complete homework at school, and had dropped out of university, and never managed to get through a day without a teacher telling her to shut up and pay attention. 

No, I cried because I saw the finished light on the washing machine, and immediately moved my laundry to the tumble drier. I cried, because that had never happened. I didn’t even think about it, I just did it. I accomplished that seemingly tiny task, and my brain didn’t fight me every step of the way. ADHD is hard. It’s the big things, sure, but it’s every little thing as well. It’s trusting yourself, it’s brushing your teeth, it’s feeling uncomfortable when the noise in a room is wrong. It’s doing your laundry.   

The thing is, none of the books, the checklists, the podcasts, take you into account. You, as a whole person. You, with a history of punishing yourself when the space gets messy again. You, who beats yourself up when halfway through you get distracted (again) by a cute postcard that you found, or a top you used to love that you’re sure you can fix. You, who really just can’t get started for a million reasons. You, who doesn’t even see the point in starting because you hate the carpet in that room, and want to paint the walls, but you don’t know what colour, and you promised yourself that you would make it look nice once it’s clean and so why even start before you’re ready to complete the entire project. You, who doesn’t really believe you deserve that space to be nice anyway.

That’s why I coach the whole person. 

We are all whole, complex, historied, not fucking broken human beings. 

If you wanted to learn a new skill, where would you start? Let’s take painting. Would you spend the first week learning to hold a paintbrush? Or would you spend it learning about colour theory? Maybe it would be reading books, or walking around galleries, or maybe it would be just fucking painting, putting something on a canvas, and trying it until something works. They are all very valid ways to learn. 

So why are we all pretending like there is only one way to love ourselves, and why is that way almost always to ‘fix the disorder’?

There is nothing wrong with you. You are worthy of a life that you love. 

That is why I coach people on life with ADHD.