auDHD

I thought this was interesting so I decided to paste the whole message here. If you are interested in the series you can subscribe on her website

"October brings with it a new round of awareness initiatives: OCD, ADHD, and depression, to name a few. As someone deeply embedded in the neurodivergent community, I should be brimming with content this month. Yet, rather than feeling inspired, I’m ambivalent — caught between the expectations of raising awareness and my own complicated relationship with ADHD.

I’ve been reflecting on why I feel this ambivalence, and I’ve come to realize that it mirrors my broader relationship with ADHD itself. My ADHD feels hard to pin down, especially alongside my autism. There are blurred lines everywhere — between my conditions, my coping strategies, and even how I define myself. While I’ve come to embrace my Autistic traits, my relationship with ADHD is messier, harder to define, and more conflicted.

Instead of avoiding this ambiguity, I’ve decided to explore it. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be diving into the blurred lines that define my experience with ADHD. Each week, I’ll reflect on a different question — one that captures a particular tension or complexity in my neurodivergent life.

Here are some of the questions I’ll be exploring:

• Where does my autism end and my ADHD start? And what makes my relationship with ADHD feel more complex than my relationship with autism?

• What is a compensation strategy and what is masking?

• When does self-monitoring become self-suppression?

• How do I understand the line between difference and disability?

I don’t have clear answers to these questions, but I’m committed to wrestling with them, reflecting, and inviting you to do the same. You are welcome to join me over the next few weeks as we dive deeper into the blurred lines of ADHD.

AuDHD: What makes my relationship with ADHD feel more complex than my relationship with autism?

Many of you have likely heard the term "AuDHD" (pronounced Odd-dee-H-D). Although, with my phonological dyslexia, I can never quite pronounce it, so don’t take my word for it. It always feels strange coming out of my mouth — like I’m saying “Odd” DHD. So I don’t love the word itself, but I love that it exists — a name for the very distinct experience of being Autistic and ADHD.

Being both Autistic and ADHD brings some unique experiences, particularly the tension between rhythms — one that craves new, exciting, novel experiences, and another that seeks familiarity, routine, and structure. (A few years back when I was in my more ADHD energy and into making reels, I created a humorous reel to capture this tension, which you can see here, if such things amuse you).

Many of us in the community will talk about being Autistic or ADHD dominant, or Autistic or ADHD forward, and this may ebb and flow a bit throughout life or depending on other factors. For me, I identify as Autistic dominant (although one of my daughters would disagree and say I am very much ADHD dominant).

I discovered my ADHD after my autism. Realizing I had ADHD, rather than attributing all my traits to autism, felt like an imposter diagnosis at first. It didn’t fit into the tidy narrative of who I thought I was or how I thought ADHD looked. Even as I looked back at my childhood struggles — impulsivity, distractibility, messy habits — I still held onto old narratives that labeled these as character flaws rather than ADHD traits.

I had to unpack a whole new set of internalized ableist beliefs — beliefs like "you can't be successful if you have ADHD" or "people with ADHD can’t do well in school” or “people with ADHD can’t ever focus.” These stereotypes still linger, and I’ve seen many adults denied a diagnosis simply because they (insert outdated stereotype here like “went to college” or “hold a job”). And to be fair, many ADHDers do struggle to go to or complete college, this is a real thing. And many ADHDers do struggle with underemployment and unemployment.

As a child, I struggled with impulse control, emotional regulation, self-esteem, messiness, impulsivity, and distractibility. But I had a story for each of these struggles: I was bad, sinful, weak, undisciplined, and not smart. To trade in these character-based labels for an ADHD diagnosis felt like I was an imposter. I see this a lot with the ADHD adults I know: "Am I just excusing bad behavior?" or "But what if I’m not ADHD and I’m just [insert shame-based narrative here, such as lazy or bad]?"

To be honest, the beliefs I’ve inherited about how a person — especially an adult — is supposed to behave have been much harder to shake than the narratives I internalized about autism. It’s been easier to embrace: Yes, I am awkward and don’t always know how to start or end conversations. Yes, I am passionate about a few things and uninterested in the rest. But it’s been much harder to embrace: Yes, I am messy. I don’t know how to organize my desktop, my digital files, or my bathroom countertop. I struggle with impulsivity. These traits cause me more shame and strain in my day-to-day working life (while autism causes more strain in my public life). It’s been a more conflicted relationship to embrace.

At times, I talk about my “Autistic parts” and my “ADHD parts.” It can be helpful to externalize and make them concrete for certain conversations. But in reality, it’s not quite like a swirl ice cream cone where there is both chocolate and vanilla and while they are swirled around, the two flavors are still distinct and their own thing. Instead, because neurology interweaves and integrates, it feels more like a swirl that has been melted and stirred together. The flavors have combined into something new. If you were to somehow magically extract my ADHD from my autism, I wouldn’t know exactly what you’d be taking or what would be left.

I do believe my creative, divergent thinking is in part thanks to my ADHD. It fuels my ability to think outside the box, and those bursts of energy sometimes lead to my most original ideas. But that same energy can also fuel the challenges — like the open cabinets, messy counters, and giant misspellings in public posts. (For example, this post from years ago had a funny typo, and by the time I’d noticed it, the post had already gone viral on several platforms!)

So while it’s hard to know exactly what I’m celebrating when I celebrate ADHD, I’m learning to see the beauty in the chaos. Creativity and messiness often go hand-in-hand, and I’m opening myself to appreciating both.

That said, sometimes my ADHD feels like the constant clutter of my countertops or the unchecked typos in my work — little reminders that my mind is always moving faster than my ability to keep up. It’s hard to embrace this chaos, especially when it shows up in such visible, tangible ways, but I’m beginning to understand that it’s part of the whole package.

Part of the complexity of my relationship with ADHD is that I don’t fully understand its contours. Partly, I believe that’s because I’ve focused much more on my autism. But I also wonder if it’s because we have a bit more Autistic culture, identity, and pride. It feels like ADHD is still finding its culture. In fact, as I’ll explore in future writings, I think ADHD is learning a lot from Autistic culture (such as learning about ADHD burnout and ADHD masking), but we have less specific research on ADHD burnout and fewer tools to measure things like ADHD masking.

In the end, it’s hard to know where my ADHD begins or ends — just as it’s hard to fully understand how I feel about it. Unlike my autism, which feels more like a known part of me, ADHD remains messier, more challenging, and more frustrating in my daily life. Maybe that’s why my relationship with it still feels so blurred. I’m learning to see the gifts in the chaos — the creativity in the hundred open tabs, the passion in the impulsivity — but it’s a process. As ADHD culture continues to find its footing, perhaps I’ll find my own clearer sense of what ADHD means to me."