My ADHD Story

The child who couldn’t sit still

I have always been a sensitive person, someone who experiences emotions with a particular intensity. As a child, this showed up in ways I didn’t have language for at the time: a restlessness that sat just beneath the surface, a mind that moved faster than any lesson could keep up with, and an almost compulsive need to doodle or sketch in the margins of my notebooks while teachers spoke, that got me into trouble a few times.

And yet, I was a good student. Whatever was happening in the busy landscape of my inner world, I found ways to manage. Highlighters became close companions; I mastered the art of writing minute, clear notes in the borders of textbooks. I developed elaborate systems for retaining information, colour-coded and cross-referenced, because simply reading something once was never quite enough. Looking back now, as a 55-year-old woman, I am genuinely amazed at the effort I was putting in just to keep pace with the world around me and perform to the standards I had set for myself. At the time, I thought everyone worked that hard to have good results.

The years of compensating

Into adulthood, I continued to compensate, though I didn’t recognise it as that. I struggled with self-regulation, with impulsivity, with the particular agony of having to wait, to pause, to reflect before speaking when everything inside me wanted to respond immediately and completely. Working within teams was often difficult and frustrating; I could feel myself rubbing against the grain of group dynamics in ways I couldn’t always explain or justify. I was too much, or not quite enough, depending on the situation.

For many years, I told myself this was simply a poor fit: the wrong job, the wrong environment, the wrong people. When I began training as a psychotherapist, something finally felt right. I was in a field I loved, I was certain of it. What I didn’t see, not for a long time, was that my strong pull toward private practice, toward being my own boss, working one-to-one, setting my own pace and structure, was also, at least in part, a way of withdrawing from the situations I found most difficult to navigate. I wasn’t connecting the dots.

When life got louder

Then I had children, three of them, and the internal noise, which had always been present but somehow manageable, became something else entirely.

My anxiety increased, and my mind felt extraordinarily busy; a constant, relentless stream of thoughts that never quieted: ‘do this, remember that, have you noticed that spot on the wall, it needs a clean, the children have a birthday party on Sunday, you need to buy a present, there’s an email you haven’t sent, the cat needs feeding’... Everything felt urgent. Prioritising was not just difficult, it felt close to impossible. I would begin one task, feel pulled by the sudden urgency of another, and end up half-completing three things at once while finishing none of them. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and convinced that the problem was simply me, that I was, in some fundamental way, a mess.  

The moment things began to shift

The shift came unexpectedly, as sometimes happens. I attended a professional development workshop, and the trainer showed a short video clip meant to represent the internal experience of someone with ADHD. It was chaotic and layered and fast-moving and loud, thoughts interrupting thoughts, tasks multiplying, priorities colliding. I watched it and felt something loosen in my chest.

I thought: isn’t that how everyone thinks?

It turns out, it is not. Not to that degree, not with that intensity, not with that relentless quality. And in that moment, something began to dawn on me; a possibility I had never seriously considered before. What if this wasn’t just my personality, my temperament, my particular brand of chaos? What if there was a name for it?

I started to piece things together. The 1980s, when I was at school, were not a time when ADHD was well understood, particularly not in girls, and particularly not in girls who were achieving well academically. The compensatory strategies I had developed, the highlighters, the margin notes, the elaborate systems, had masked a great deal. I had been high-functioning, which is another way of saying I had been working twice as hard to appear as though I wasn’t struggling at all.

A life re-read through a new lens

With this new understanding, I began to look back at my life differently. The depression and anxiety I had experienced at various points, the relational difficulties, the sense of always being slightly out of step, the impulsivity, the emotional sensitivity, the restlessness; all of it began to cohere into a picture that finally made sense. Not as flaws or failures, but as the shape of a neurodivergent mind doing its best in a world designed for a different kind of brain.

I pursued a formal assessment and received a diagnosis of ADHD, combined type. And I remember, quite vividly, what happened in the moments after. A weight I hadn’t known I was carrying began to lift.

What came after the diagnosis

I want to be careful here, because a diagnosis is not a cure and it is not a simple ending. But for me, it was a much needed reframe. I stopped thinking of myself as someone with something fundamentally broken, something that needed to be fixed, corrected, overcome. Instead, I began to understand my brain as one that works differently, that requires different scaffolding, different strategies, different forms of support.

There is a particular kind of relief in being able to say: this is how I am wired. Not this is what I am doing wrong.

I became more accepting of myself, and that acceptance made me more genuinely curious about what might actually help, rather than what I ‘should’ be able to do without help. Interestingly, some of what helps looks a great deal like what I was already doing as a child at school; creating structure, breaking things down, using visual cues, building in movement and variety. I was compensating then without knowing it. Now, I can do it consciously, with self-compassion rather than shame.

Why I’m sharing this

I am sharing this story because I know I am not alone in it. Many adults, particularly women, arrive at an ADHD diagnosis later in life, after decades of self-blame, exhaustion, and a quiet sense of being out of step with the world. Many of the clients I work with carry similar stories, though the details differ.

Understanding the neuroscience and lived experience of ADHD has helped me a great deal in my clinical work; not only with clients who are themselves navigating a diagnosis, but in the broader texture of how I hold emotional dysregulation, impulsivity, and shame in the therapy room. There is a particular quality of recognition that comes from having been there yourself.

If any part of this resonates with you, I hope it offers something useful: the possibility that what you have been calling your failings might, with a different lens, turn out to be something else entirely.

When Sisters Become Strangers

Sibling Relationships  ·  EFT  ·  Adult Family Therapy

What happens when someone you love changes in ways you don’t recognise and the silence between you stretches from weeks into years?

When I first met the two women I’ll call Sara and Leila, they hadn’t spoken in almost two years. They were sisters, born three years apart, raised in the same house, shaped by the same stories and yet there was a real distance between them when they joined our online session. They didn’t know quite where to begin.

What had pulled them apart wasn’t a single dramatic falling-out. It rarely is. It was something more quietly devastating: the sense that one of them had become someone the other no longer recognised.

The shape of the rift

In the months before the silence took hold, Leila had made a series of significant life changes. These were choices that Sara struggled to understand and, over time, found herself unable to accept. She watched her sister move in a direction that felt foreign, even alarming, and felt increasingly powerless to reach her. The harder she tried to intervene, the further away Leila seemed to go.

For Sara, it wasn’t just about disapproval, though that was real enough. Underneath it was something that felt much more like grief. The sister she had grown up with, the person who knew her better than almost anyone, now seemed to be slipping away. And with her went a version of their shared history, a whole landscape of belonging that Sara hadn’t realised she’d been quietly depending on.

“She’s not who she used to be,” Sara told me early on. “And I don’t know how to love this version of her.”

Leila, for her part, felt the weight of that judgment like a hand pressed firmly against her chest. Every time Sara expressed concern, no matter how lovingly intended, what Leila heard was: you’re getting this wrong, you’re not enough, you’re not who I need you to be, so she did what most of us do when we feel consistently misunderstood by someone we love: she stopped reaching out.

What EFT sees beneath the conflict

Emotionally Focused Therapy, developed by Dr. Sue Johnson, was originally designed for couples, but its insights translate powerfully into any close relational bond and sibling relationships are among the most primary attachments we carry through our lives. We often underestimate just how deeply they shape us, and how much it costs us when they fracture.

What EFT offers in situations like this is a map. Not a roadmap for who’s right or who needs to change, but a way of understanding the pattern, the cycle, that has locked two people into positions they can’t seem to find their way out of. Sara’s attempts to reach Leila through concern and correction had become, over time, experienced as pursuit and criticism. Leila’s withdrawals, intended as self-protection, were experienced by Sara as abandonment and proof that her sister no longer cared.

Neither of them had set out to hurt the other. Both of them were hurting.

Beneath most relational conflict, even the kind that solidifies into years of silence, is an attachment need that hasn’t found a way to be heard.

The slow work of reaching through

Our early sessions were tentative. There was a great deal of circling, with each sister presenting her case, explaining her position, hoping I might settle the matter. I gently redirected us, again and again, toward what was happening underneath the words.

The shift came one afternoon when I asked Sara what the silence had really cost her. She had been talking in terms of principles, of what was right, what was sensible, what she was owed. But when I pressed her gently, something opened. She started to speak about missing her sister at her daughter’s birthday. About a funny thing that happened at work that she’d wanted to ring Leila about, and then remembered she couldn’t. About how, if she was honest, she didn’t just miss who Leila used to be; she missed Leila, full stop, whoever she was becoming.

Leila was very still when Sara said this. I watched her face. Something moved through it.

From there, the work became about creating enough safety for both women to risk being vulnerable with each other again, to say the real things underneath the right things. For Sara, that meant acknowledging that fear had been driving what looked like judgment. For Leila, it meant allowing herself to believe that Sara’s pain was about love, not control.

What reconnection actually looks like

I want to be honest here: it wasn’t a tidy resolution. Leila didn’t change her choices. Sara didn’t suddenly find them easy to accept. What changed was how they held their differences and whether there was room for each of them in the relationship alongside those differences.

By the time we finished working together, they had moved from a place where contact felt impossible to one where they were texting each other again, meeting for coffee, being careful and curious with each other in a way that felt, if anything, more honest than before. The relationship they were rebuilding wasn’t a return to the past. It was something new, less assumed, more chosen.

That’s often what healing a fractured sibling bond looks like. Not a reset, but a renegotiation. A decision, made consciously by both people, to stay.

If this resonates with you

Adult sibling estrangements are more common than people tend to admit and more painful than our culture gives us permission to say. If you’re in a sibling relationship that has drifted into silence, or one that feels like it’s held together by obligation rather than genuine connection, that distance doesn’t have to be permanent.

EFT for adult relational pairs, whether siblings, parents and adult children, or close friends, offers a way to understand the cycle that’s keeping you stuck, and to find a path through it that doesn’t require either person to disappear.

The work is slow sometimes. It asks for courage. But so does living with a relationship you’ve quietly given up on and the cost of that tends to compound over time in ways we don’t always notice until something shifts.

A note on confidentiality: All identifying details in this post have been significantly altered and the case described is a composite, drawn from themes that arise across my work with adult siblings and relational pairs. Nothing here identifies any individual client. If you recognise something of yourself in this piece, that is the nature of shared human experience, not a reflection of any specific person or situation.

When a Marriage Ends: Grieving the Life You Thought You'd Have

Divorce is not just the end of a relationship. It is the loss of a future, an identity and a version of yourself you may never fully recover and that deserves to be mourned.

Nobody warns you that divorce can feel like a death. Not the end of a difficult chapter you were ready to close, but a genuine, disorienting bereavement, the kind that catches you off guard in the cereal aisle, or at 3am when you reach across the bed and remember, again, that everything has changed.

And yet, when people go through the breakdown of a marriage or a long-term partnership, we rarely give them the same kind of tenderness we extend to those who have lost someone to illness or accident. We expect them to move on. We celebrate their freedom. We tell them it was for the best.

What we don't always acknowledge is that they are grieving. Deeply, genuinely, and often without a map.

The loss no one names

When a relationship ends, what exactly is lost? On the surface, it might seem like the answer is simply: a person. A partner. But the grief of divorce runs far deeper than that.

You are not just losing who they were. You are losing who you were, inside that relationship. You are losing the rituals that held your days together; the morning coffee, the in-jokes, the particular way your life had a shape. You are losing the future you had been quietly building in your imagination: the holidays not yet taken, the anniversaries not yet reached, the version of growing old that you had, somewhere in the background of your mind, assumed would happen.

This is the loss that doesn't have a funeral. There is no ceremony, no gathering of people who loved what you had, no socially sanctioned period of mourning. So many people find themselves adrift in a grief they cannot quite name, wondering why they feel so hollowed out when, rationally, they know that the relationship had to end.

"I kept thinking...I'm not sad about him, exactly. I'm sad about the life I thought I was going to have. The one I'd already pictured."

This is something I hear often, and it is one of the most important things to understand about separation and divorce: you can grieve a life that never fully existed. You can mourn a future that was only ever imagined. That grief is no less real for being built on possibility rather than memory.

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and the stages we recognise

The psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross introduced her now famous five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance) in the context of terminal illness and bereavement; but what she was really describing was the way human beings process any significant loss; for many people, divorce maps onto these stages with startling precision.

There is the denial phase, in which part of you simply cannot accept that this is permanent. You rehearse conversations. You imagine reconciliations. You tell yourself it hasn't really happened yet. Then comes the anger: at them, at yourself, at the circumstances that brought you here, followed by the bargaining, that exhausting internal negotiation in which you revisit every decision and wonder what might have been different.

Depression settles in when the reality becomes undeniable. This is often the point at which people first come to therapy, when the adrenaline of the separation has faded and the weight of what has happened has finally landed. Acceptance, contrary to what the word implies, does not mean happiness, it means arriving, slowly and imperfectly, at a place where the loss is part of you rather than consuming you.

Grief does not move in a straight line. You do not pass through one stage and leave it behind. You circle back. You spiral. You have good days that make you think you are through the worst of it, and then something small, like a song, a smell, a Saturday afternoon, brings you right back to the beginning.

The good days, and why they make the hard days harder

One of the most disorienting things about grieving a relationship is the unevenness of it. You will have days, sometimes whole weeks, when the fog lifts. You feel lighter. You laugh without it costing you anything. You make plans. You start to believe, with something that feels like genuine conviction, that you are going to be all right.

Then something happens: a photograph surfaces; you drive past a restaurant where you used to go; you hear their name in a conversation that had nothing to do with them; you see a couple walking together in a way that you used to walk and the grief comes rushing back in; not politely, not gently, but with the full force of something that has been waiting just beneath the surface.

This is not a setback. It is not evidence that you are failing to heal, or that you were fooling yourself on the good days. It is simply what grief does. It is non-linear. It does not respect the progress you feel you have made. It arrives when it wants to, triggered by the most ordinary things, because the loss is woven into the ordinary fabric of your life.

In EFT (Emotionally Focused Therapy) we understand that our deepest emotional responses are not always proportionate to the surface-level trigger. When a song sends you back to your worst night, it is not the song that is doing it. It is the unprocessed ache beneath it, finding a way through. The brain does not store emotional memory the way it stores facts. Grief lives in the body, in the senses, and it surfaces through them.

You are allowed to mourn what wasn't working

Here is something that often surprises people: you can grieve a relationship that made you unhappy. You can mourn a marriage that needed to end. The two things, knowing it was right to leave, and feeling bereft that it's over, are not contradictory. They exist side by side, and both deserve space.

In fact, this particular tension is one of the most painful aspects of divorce grief. People often feel they don't have the right to be this sad, because the relationship was difficult, or because they were the one who chose to leave, or because everyone around them is relieved on their behalf. They carry their grief quietly, not wanting to seem as though they regret the decision, when what they actually regret is the distance between the marriage they had and the marriage they had always hoped for.

Grief, in this sense, is not about the relationship as it was. It is about the relationship as it was supposed to be. As it was, perhaps, in its early days. As it existed in the version of the future that has now been quietly folded away.

What helps and what takes time

There is no shortcut through grief, and anyone who tells you there is probably means well but is not quite telling the truth. What there is, instead, is a gradually increasing capacity to carry it, to hold the sadness alongside the rest of your life, rather than being submerged by it.

Being witnessed matters enormously. This is why therapy can be so valuable in the aftermath of relationship breakdown; not because a therapist can speed up the process, but because having someone sit with you inside the grief, without flinching or rushing you toward resolution, is itself a form of healing. You are not meant to do this alone.

Naming the loss specifically also helps. Not just "my marriage ended," but: I am grieving the Saturday mornings we had. I am grieving the person I was when I still believed it would work. I am grieving family holidays with all of us, the bigger house we were planning to buy, the version of Christmas I'd imagined for the next thirty years. When the loss is vague, it is harder to hold. When it becomes specific, it becomes something you can begin to grieve properly.

And when the grief surges back unexpectedly, when the trigger arrives out of nowhere and you find yourself right back at the beginning, try, if you can, to treat it with the same tenderness you would offer someone you love. You haven't gone backwards. You are doing something extraordinarily human: you are feeling the full weight of what mattered to you.

Divorce is one of the most significant losses a person can experience. It reorganises your identity, your daily life, your sense of the future, and your relationship with your own history. It asks you to let go not just of a person but of a whole imagined world and that takes time, and grief, and patience with yourself that can be very difficult to find.

But grief, as painful as it is, is also evidence of meaning. You mourn what mattered. And slowly, unevenly, in the way that all real healing works, you find that you can carry it.

If you are navigating the aftermath of a relationship breakdown and finding it hard to manage alone, speaking with a therapist can offer real support. At TherapyTime, I work with individuals, couples and families using Emotionally Focused approaches to help people process loss, rebuild a sense of self, and move forward, at their own pace. You are welcome to get in touch.