I sat in my office, feeling like I was balancing on the edge of a cliff. My palms were sweaty, and I couldn’t keep my leg still. The ticking of the clock was louder than I had ever noticed, each second dragging out longer than the last. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew everything was about to change. And it did.
When the words “You have ADHD” left my doctor’s mouth, it hit me like a freight train. My mind went blank for a second, but soon a whirlwind of emotions flooded in, each one more intense than the last. It felt like someone had finally turned on a light inside a room I had been stumbling around in my entire life.
Relief.
The first wave that washed over me was relief—sweet, almost overwhelming relief. Finally, there was a reason for all of it. Every struggle at school, always being last, the constant confusion and feeling of bewilderment, the struggles with jobs, money and relationships and the self hatred, every forgotten deadline, every lost item, every moment when I felt “off” compared to everyone else. I wasn’t lazy, careless, or broken. My brain just worked differently, and now there was a name for it.
For so long, I had wondered why life seemed harder for me than for those around me. I watched others navigate school, work, and relationships with ease while I always felt like I was barely holding on. I couldn’t understand why simple things felt like climbing a mountain. Now, I had my answer. The relief of finally knowing—finally—was indescribable.
Anger.
But alongside that relief came anger—hot and intense. I was angry for all the years I struggled, for the endless frustration and self-doubt that plagued me throughout my life. All the missed opportunities, the failed attempts, the nagging feeling that something was wrong with me. I was mad at the years of anguish, the tears shed in silence, the sleepless nights berating myself for never being “good enough.” The intensity of the anger surprised me.
How could it take so long for someone to see me? To hear me? I was angry at the systems that overlooked my struggles, at myself for not seeking help sooner, and at the world for making me feel like I had to hide behind a mask of normalcy.
Shock.
Even though I had suspected it, hearing the words out loud brought a sense of shock. I actually have ADHD. It was real. This wasn’t something I could brush off anymore or second-guess. What would this mean for me moving forward? I didn’t have answers, just questions. And for a while, that was unsettling.
Validation.
But with that shock came validation, too. Someone had finally listened. I wasn’t making it up. I wasn’t overreacting. For the first time, I felt like someone really heard me and believed me. That feeling of being seen and understood was like a balm to wounds I didn’t even know I still had. All those years of being dismissed, of being told I was just disorganised or that I needed to try harder—it wasn’t my fault. Being berated for not understanding or not knowing or not remembering- being criticised for simply being me.
A New Sense of Belonging.
As the days went on, something beautiful started to grow in place of my old doubts and fears: a sense of belonging and acceptance and of being free. I realised I wasn’t alone. There were so many people out there like me, navigating the world with ADHD, fighting similar battles. Suddenly, I wasn’t the odd one out anymore. I was part of something bigger, something that made sense.
That realisation gave me a new drive, a new passion. I wanted to help others who were still in the dark, who might be struggling in the same ways I had been. I wanted to tell them, “You’re not broken. There’s nothing wrong with you.” I felt an intense desire and passion to help people understand themselves, to guide them on their journey toward self-acceptance and to raise awareness the impact of adhd.
Amazement.
What amazed me most was realizing that I wasn’t actually broken. There was a real reason for all the struggles I’d faced—every tear I’d cried at school, at work, at home, with friends and family. All the pain of never feeling good enough, of living with low self-esteem, of beating myself up over things I couldn’t control—there was a reason for it all. The endless feelings of rejection and hurt over friendship misunderstandings. Oh my god the pain! The suffering!
My obsession with food, my compulsion to exercise, my impulsive spending, my toxic relationship with alcohol—it all made sense now. It was ADHD, not some fundamental flaw in me. All the self-loathing, all the doubt—it wasn’t that I was unworthy. It was that I was fighting battles I didn’t even know I had to fight.
That diagnosis gave me freedom. Freedom from the shame, the guilt, and the endless questioning of my worth. It gave me the power to understand myself, to give myself grace, and to begin healing.
So, what does having ADHD mean for me now? It means I’m not broken. I’m different, yes, but not broken. And it means I’m going to spend the rest of my life helping others see that truth, too.
To anyone reading this who might be struggling: there’s a reason. You’re not alone, and you’re definitely not broken. Keep going. There’s light ahead.
You are worthy, you are wanted, you are loved and you are needed.
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For adhd counselling and coaching please contact me www.helenhoyte.co.uk
Email hoytehelen@gmail.com