For the first 30 years of my life, I managed to get by. Granted, I was never known for my ambition or drive, but I was bright enough to keep up in school and at work, and made up for most of my shortcomings with creativity, personality, and charisma Even after my first child was born in my early 30’s, I was making it work. Life got harder, but I managed. But what I didn’t realize then was, I’d spent my life devising strategies to manage ADHD and care for my own needs. And it mostly worked. If it was just me, I was okay. Even caring for one infant child proved to be mostly doable. The first real cracks started to show in early 2020. My second child was born in January of that year, and when the Covid-19 pandemic shut the world down, I—like so many—was forced to completely change the way I lived and worked. It was a major transition. No longer was I going to an office every day, providing me with structure and accountability. Up to that point I hadn’t even realized how essential that was to my ability to function. No longer was my free time filled with trips to the beach, or spontaneous adventures. Suddenly, my entire life was under one roof. Wife, kids, work, recreation. My office was a spare room at my house where I sat alone for hours each day. No diverting trips to the water cooler. No quick chats with colleagues in the hall. I was isolated. It was like Groundhog Day: the same monotony on an endless loop. I also struggled with the shame and guilt of being home, but not really being there. I could hear my wife on the other side of the door, doing her best to manage a newborn and a toddler, knowing that if I stepped out of my cocoon, I would get distracted and derailed from my work. My life, and my mood, became harder to manage. Months passed and slowly the world began to open back up. In-person work returned, but the rules were strict. My employer limited how many people could be there at one time. If you were in-person, social distancing was required. It was back to the office, but certainly not back to normal. I remember sitting there one day, alone in the office, eating by myself, thinking, “I could be doing this at home, and at least then I could take a break with my wife and kids and pitch in to help.” It was all the challenges of “remote work” without any of the advantages, and it went on for months. The following spring my wife and I moved our life from Southern to Northern California It was a move we’d talked about for years, and I was optimistic that it would improve our lives by being closer to grandparents and other extended family. I hoped it would offer more hands-on help with my kids as my wife and I struggled to manage life with full-time work and a baby and toddler at home. It also meant that my time working for my employer in Southern California came to an end and—without any jobs lined up and a wife who was working night shifts—I transitioned into a full-time stay-at-home dad. I went from days structured around clearly defined expectations and specific job-related tasks, to managing the lives of an 18-month-old, and a 3-year-old. Suddenly, I had to become the person defining expectations and creating structure for others. I was way outside my depth. I’d always been able to do fun. I could play games, and move on to the next activity at the drop of a hat. I could do chaos without consequence. But staying on top of things; feeding everyone; maintaining order; laundry; chores. Our household was in a constant state of disorder and stress. When my wife would come home after a long day at work, she would be faced with incomplete chores, chaos, and dysregulation. The kids were alive and fed, but it wasn’t a welcoming environment. It became clear I was the wrong person for the job. I didn’t possess the skills to maintain order and stay on top of things. I was struggling to handle the basics, and everyone around me was suffering as a result. I became discouraged. I started to focus on all the ways I wasn’t contributing as a good partner to my wife and a good dad to my kids. I was anxious, over-analyzing every aspect of life where I didn’t measure up. I was hyper-aware of my shortcomings. I was depressed, thinking about all the ways I was letting people down. I spiraled. I knew I needed help. I knew I needed support. I needed to talk to someone. I just didn’t know who, or where to even begin. I was struggling to clearly articulate why I felt so “off”. After months of spinning my wheels, I started meeting with a counselor. It only took a few sessions for them to diagnose me with generalized anxiety disorder and depression. I can’t say I was too surprised—I certainly wasn’t the first man in my family to struggle with those type of symptoms. Finally, I had something I could point to and say, “Here’s the root of my struggles”. Unfortunately, the roots of my struggle went much deeper. The depression and anxiety were there. No denying it. But that didn’t explain everything. It didn’t explain my inability to focus, or the decision paralysis that often prevented me from starting projects and tasks, or the overwhelm of trying to manage two small humans, show up as a good dad, and be a good partner to my wife. There was more to it than anxiety and depression…I just didn’t know what, and I needed more answers. I found a new counselor. She made more of an effort to connect with me, and understand my concerns and struggles. I felt validated. She listened when I told her about the challenges I had with anxiety and depression, and how they were paired with issues related to focus, productivity, and dysregulation. It felt like I was finally getting somewhere. Then, I had my “lightbulb” moment. I was aimlessly scrolling through Twitter one day and came across a tweet that said: “ADHD is feeling like you’re always behind, afraid of being seen as lazy, and overworking to compensate until you burn out in a blaze of glory.” I was struck. That was me! It so accurately described my experience! I scrolled to the next tweet and had the same “AH HA!” moment. Then the next, and the next. I could have written each tweet myself. They described experiences I’d had my entire life. Experiences that I’d assumed were unique to me—just the typical things everyone goes through. “I think I have ADHD”, I said out loud to no-one. I shared what I’d discovered with my wife. She agreed—sounded like me. The tweets finally articulated what I had been trying to explain to her. During my next counseling session, I shared my revelation. The counselor listened and agreed too—it sounded like I had ADHD. It felt liberating. Suddenly, I’d found an answer! I wasn’t just lazy, unfocused, underachieving. I was trying to function in a world that wasn’t designed for a brain like mine. And a diagnosis would finally provide me with something concrete to point to and say, “This is what is going on with my brain! This is why my life feels like chaos.” It would provide a direction for seeking the right kind of help. My counselor continued to listen, then said, “Why would you want to get a diagnosis for ADHD? All that will do is get you a prescription for medication.” Here I was, 35, feeling like my life was unraveling, but on the verge of a major breakthrough, and instead of my experience and concerns being validated, my counselor was dismissing my desire for answers as just a way to get ADHD drugs. I couldn’t have been more discouraged. It took me some time to rally from that disappointment. But I needed to keep going, despite what my counselor said. Even if I found out that I didn’t have ADHD, at least confirming one way other the other would be a result. I could check that off the list and keep looking. Either way, it felt like the best first step on the path to understanding and charting a way forward. Unsure of where to even begin, I reached out to my primary care provider. I shared an account of my struggles and how, based on doing my own research (no, that does not mean just watching TikTok’s), I thought I might have ADHD. They agreed and referred me to psychiatry to start the evaluation process. It didn’t take me long to learn that ADHD is most commonly diagnosed during childhood. The diagnostic process looks at developmental challenges demonstrated by school-age children and uses those behaviors to identify whether or not someone has ADHD. As such, a large portion of the evaluation focused on my elementary school years and required me to remember specific interactions with teachers and peers. My brain struggles to remember what happened to me yesterday. So, being asked at 35 to remember specific instances from my time in second grade was difficult to say the least. I tried my best to recall past experiences and moments that would illuminate the struggles and obstacles I had faced in school. It was a nearly impossible task. Part of my “problem” was that I wasn’t a problem. I did well in school as a kid. It was easy for me. My behavior didn’t raise any alarms. I was labeled “bright” with lots of potential—something I’ve since learned is a hallmark of many people with ADHD. I wasn’t chronically disruptive. I wasn’t always “bouncing off the walls.” The only thing I got “in trouble” for was distracting others when I would finish my work early. The further I got in the assessment process, the more I worried that my diagnosis was going to be overlooked. I wasn’t trying to get an ADHD diagnosis, but I worried that because I wasn’t a “problem child” I might slip through the cracks. The other complicating factor in the evaluation process was that my parents were required to complete a questionnaire. When they were asked to identify instances and anecdotes from my childhood that might point to something “out of the ordinary”, I worried that their own experiences were “out of the ordinary” enough that
