the ADHD philosopher

Emma Gat

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Society & Culture
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the ADHD philosopher in voice/podcast form embrain.substack.com

Jan 26

The Oscar for Best Masking Goes To...

Show Notes: The Oscar for Best Masking Goes To... On Wicked, "cringe," and the crime of being earnest What Happened: Wicked: For Good got zero Oscar nominations. Last year, the first film got ten nominations and won two awards. Same crew, same vision, filmed concurrently. What changed? The promotional tours. The Problem: Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande let us see how deeply this work transformed them. They cried in interviews. They dressed in greens and pinks as personal choices, not costumes. Anonymous reports said voters were "creeped out" by their intensity. Why ADHDers Get It: This is exactly what ADHD looks like when it finds something worth loving. We hyperfixate. We let it consume us. We don't do casual or detached. When something clicks, we let it change us completely. I've seen the first movie 102 times, the second 43 times. I sit in theaters with an Elphaba squishmallow I sprayed with perfume that smells like her. To the world, that's "cringe." To us, it feels alive. The Pattern: You spend your whole life being told to tone it down, care less visibly, stop being so intense. When you finally find something worth being intense about, the world punishes you for it. The Academy gave sixteen nominations to Sinners instead. Vampires are safe. The witches ask you to feel everything. The Irony: While nominations were announced, Cynthia was in London starring in a one woman Dracula. She's playing the vampire the Academy chose over her witch. She's limitless. The Takeaway: Let them keep their trophies. We'll stay with the witches. We'll keep showing up with our whole unmasked hearts. The wizard's power always fades. But the girl who refuses to mask? She becomes a legend. ♥️ This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit embrain.substack.com

7 min
12/19/2025

Letters Under the Floorboard

Show Notes: Letters Under the Floorboard Episode Summary Why do people with ADHD feel such a strong need to share everything they find important? In this episode, I talk about the exhausting cycle of seeking external validation, the loneliness of feeling like "too much," and how I accidentally discovered a different way to relate to myself through journaling. Spoiler: it involves writing letters to future me and hiding them under a metaphorical floorboard. What I Cover The ADHD experience of finding a LOT of things important (and needing someone to confirm they matter) Why rejection sensitivity turns us into bottomless pits for validation That Ashlee Simpson song that perfectly captured my teenage desperation to be seen How I started using Day One as a journal in 2017 (and what I actually put in there) The shift from "I'm journaling because I have no one to talk to" to "I'm writing letters to future me" Why future me is a way better audience than present everyone else What it means to choose yourself on purpose Resources Mentioned Day One (journaling app): https://dayoneapp.com "Shadow" by Ashlee Simpson (yes, really) Connect With Me Threads: https://www.threads.com/@emgat.adhd Substack: embrain.substack.com Gumroad: emdhd.gumroad.com Coaching inquiries: em@empoweredadhd.org ♥️ This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit embrain.substack.com

9 min
12/02/2025

ADHD S̶u̶p̶e̶r̶p̶o̶w̶e̶r̶s̶ Traits

The word “superpower” has become controversial in ADHD spaces. People hear it and think you’re dismissing the struggle. Like you’re saying it’s all sunshine and hyperfocus and “aren’t we so quirky?” I get the frustration. I do. But superpowers in stories come from being different. From having something in you that sets you apart. That’s the whole genre. The power and the pain come from the same place. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit embrain.substack.com

8 min
11/18/2025

When Knowing Just Enough About ADHD Meant Knowing Nothing At All

Fifty people shared their late ADHD diagnosis stories with me. Different ages, different paths, but the same devastating pattern. They spent years thinking they were broken. Not ADHD broken, though. They knew what ADHD looked like: hyperactive boys, kids who couldn’t sit still, people who disrupted class. That wasn’t them. They got good grades. They held jobs. They weren’t bouncing off walls. So when everything felt impossibly hard, when basic tasks paralyzed them, when relationships crumbled under the weight of their struggles, they tried everything else. Anxiety meds. Depression treatment. Therapy for trauma. They blamed themselves for being lazy, for not trying hard enough, for being defective in ways they couldn’t name. Until they stumbled across someone on social media describing what ADHD actually feels like. And something clicked. Wait. That’s... me? But no. They knew what ADHD was. That wasn’t them. Except it was. It always had been. Their stories show us that sometimes, knowing “just enough” is so much worse than knowing nothing at all. That stereotype lived in their heads for years. In movies, in schools, in every conversation about ADHD they’d ever heard. It became the measuring stick for everything. So when they looked at their own lives, they measured themselves against that image. And they didn’t match. They weren’t hyperactive. Or if they were, it was internal: a restless mind, not a restless body. They could sit through meetings, even if their thoughts ricocheted in every direction. They got good grades, even if studying felt like drowning. They held jobs, even if getting through a single workday took everything they had. But something was wrong. They could feel it. School was torture in ways they couldn’t explain to anyone. Studying felt impossible even when they wanted desperately to understand the material. They’d read the same paragraph fifteen times and retain nothing. Work became a minefield. Simple tasks that should have taken minutes stretched into hours of paralysis. Deadlines loomed and they couldn’t start, couldn’t move, couldn’t make themselves begin even as panic set in. Relationships crumbled. They forgot important dates, shut down during conflicts, disappeared for days when overwhelmed. Friends drifted away because they couldn’t keep up, couldn’t follow through, couldn’t be consistent. And through all of it, this persistent feeling: something is deeply, fundamentally wrong with me. The chaos was invisible. No one could see the war happening inside their heads. So invisible chaos didn’t look like ADHD. It just looked like failing at being a functional person. And when everyone around them treated them like they were lazy, when every authority figure told them to just try harder, they started to believe something much worse than “I’m incapable.” They started to believe they were moral failures. Because they were smart. Everyone said so. Teachers, parents, bosses—they all saw the potential. “If only you’d apply yourself.” “If only you’d try a little harder.” “You know what needs to be done, just do it.” And that’s the thing: they DID know. They knew exactly what needed to be done. They could see it clearly. They wanted desperately to do it. But they couldn’t make themselves start. Couldn’t make themselves follow through. And watching everything slip through their fingers like sand when they knew they should be able to hold onto it... that didn’t feel like a disability. That felt like a character flaw. So they tried to fix their character. They told themselves they had anxiety, depression, maybe trauma. They medicated for those things. They went to therapy. They read the self-help books. And some of it helped a little, but the core problem never went away. They still couldn’t just do the thing. And now they’d failed at fixing themselves too. The grief they feel now isn’t just about lost time. It’s about decades of believing they were morally defective when they were actually just neurodivergent. The grief isn’t abstract. It’s specific. Painfully specific. They’re grieving the relationships they destroyed. The partner who left because they “didn’t care enough” when they cared so much it hurt. The friendships that dissolved because they couldn’t keep up, couldn’t remember to text back, couldn’t show up consistently. The family members who stopped inviting them to things because they were “unreliable.” And they’re grieving the people who used their struggles against them. The narcissists who found their weak spots and exploited them. The gaslighters who convinced them every problem in the relationship was their fault. The bosses, partners, family members who treated them like they were the worst when really, they were just struggling. They’re grieving the opportunities they missed. The career they didn’t pursue because they “weren’t disciplined enough.” The degree they didn’t finish. The promotion they didn’t get because they were labeled as unfocused or inconsistent. They’re grieving their health. The burnout that became chronic. The exhaustion that never lifted no matter how much they slept. The stress-related problems that piled up from decades of white-knuckling their way through life. They’re grieving the years of self-hatred. All the nights they stayed up loathing themselves for being lazy, for being weak, for being broken. All the journal entries filled with “what’s wrong with me?” All the times they called themselves stupid, worthless, a waste of space. Decades of treating themselves like the enemy when they were just fighting an invisible disability with no name. And decades of letting other people treat them that way too, because they believed the criticism was deserved. They’re grieving the version of themselves they could have been. The one who got help at 15 instead of 45. The one who understood why things were hard instead of assuming they were just defective. The one who built a life that worked with their brain instead of spending decades trying to force themselves into a mold that never fit. And beneath all that grief sits rage. White-hot, bone-deep rage. At the f*****g stereotype that defined ADHD so narrowly it excluded most people who have it. As if ADHD only counts when it’s loud and visible and male. As if everyone else can just go f**k themselves. At the doctors who dismissed them with a glance. Who heard “I got good grades” and stopped listening like that was the only diagnostic criterion that mattered. Who threw antidepressants at them for years without asking what might actually be causing the depression. Who saw someone articulate, accomplished, not bouncing off walls, and decided ADHD wasn’t worth considering. Didn’t even run the f*****g test. At the teachers who watched them struggle and did nothing but repeat “try harder” like it was helpful. Who saw them failing and labeled it laziness instead of disability. Who had the power to help and chose judgment instead. Who failed at their one job. At every single person who saw them drowning and decided to lecture them about swimming techniques. Every boss who called them unreliable when they were working twice as hard as everyone else just to keep up. Every partner who made their struggles about themselves, who turned “I’m having a hard time” into “you don’t care about me.” Every family member who shook their head in disappointment like they’d chosen to be this way. At the predators who spotted their desperation to be better and fed on it. Who saw someone trying so hard to fix themselves and twisted that effort into control. Who gaslit them until they couldn’t trust their own reality anymore. And yeah, at themselves too. It’s not fair, it’s not rational, but it’s there. For believing the lies. For all those years of self-hatred that can’t be undone. But most of all? At a system that handed them a warped picture of ADHD and then blamed them for not recognizing themselves in it. That let them suffer for decades. That had the knowledge and the resources and just... didn’t give a shit. That’s not failure. That’s cruelty. Here’s what that rage actually is: clarity. For decades, they were told their perception was wrong. That it wasn’t that hard. That everyone struggles. That they just needed to try harder, be better, fix themselves. Now they can see exactly what happened. The system failed them. The stereotype trapped them. The people who should have helped them didn’t. The anger isn’t irrational. It’s the appropriate response to finally understanding they were right all along. It was that hard. They weren’t making it up. They weren’t being dramatic or lazy or weak. Something was actually wrong, and it had a name, and nobody told them. That fury is their brain finally saying “I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t broken. They were wrong about me.” The anger is proof they’re not being gaslit anymore. They’re awake, seeing clearly, done accepting a false narrative about who they are. That’s reclaiming reality. That’s trusting themselves again after decades of being told not to. And that rage isn’t a phase to work through. That’s growth. That’s what happens when people stop accepting what was done to them. Society let them suffer and called it normal. Now they see it for what it was. We all do. And we’re done being quiet about it. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit embrain.substack.com

10 min
10/28/2025

Everyone with ADHD Has a Dragon

For years, my therapist kept talking about emotional regulation. Emotional dysregulation. She’d mention issues I had with it, over and over. I remember thinking: you don’t know what you’re talking about. I was a theater kid. Not a dramatic kid (though I was that too), but an actual drama kid. I could cry on cue. I could perform rage, heartbreak, joy, whatever the script called for. I had control over emotions when they were someone else’s. So when people kept saying I had problems with emotional regulation, I thought they were stupid. Obviously I could control emotions. I did it on stage all the time. The fact that my own emotions were feral felt like a completely different thing. Plus, when you’re young, there’s always that excuse, that promise that one day you’ll just… grow out of it. Everyone believed that. I believed that. Spoiler: I didn’t grow out of it. The Dragon Reveals Itself I have two moments seared into my memory. The first was 2020. I turned 30, and something shifted. I wasn’t a kid anymore. Full stop. No more hiding behind “that’s just how young people are.” I was supposed to be stepping up to the plate, like adults do. Then my generalized anxiety disorder (which I’d known about for 8 years at that point) went absolutely nuclear. Maybe it was the pandemic. Maybe it was turning 30. Maybe it was both. I would wake up hysterically crying. Nothing could stop it. I’d be in a Zoom dance class, and the second it ended, I’d collapse on the floor sobbing. Sometimes I’d have to leave midway through. Sometimes there were reasons (and when you have anxiety like mine, reasons are easy to manufacture). Sometimes there was just… nothing. Just crying. Just suffering. Endlessly. I read Untamed by Glennon Doyle, and the part where she talked about starting Lexapro felt revolutionary. So I started taking it. It helped. For a while. The second moment was 2022. I was 32, getting kicked out of my second counseling graduate program. The first time, I thought maybe it was a fluke. The second time, I knew: it was me. They couldn’t tell me exactly what was wrong; they just knew they didn’t want me there. My personality. My energy. Something about me rubbed people the wrong way, and I couldn’t figure out what. I was trying so hard to stay in control with the faculty that my emotions started leaking out everywhere else. Little fights with my husband. Crabbiness. Distance from everyone. I was so on edge all the time. Then I got kicked out, and I could finally cry about it, but it was this horrible mix of relief and horror. What does it say about me that two different programs rejected me and I still don’t know why? A few months later, I was training to become a CASA volunteer, feeling like finally I could do something meaningful. Then, the day before I was supposed to be sworn in, they called to tell me I was being kicked out. People said I looked inebriated during training. I wasn’t. I said I wasn’t. They didn’t care. The trainers didn’t feel comfortable with me. That might have been the worst time of my life. I flew back home to see my family after 10 years (of not coming to visit), thinking I’d get pampered and loved so I could feel like myself again. My dad was dying of ALS. My mom was out of her mind with stress. Instead of home cooked meals and hugs, I got a hotel room and “I don’t cook anymore.” Even my husband, who promised to keep me safe and grounded, kept disappearing to see his dad. That trip was also the last time I ever spoke to my father. He couldn’t speak after that; not even through texting (he passed away the following year). All of this happened in six months. Maybe less. And through it all: the cops kept coming to our apartment. At least five times in three months. Noise complaints. Because I was screaming. I can really scream. One time they put my husband in handcuffs while asking if I was okay, checking my arms. He hadn’t done anything. I was the one who threw something and made the noise. My journal is full of screenshots of horrible text exchanges with my husband, pictures of me sobbing. It’s almost comical from the outside. It sure didn’t feel that way. The worst part was being 32 years old and feeling like a loose cannon. At a certain point, you can’t blame hormones or circumstances. It’s just you. I could feel my body deteriorating. My heart racing constantly. I kept thinking: am I going to have these tantrums in my 40s, too?It wasn’t just embarrassing anymore. It wasn’t even shame. It was: get it together, woman. You’re going to die like this. By the end of 2023, I was 33 and had just purchased my first house with my husband. A home. A home. And I decided: I’m ready to know who I am, once and for all. I was ready to face the dragon. Facing the Dragon Isn’t One Thing Everyone with ADHD has at least one dragon. Some have multiple. These are the specific executive functions that don’t just malfunction but actively terrorize you. For some people, it’s time blindness. For others, task paralysis or working memory or impulse control. Some people are battling all of the above. For me, it was emotional dysregulation. And which dragon (or dragons) you get isn’t random. It’s shaped by your history, your wounds, what people said about you, what kept getting you hurt. The severity varies too; we all struggle with executive dysfunction to different degrees, but there’s usually one or two that cut deeper than the rest. Mine was emotional control because of those nights with police at my door, my husband in handcuffs over nothing, people treating my pain like violence. The specific shame carved out my particular nightmare. I didn’t slay my dragon in one heroic moment. There was no sword. No battle cry. It was a slow accumulation of tiny shifts that eventually added up to something real. First, I became an ADHD coach. After getting kicked out of two grad schools, finding a path where I could actually help people felt like resurrection. I could be the advocate. The person in someone’s corner. I got a scholarship to a coaching program based on my life story with ADHD, and suddenly I could see myself again as someone capable of helping, not just someone who needed to be managed. Working with clients felt like magic. I didn’t (I don’t) give advice. I just listened and asked questions, and they came up with their own solutions and actually acted on them. It was like being Tinkerbell telling Peter Pan he can fly (I think that’s part of the story?). At the same time, I got serious about meditation. I’d been trying since 2018, but it finally started working. Not daily; more like monthly. But consistent enough that the muscle developed. I stopped judging myself so hard. I started feeling resolved. Happy. At peace. And that feeling went everywhere with me, not just during meditation. I was finally able to leave myself alone. To stop badgering myself. By mid 2025, I’d started Wellbutrin, lowered my Lexapro, and began walking 5 miles a way. I started noticing things: how leaves and blooms change with the seasons, the colors of everything, the magic in ordinary moments. I knew that someday, for whatever reason, I wouldn’t be lucky enough to only think about the good. So why force myself to focus on the bad now? Life would make me do that later anyway. Slowly, this changed how I responded to bad things. It wasn’t toxic positivity. It was mindfulness mixed with coaching perspective: “Okay, this sucks. Now what?” Instead of spiraling in “this sucks this sucks this sucks why oh why,” I’d think: is dwelling on this going to help me resolve it? If yes, let’s think strategically, not self-pityingly. Because nobody’s coming to rescue me, and I don’t want to need rescuing anyway. If dwelling won’t help, let’s think about something else. Maybe what I can do later to make today suck less. Maybe a different perspective that helps me reconcile this. I’d had over 30 years of experience thinking as hard as I could about bad stuff, and I could tell you definitively: it doesn’t make the bad stuff go away. It just destroys my days. My memories. There are periods of my life (2022, for instance) that are just marred by darkness because I wasn’t taking even a second away from everything bad that was happening. Looking around, noticing, paying attention to the world: that became my antidote. Not about finding all the solutions or having all the answers or being at peace with everything bad. Just knowing I have two options: remember this period as gloomy, or remember beautiful things from this time. I chose the latter. So I made sure to bring beauty into view and turn it into memory. It would be so easy to not get out of bed when I’m upset or anxious. That’s what my brain and body beg me to do. But once I’m out, taking things in, those flowers, those leaves changing colors, those people waving at me and my dog—those are the memories that pop up when I think back on this past year. The Test In late February 2025, I was rushing to pilates when I got pulled over for speeding. I knew it was somewhat arbitrary (everyone around me was speeding), but also that it was end of month and cops have quotas. The officer said I was going 20-25 over the limit. But I was nice and calm, so he wrote it as 5 over. That had never happened to me before. I’d been pulled over before and always been kind, but I’d also always been intensely anxious. That anxiety got me in trouble. People say “I cried and they let me off with a warning,” but that’s not how it worked for me. I’d cry and panic and the cop would lose patience immediately, which made me panic more. This time was different. Sure, I was late to pilates. But who cares? Life happens. The officer pulled me over for a correct reason; I was speeding. Then he did me a favor he didn’t have to do. You can look at that moment as bad or good. I chose good. He was g

13 min
10/17/2025

Learned Helplessness

I had spent about a week sleeping on dirty sheets with no pillowcases. My husband has been sleeping on the couch because he’d been sick, and I hadn’t changed the bedding yet so he could come back to bed. Every time I thought about doing it, something in me recoiled. Not just “ugh, I don’t feel like it.” More like my body physically wouldn’t cooperate. The idea of wrestling a fitted sheet onto the mattress made me want to scream and pull my hair out. I knew it wasn’t okay. He was stuck on the couch because of me. I was sleeping on increasingly gross sheets because of me. But I couldn’t make myself do it. Or wouldn’t. Or something. This is what learned helplessness looks like up close: not always dramatic, not always about big life decisions. Sometimes it’s just you and some dirty sheets, locked in a standoff with yourself. My therapist taught me years ago to ask myself a specific question when I’m stuck like this: Is this “I can’t” or “I don’t want to”? And once I figure that out, to ask a second question: If I’m telling myself I can’t, is that actually true, or am I just convinced it’s true? These questions matter because learned helplessness thrives in fog. When you can’t tell the difference between genuine limitation and resistance, between actual inability and learned helplessness, you lose your agency. You become a victim of your circumstances instead of someone making choices within them. Let me tell you about the time I had to make one of the hardest choices of my life, and how it taught me that you don’t have to stay helpless even when you genuinely can’t do something. When I was finishing up high school, I had to pass my finals in math. I couldn’t do it. Not “it was hard” couldn’t. Genuinely couldn’t. I’d sit down to study and hit a wall I didn’t understand. It would drive me crazy. I would cry and think about it all the time; why can’t I just learn this? That’s when my therapist taught me to distinguish between “I can’t” and “I don’t want to,” so I could advocate for myself. I had to really examine: which one is this? It was “I genuinely can’t.” That was a really hard thing to decide. Because my therapist also told me: “Look, you’re gonna have a great life. An interesting life. A life full of growth. But you’re gonna always take the more treacherous road. It’s gonna be harder than it is for others. Not doing math, one of the basic things, is going to come back and bite you in the ass later. You need to know that you are making the choice of being able to handle that later.” I made that choice. And it did come back to bite me. When I moved to the US to attend San Francisco State University, they almost kicked me out (which would mean deportation) because I didn’t have any math abilities and refused to do math. They told me to go get diagnosed with something if I wanted to stay. That’s when I found out I have both math anxiety and generalized anxiety disorder, and that my math anxiety was so bad growing up that I basically missed the years when I should’ve been learning the foundational concepts that would help me learn anything using math these days. I got to stay. I’d always wanted to study psychology. I can’t ever do that if I don’t get over my math thing, because you NEED statistics for that. People told me “oh, statistics is fine, it’s nothing like math,” but let’s be real here. I’ve tried it, and let’s just say that it’s not for me. I’ve had to change my actual dreams and plans because I made that choice. But that was part of what I decided to take on myself. Here’s what I learned: it’s not about whether you’re a victim or not. There isn’t anyone out there looking to see if you’re sad and poor and miserable enough to give you a million bucks and make all your dreams come true. You’re going to have to fight for things no matter what. That’s how people live. The question is: What CAN you fight for? What CAN’T you? And even when there’s a “can’t,” notice that the story doesn’t end there. It doesn’t end with “can’t.” It doesn’t end with the victimhood. It ends with what you do with your life now. I gave up psychology fully. But that sent me on a trajectory of doing things that led me to now working with ADHDers directly. I might have done well as a psychologist, but it doesn’t matter, because I knew it was too much to ask of myself. I’ve fought extremely hard to get to where I am today. That’s agency. Not overcoming every limitation, but making conscious choices about which battles to fight based on honest assessment of what you can and can’t do, and then fighting like hell for the things that matter within those constraints. But learned helplessness doesn’t just show up in major life decisions. It shows up in the small stuff too. Sometimes especially in the small stuff. My mom has this thing where she needs to do something with her hands all the time. She’d come to me out of the blue with beautifully cut fruit on a plate and ask if I wanted it. Of course I did. But now, when I buy kiwi because I want some kiwi, I look at it in my house and think: I don’t want to peel it. I don’t want to cut it. And the kiwi goes to the trash eventually. It’s ridiculous. Is it really going to be that hard for me to get up and peel a kiwi? My husband cooks for me, makes food for me, cleans for me. It’s incredible. He’ll be fasting for the day and still make me food. He doesn’t even eat the same food I eat; he makes MY food, all on his own time. And I’m so grateful. But here’s what I’ve realized: because of my executive dysfunction, I feel like I NEED that. But the truth is I don’t need it. I would LIKE it. I love it. He’s amazing. But I don’t NEED it. The need part is from the learned helplessness. Whenever he’s out of town, do you know how hard it is to get myself to just stand up and make myself dinner? I don’t even have kids to cook for, to take care of. I just need to cook for myself. And it feels absolutely horrible. At the end of the day, it feels so bad to realize that if people weren’t doing things for you, you can’t do anything. So we need to prove to ourselves, even if we are spoiled (like I am), that outside of the support, outside of the fact that someone’s doing stuff for us, we could take care of ourselves. We’re good. We just like to be taken care of. That’s a different thing. When I’m alone and need to make dinner, I catch myself thinking: “But I want to sit here and watch TV.” So I’ve had to tell myself some things. First: you have your iPad for this. You have your phone for this. You don’t actually need the television. Second: How much television time do you want in a day? When you think back on your day, at the end of it, what do you want to remember yourself having done? Do you want to remember what you watched, or do you want to remember a variety of different activities and feel kind of proud of yourself? Third: There’s a finite amount of things that are watchable right now. This isn’t a need. You know what IS a need? For me to make myself some food and see that I can make myself some food. For me to get up and clean and show myself that I can keep this house clean. That if I lived alone, I wouldn’t become a hoarder. I wouldn’t live in squalor. That’s a way bigger need than my need to watch TV. And it’s not like I’m even watching it live anymore. It’s all streaming. I can pause it for 30 minutes. We all want to be perfect at things. When we need to do housework, we want to be the person for whom it’s effortless, whose natural tendency is to tackle those tasks. And when it’s NOT our natural tendency, we think: well, I guess I can’t. But it’s not a natural tendency for anyone, is it? We all need to do things for ourselves. We don’t need to do them as often or as perfectly as we imagine. But we definitely need to do things for ourselves. Back to the sheets. After a week of being stuck, I had a conversation with someone about it. We talked through the resistance: Was it that I couldn’t do it? That I didn’t want to? That I was punishing my husband for not doing it for me? That my ADHD was punishing both of us? I never figured out the perfect answer. But at some point, I realized: the avoidance was making me suffer much more than just doing the thing. So I put on some music, whined as I walked up the stairs, and changed the sheets. The whole thing took less than ten minutes. Ten minutes. After days of it feeling completely impossible. I didn’t skip up those stairs feeling empowered. I whined. I did it while complaining. And that’s okay. I still did it. Here’s what I want you to understand: You don’t have to do everything all the time. Sometimes you truly can’t do things. But you don’t have to stay helpless about it. Sometimes the way out of learned helplessness isn’t perfect clarity about whether you can or can’t or don’t want to. Sometimes it’s just recognizing that staying stuck hurts more than moving forward, even if you have to whine your way through it. You get to choose which suffering you’re willing to accept: the suffering of doing the hard thing, or the suffering of staying stuck. That’s agency. Not feeling good about everything. Not overcoming every limitation. Just choosing, consciously, what you’re willing to fight for and what you’re willing to let go. Even when there’s a genuine “can’t,” that’s not where your story ends. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit embrain.substack.com

10 min
09/09/2025

Even ADHD Rats Can’t Stop Exploring

My therapist once told me I leave no stone unturned. That line stuck with me. I think about it whenever I’m lying on a massage table, trying to relax, while my brain won’t shut up. What kind of tension do people carry the most? Does it show up the same way in everyone? What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever noticed here? Even when silence is expected, my curiosity shows up, and god, is it loud. It happens in the smallest moments. I walk into a store and my brain starts spinning: who comes here every week? What keeps pulling them back? What’s going on in their world? I can’t help but scan for the patterns that everyone else walks right past. This is my blessing and my curse. Blessing, because I notice, I care, I learn. My curiosity makes me a sponge for details other people skip past. It helps me connect dots, imagine what someone else is feeling, and see the world in sharper color. Curse, because ADHD means I do not have an off switch. Curiosity crashes into classrooms where teachers think I am challenging them instead of trying to understand. It spills into conversations where friends feel I am pulling away from the story, when really I am leaning closer. Curiosity does not stay politely in its lane. At some point I started to wonder if this hunger to know was just me, or if it was something wired into ADHD itself. Was curiosity a core part of the condition, or just another shiny distraction that pulled me away from what I was “supposed” to be doing? So I went looking. Reading studies is my idea of fun, and what I found was fascinating. First, the dopamine story. Researchers have shown that ADHD brains process rewards differently. Boring tasks feel almost impossible, while new and interesting things light us up. That alone explains a lot. We are not lazy, we are chasing oxygen. Then there is a study that calls our curiosity a “zetetic style.” Zetetic is just a fancy word for curiosity that does not quit, even when it is inconvenient. It means our brains latch onto questions quickly, and once we start asking, it is hard to stop. That is me in a nutshell: once I start turning over stones, I keep going, even if everyone else has moved on. In another study, scientists actually bred rats to have ADHD traits. Who even thinks of that, right? They gave rats ADHD, then watched what happened. They found that the ADHD rats explored more. They kept moving, kept sniffing around, kept checking every corner. That is what curiosity looks like in animals: the urge to keep finding out what is out there. Even rats, you guys. Even rats with ADHD cannot stop exploring. Another study asked a different kind of question: not what goes wrong in ADHD, but what helps adults with ADHD do well. The answers included resilience, motivation, and… curiosity! That’s right. Curiosity is one of the traits that helps ADHD adults succeed: it keeps people interested in their work, engaged in their relationships, and open to building lives that fit them better. So let's go back to my original question: is curiosity just another way for our ADHD to keep us distracted, or is it built-in with this ADHD brain of ours? The research makes it pretty clear: we crave dopamine, and we like to get it through learning new things. We have this "zetetic" style of looking into things that keeps us asking a million questions. Even ADHD rats (!) can't seem to stop exploring. And when scientists looked at what helps ADHDers thrive, they found... curiosity. It's safe to say that our tendency to fall into rabbit holes isn't a side effect, or yet another way to distract ourselves. Our curiosity is part of our ADHD brains. That's pretty damn neat. I still leave no stone unturned. It does put me at risk sometimes. I might miss a meeting while the brain delights in wonder. I might annoy someone by asking too many questions. But that is who I am. And it is not just me. If you have ADHD, this is probably you too. People say we do not listen, but the truth is we listen harder than most. We ask questions because we care. We imagine ourselves inside the story, and we want to know every detail. So do not let anyone tell you that your curiosity is just distraction. It is not. It is how you care, how you learn, how you connect. It is your brain saying, “I want to know more.” That impulse to ask and explore is not a weakness. It is a strength. I turn over every last stone, and if you do too, that is nothing to apologize for. It is proof that you care, that you are paying attention, that your ADHD brain is built to explore. So the next time you tumble into another ADHD rabbit hole, do not call it wasted time. Call it what it is: Thriving. Don’t leave me here talking to myself. Subscribe, or at least share the post so I look popular. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit embrain.substack.com

6 min
08/22/2025

ADHD, Brain Fog, and Blowing Up Over Nothing

Over the past few days, I've been having this gnawing headache. It's one of those headaches you can feel when you wake up from a really good nap and now you hate the world, but it's never-ending, there at all times. Advil just shrugs at it. I keep trying to drink more water, but even if it does something for it, it doesn't seem to be enough. The dull unending ache is still right there. At a certain point, when an ache is this unceasing, one has to just keep going with life, so I do. But the ache doesn't want me to forget about it. It keeps tugging at my shirt, reminding me that it's right there. I can't focus. The more time passes, the less it feels like I can do. It's unrelenting, and it's oh-so-annoying. I can feel it slowly dragging me further into grumpy mode. Alex comes in and out of his office, getting himself coffee or grabbing something from the other room. He's not slamming doors, but even the careful twisting of the door handle feels like a nuisance with this headache. Sometimes he even says something to me, or blows me a kiss or something. That's when I finally snap. "Can you just please f*****g stay in your office for like a minute?!? Back and forth, back and forth, the f**k??" Now, he knows me. We've been together for 18 years now. He knows I'm not being an absolute dick. Well, he knows I am, but that there must be a reason. So he doesn't let it escalate further like he used to, due to taking offense (reasonable as it may be to). Somehow, in my headache-ridden mind, that makes it even worse. What is that silence supposed to mean? Huh? How dare you? What the f**k? And now my whole body feels like it's itching to fight. My brain is not saying anything. There's just this fog around me. I can't think straight. All I can do is play stupid games on my phone. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Aren't these meant to calm me down? Why am I feeling rage building up inside of me? The office door opens again. He forgot to get himself a bottle of water. That's it. I snap again. "Alex! STOP! ENOUGH! F**K!" Now, this is where he draws the line. I'm not his mother. He's not a child. I can't talk to him like this. He should feel free to move around in his own home without being yelled at like this. He has a point. But it does not catch me on my good side. I defend my stance by telling him how annoying his footsteps are, his twisting of the door handle, his presence looming over me as he walks through the living room to get to the kitchen. He counters. What the hell can he do about those things? Become a ghost? This always happens to me. Pain is discomfort, and discomfort leads to grogginess and annoyance. When I'm annoyed, I become a landmine. My body, feeling the pain, loads the trigger. My brain, in turn, arms it with fog and distraction – just enough to irritate me. The tiniest spark – the door handle twisting, the footsteps, even his presence around me – sets it off. Kaboom. So what is this, exactly? And what can be done about it? My discomfort and pain in the moment is "eating up" all my attention reserves, which are already pretty small to begin with (ADHD, duh). Now I have less resources within me to control my emotions, and even my thoughts. The brain fog makes it so I already can't focus on anything, and when that happens, especially to someone who already struggles with focus on a regular basis, it can feel unbelievably debilitating. So it starts up this slow simmering anger and resentment in me, and where can those go? That's right, they can explode beautifully upon the one person who just happens to be nearest to me. That's not just me being an absolute dick about having ADHD. There's brain wiring behind it all. The amygdala is a tiny part of the brain that processes emotions and threat. In ADHD brains it tends to be smaller, more reactive, and not very good at communicating with the prefrontal cortex, which is supposed to regulate emotions. So when pain or discomfort drains my focus, the amygdala reacts to every small disruption like it’s a major threat. Meanwhile the prefrontal cortex is slow to step in, so the irritation snowballs unchecked until it bursts out of me. The amygdala explains why the reaction feels so instant, like my body just goes off without me. But scientists found that emotions are not only about that snap response; they are built in real time. My body throws out signals like a pounding head, tight muscles, or a racing heart. Then my brain takes those signals and decides what they mean. It can call them anger, stress, or even excitement, depending on the story it puts together. The reaction feels automatic, but it is actually a construction, which means it can also be changed. Obviously, it doesn't have to be a headache. This time it was pain, but the pattern is the same whenever something drains my internal resources like that. My brain would take the scraps it can get and build an entire tornado out of it. But that's no way to live. I don't want to seek fights with my husband due to headaches or stress; that's the last thing I could possibly want. So what can I do to change this construction? I can’t just flip a switch and stop it. But if I notice it, even a second too late, I can play around with what else those signals might mean. Maybe footsteps are just footsteps. Maybe the silence is him giving me space. Every time I manage that, it takes a little power away from the landmine. It doesn’t fix everything, but it makes the next explosion a little less likely. And if nothing else, at least my marriage won’t be taken down by a bottle of Advil that didn’t work. Today, it's KABOOM. Tomorrow? Who knows. Maybe just a hiss. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit embrain.substack.com

6 min
08/11/2025

Talk To Strangers

I walk into the gym and this remix is playing. I don't know what it is, but it's giving early 2000s drama in the best way. As I scan in, I ask the girl at the desk, "Is that a Britney remix? I've never heard this one!" She shrugs. "It's just the playlist they put on, I don't know." She doesn't even look up to catch my eye. It's not like I asked for her autograph. I was just a little curious about the damn song. Cool cool cool. Just like that, any possible connection between me and this stranger is dead. Here is what I wish she had said. Something tiny. Anything. "I think it's a remix of Toxic, right?" or even "Haha, I wonder that every time." Not because I needed a friend right there and then. Not because I wanted her phone number. Just because, why not? We're all stuck in this loop. Half the time we're making jokes about how we'd rather be left alone forever. The other half we're writing long essays about the loneliness epidemic. We can't keep doing both. We say we want connection, but we keep treating first contact like a threat instead of a chance. A moment to protect ourselves instead of a moment to open something. So here's the rule: Treat first contact as a chance to connect. That's it. You don't need to go all in. You don't have to swap numbers or trauma bond in the produce aisle. You just respond. Smile, nod, say "Right?" or "I wondered that too." Anything. And if that feels good and natural, move it one step forward. Ask their name. Ask one tiny, real, curiosity-driven question. Extend a crumb of an invitation, for anything. You'll be the one to decide how far it goes. You are not locked in. You are not married. You are just building a moment. Because if we want to have a real life, with people who know us, who show up for us, who make things feel less lonely when we're old or overwhelmed or just not okay, then we have to start building that life. Now. And we do it one ping at a time. So let's talk practice. This doesn't mean you suddenly become the mayor of every room you walk into. It is not about being smooth or charming or "networking." It is about trying. Once. Just once. Per interaction. If someone comments on your dog, respond with more than just "yeah." Say, "He's on his apology tour today," or "Want him? He's free." Something human. Something that makes them feel like they weren't just talking into the void. That is a connection. That is enough. If you're checking out at the grocery store and the cashier's nails are cool, tell her. Then go just a little further. "Did you get them done anywhere around here?" You don't have to become her bestie. You just made a tiny pocket for something, anything. That's the point. At the gym, in class, in line for coffee, in an elevator. There is always a moment. A ping. You just have to respond. Not because it will always go somewhere, but because it might. And even if it doesn't, you showed up fully in the world. You reminded someone else that we're all real people, if only for a second. That counts, especially these days. It is just practice. For now, for later, for the kind of life where you don't always feel so alone. You build it one interaction at a time. Otherwise, loneliness sneaks up on you. It starts quietly: you stop chatting with strangers, skip the little conversations, avoid small talk even when it can be about anything you like. One day you look up and realize there is no one to call. No emergency contact. No one who would notice if you went missing. You know those stories about people who die alone in their home and aren't found until the smell hits the hallway of their building and neighbors start to complain? Those stories are not just tragic; they are reminders. That kind of isolation doesn't come out of thin air. It happens slowly, to regular people who didn't realize they had to build a world around them until it was too late. Here is the flip side: that tiny interaction could lead somewhere. You never know who you're talking to. * That cashier with the cool nails might be the one who sends you to the best salon you’ve ever been to. * That too chatty airplane seat neighbor might be the exact person to ask when you're hunting for a reliable handyman. * That older woman who asked about your dog might have season tickets to musicals and an extra seat she is always trying to give away. * That girl who looks younger than you might end up being your favorite weekly cafe hangout buddy. None of it happens if you stay closed. None of it can. The good stuff starts when you're open. When you let something, anything, begin. And maybe you’re not lonely. Maybe you already have a group. You’ve got your people. That is amazing. But that doesn’t mean the work is over. Wherever you are, at the gym, in a class, at a meetup, at your favorite coffee spot, there is almost always someone new standing just outside the circle. Not forcing anything. Just there. Maybe hoping there is space for them too. You don’t have to adopt them. You don’t have to be best friends. You don't have to take them under your wing. But making room, being open, letting the edges of your circle stay a little soft instead of rigid and sealed shut, is how you make a difference. That is how you build a community, bit by bit. “No new friends” is a fun little mantra, and a definite banger. But it is also a solid way to keep yourself stuck. You never know who the next person you meet may be. You never know who clicks with your group in a way no one expected, who softens your edges, who hypes you up, who helps you grow as individuals. We all have plenty of experience doing the other thing where we stay guarded and cooler than everyone else and do not open ourselves up for friendships. We are experts in this by now, all of us. If there were anyone to teach it to, we could all be teaching university classes on how to lose friends and alienate people. We all know how to shrink our circles so well. We all know how to say “f**k you” to curiosity. That is super cool of us all. It has not been working. It has not made us better, or happier, or more at ease. So yeah. Smile. Ask the question. Follow the ping. Like I said, treat every first contact as a chance to connect. That is the rule. You do not have to be charming. Just respond. If it feels right, go one step further. Ask their name. Ask one real question. Offer something tiny. Not every moment leads somewhere. But some do. And that is how it starts. This was my third installment in my Friendship Project series, where I discuss the trials and tribulations of making new friends and keeping friends as an adult, especially one with neurodivergence/ADHD. You can go back to the others in the series by clicking the series name at the top of the page, or just stay tuned for the next part of this series. I want to make us all less lonely, once and for all. It’s about time, wouldn’t you say? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit embrain.substack.com

8 min
07/03/2025

“Is the Burger Answering?”

I was 10 or 11, walking home from McDonald’s, holding my takeout bag, in my own world. Echolalia in full force. Singing to myself, talking to myself. I was replaying the exchange I had with the McDonald’s cashier in my head. Wondering if I sounded weird. If I said the right thing. Then a car slowed down. A grown man leaned out the window. Two boys in the backseat. He yelled, “Is the burger answering?” They all laughed like it’s the funniest thing as he drove off. I just stood there. Frozen. Until that moment, I didn’t think anyone would bother looking at me. I was just a kid with a bag of food. Nothing worth noticing. Nothing worth laughing at. Was I that amusing? Just by being myself? I ran home. After that, I never walked that way again if I could help it. A few years later, I was 14, maybe 15. A little chubbier. Another man. Close to that area. Different car. He yelled out, “When are you due?” like I was pregnant. Like it was funny. Now, it wasn’t just what I did and how I acted. It was also what I looked like. It was everything. It was all the time. It was everywhere. I couldn’t escape it.I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. It was relentless. This is the Truman Show effect. In the movie, Jim Carrey plays a man raised in a giant TV studio. Everyone around him is an actor. He doesn’t know. The movie is about him slowly realizing everyone’s watching, and he’s never truly alone. When I saw that movie, it felt like a punch. That’s exactly what it felt like to be me. It still feels like that sometimes, like I’m being watched. Judged. Laughed at. And I don’t know why, or what makes me so interesting to these people who don’t know me, who don’t care about me, who want to have a laugh at my expense. It’s not paranoia or delusion. It’s not thinking I’m the center of the universe. It’s realizing I’m more visible than I thought. And what does that mean? Why should I care? Why does nobody prepare you for the moment you realize you’re not invisible, not safe, not protected? You’re out there. Raw. Exposed. And anyone can say anything. Do anything. And you have to take it and keep it moving. I remember the shock. The embarrassment. The shame. So much anger. I thought about it for years. I still think about it. It changed me. It made me hyper-aware. It made me edit myself. It made me question every word and gesture. And it made me wonder: what’s so special about me? Why do people care? And the answer is, they don’t. Not in any way that matters. But in that moment, it feels like they do. It feels like everything you do, everything you are is under a microscope. And if you’re neurodivergent, if you have ADHD, if you have anxiety, if you’re different, it’s worse. Because you’re already replaying every conversation, every interaction, every mistake in your head. And then someone comes along and confirms your worst fears, and it’s like, thanks. I really needed that. Talking to myself was soothing. It was healthy. It was good. A way to process. A way to self-soothe. A way not to rely on friends who might not say the right thing, or get it, or care.And then, suddenly, it’s not safe anymore. Suddenly it’s embarrassing, something to hide. And that’s not fair. But it’s real. And it sticks with you. I started living like I was being watched. Explaining myself to an invisible audience so as not to be misinterpreted, trying to make sure nobody thought I was “weird.” Which is weirder. It’s exhausting. And it never goes away. Not completely. Not if you’ve been burned like that. Not if you’ve been made to feel like a spectacle. And people without ADHD or neurodivergence—I don’t think they get it. I don’t think they’ve ever talked to themselves or hummed under their breath just to stay steady.And I don’t think they know what it’s like to be picked apart for it. To be made to feel like you’re wrong for existing. For being yourself. It’s like, you walk down the street and notice people looking at you. But you’ve had enough negative feedback, so your brain assumes the worst. It picks you apart. It finds reasons why you’re being stared at. And you try to fix it. It’s a minefield. And it’s not okay. If I could go back to that moment with the burger, I don’t know what I’d say. Maybe nothing. Maybe I’d stare at him.Maybe I’d tell him that boring people find interesting people ridiculous, and that’s his problem. But… it still shapes how I move through the world. And I hate that. But here’s the thing: when someone looks at you, when someone thinks any thought about you, you have no idea what it is. And it probably has nothing to do with you. And if it does, who cares? Why should you let them take up space in your head? Why should you let them have any power over you? The answer is: you shouldn’t. You can’t. You have to take your power back. You have to remember their opinions are just noise. Static. Background b******t. And you don’t have to listen. You don’t have to care. You don’t have to change. And if someone thinks you’re weird, or embarrassing, or whatever—okay. That’s their problem, not yours. If they want to make you important in their world, fine. But don’t let them become important in yours. Don’t give them that. Don’t let them win. Because you’re not Truman. You’re not the star of their show. You’re the star of your own, and that’s what matters. That’s all that ever mattered. And f**k anyone who tries to make you feel otherwise. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit embrain.substack.com

7 min
06/28/2025

Your Brain Is Different. That’s Not a Flaw.

Your Brain Is Different. Not Broken. When you get diagnosed with ADHD, it’s not just a label. It’s a reckoning. In this episode, I talk about what it really means to find out your brain works differently and what the world doesn’t tell you about that moment. This isn’t about calling ADHD a superpower. And it’s definitely not about treating it like a flaw. It’s about learning how to work with your brain instead of against it. I cover how ADHD touches more than just your focus, how the world gaslights neurodivergent people, and what it looks like to build a life that actually fits you. If you’ve ever felt broken, too much, or like you just can’t get it together, this one’s for you. Topics include: * ADHD beyond the stereotype * Masking and identity * What self-acceptance really means * Why working with your brain changes everything Curious? Let's talk. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit embrain.substack.com

7 min
06/01/2025

How Professionalism Became a Weapon Against Humanity

Let’s get that straight from the start. The lie of professionalism is not about standards. It is about control. It is about making you smaller, quieter, less visible, less real. Professionalism, as it’s sold to us, is composure, neutrality, self-control. Being palatable to the greatest number of people. In practice, it’s a weapon. It punishes emotion, vulnerability, and individuality. It rewards performative detachment and punishes realness, especially for those of us who feel things visibly. Crying, shaking, even smiling too much. If you show anything unguarded, you are marked as a problem. I know this because I have lived it. I was kicked out of not one but two graduate counseling programs for showing emotion when the conversation was about me. Not for being out of control. Not for crossing boundaries. But for letting tears fall when I was unfairly judged. I stood my ground. I said, “This isn’t weakness. This isn’t a lack of control. This is me being human.” But to them, my tears were proof that I was unfit. They felt vindicated, as if my humanity was a flaw in their system. This is where we have lost the plot. There is a version of being out of control that is dangerous. When you cannot separate yourself from your work. When you lose your grip on reality. When you violate boundaries. But simply tearing up, showing emotion, is not that. There is no reason for it to be seen as a loss of control. And yet, how many of us have been told we are unprofessional for being sensitive, for being excited, for being sad? For smiling too widely. For crying when we are hurt. For showing up as ourselves. To them, it looks unhinged because it does not fit their image of a “professional.” Cold, heartless, calculated, beige. Professionalism dehumanizes everyone. It takes our humanity, strips it away, and says, “This should not be part of you.” It forces sameness in a world full of different nervous systems, different emotional expressions, different ways of being present and real. Maybe some people do not want a counselor who tears up when they feel judged. Fine. But I would have loved it. I know others who would have too. Someone whose eyes glint with excitement. Who shows happiness when they are happy for you. Who does not sit there with a half-smile and nothing else. This is not Freud’s era anymore. We do not need to be distant, clinical statues. And yet, I was gatekept from managing clients because I was too real. Now, as a therapist and coach, I get to work with people who want someone genuine, emotional, human. If you want a milquetoast, unfeeling professional, go ahead. The world is full of them. But how did we get to a place where having a personality is unprofessional? How are we in 2025 and still having this conversation? The world is crumbling, and we are worried about whether a tear falls down in a meeting where I am being accused of something I did not do. What does that say about us? Here’s the harsh truth. Standing your ground, telling the truth, being yourself — it will not make you the star. You will be pushed out. This is not a TV show where the quirky main character teaches everyone a lesson and is finally accepted. Hollywood writes those stories because we wish they were real. In reality, the system doubles down. You say, “This is who I am,” and they say, “No, you are too much.” They will never admit it, but they want you to be less yourself. They will lie to your face, say they are sensitive and supportive, but the moment you show real emotion, you are out. Professionalism confuses safety with sterility. Different people need different counselors, different doctors, different bosses. There is no neutral human. The cost of dehumanization is connection, trust, the chance to be seen. The very things every people-centered field should be about. So what should professionalism mean? Not less humanity. More capacity. Real professionalism is flexibility. It is holding space for different ways of being, different emotional styles, different human realities. It is knowing how to stay with someone who is real, not policing them into numbness. If someone tells you to be less yourself to be more professional, they do not know what professionalism is. Who decided that being professional means being less yourself? Show me where it says that. It does not exist. Every time I asked, “Are you saying I should change who I am?” they would say, “No, heavens no.” But that is exactly what they mean. They will never admit it. They have made their decision and they are standing behind it. If the system were not built to fear or punish sensitivity, professionalism could look like whatever fits the person. Maybe I am not for everyone. Maybe some people are alarmed by a counselor who tears up. Fine. There are different types of professionalism because there are different types of people. When you work with people, you need to meet them as people. That is what we all want. Someone who gets us. Someone who is right for us. And yet, we are still told to stay inside the lines. Inside the box. So f**k professionalism. Not in the sense of reckless rebellion. But in the sense of refusing to shrink. I am not saying you will win if you fight. I lost. But something is deeply wrong when we punish humans for being human. For showing light, ordinary emotions. I had to explain to them, “I have trauma. I am asking you to explain what I did wrong so I can do better.” And they said, “You are just too much.” And they kicked me out. I was an amazing student. Others were literally getting high during class. But I was the problem because I had tears in my eyes when accused of a misunderstanding, while dealing with my father’s ALS diagnosis. They treated my humanity as an excuse. Why do we use so little of our humanity when professionalism comes into play? How is being human against being professional? What have we done to ourselves? It is time to reclaim humanity as the real standard. Enough with the beige. Enough with the numb. Enough with the cold. Enough with shrinking to fit someone else’s idea of “right.” The world needs more realness, not less. The world needs you, not your mask. Do not let them convince you otherwise. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit embrain.substack.com

8 min

12 Episodes

the ADHD philosopher in voice/podcast form embrain.substack.com

Creator

Emma Gat
Years Active

2025 - 2026
Episodes

12
Rating

Explicit
Copyright

© Emma Gat
Show Website

the ADHD philosopher