Today has been a day of learning.

For me, and for Arthur, the therapy puppy.

ADHD often comes with chaos. A mouth that speaks before the brain has fully caught up. Reactions that happen fast, honest, and unfiltered. Before diagnosis, this can be especially painful, because being misunderstood and having assumptions made about you is something many of us have lived with our whole lives.

We’re often led to believe that we are the problem. That speaking plainly, directly, without fluff or bubble wrap, is wrong. So we try harder. We use more words. We over-explain. We desperately want to be understood.

Many people with ADHD are visual learners. Verbal instructions can feel like someone suddenly speaking Swahili, the words are there, but they don’t land. We’re trying to understand, truly we are.

Our energy can shift quickly. Full of ideas and momentum one moment, utterly exhausted and overwhelmed the next.

And then there’s rejection sensitive dysphoria (RSD).

RSD is an involuntary, intense emotional response to perceived rejection or criticism. It’s not a choice. It’s not dramatic. It’s a nervous system reaction that can feel physically painful.

A delayed reply. A change in tone. A raised eyebrow. Being told you’re selfish, inconsiderate, or not thinking of others.

When you already try so hard to understand people, include them, and do the right thing, those words can cut like a knife. All we want is to belong. To be included. To be loved.

Today, while trying to sort some admin, I spilled juice all down myself. I became so overwhelmed I couldn’t read the words on the page or make sense of what I was doing. I found myself sitting among a pile of washing, an overfilled bin bag that had burst open, and a crushing sense of uselessness.

Tears came. My chest hurt. And the familiar thought arrived: I’m 46, I should have this shit sorted by now.

So I did the only thing my nervous system could manage.

I put my coat and shoes on, grabbed my bag, and walked.

Tears streaming down my face, I walked and walked. Then I stopped.

Arthur was trotting along beside me on a loose lead, stopping to sniff, occasionally looking up to check in with me. A few weeks ago, he couldn’t do this. Not like this. And there we were, not perfect, but so much further along.

I’d been using visuals. Treats. Repetition. And slowly, it was landing.

I went home a little more grounded. The mess was still there. The puppy and Steve the cat got involved. I still couldn’t do the admin. But the washing got washed. The rubbish got sorted.

I stepped away. Then back.

Not to some miraculous breakthrough, but to the realisation that a walk and a bar of Galaxy chocolate had helped.

I’m not a dog. Treats don’t magically transform my brain.

What did happen was regulation. Enough calm returned for me to carry on a little.

For most of our lives, neurodivergent people have been forced into square holes we simply don’t fit into. Many turn to addiction to manage the relentless overwhelm. For some, it all becomes too much. Too many people never receive the care, understanding, and support they need to keep going. We are traumatised from insults, being shouted at and punishment.

Masking is exhausting. And it doesn’t always work. Sometimes that creates more confusion and pain that we should never have felt was an option to use to survive.

Our brains are different. Often running a hundred miles an hour faster than the world around us.

Tonight at training, when I had to ask twenty times, when I needed things shown rather than told, that was okay. My trainer offered that. I know how I learn. And I want to understand.

So if you struggle, diagnosis or not, please know this: it isn’t just a you thing. There are other ways. Find what works for you. Step away if you can to regroup. Ask yourself what has helped before.

And for anyone who treats others as if they’re stupid, lazy, or choosing this – it isn’t a choice. Empathy isn’t about fixing or correcting. It’s about showing the other person that you get it.

And Arthur?

Yes, he pulled the next time I took him out. Ran me in circles. Came home for snuggles. And the admin still wasn’t done.

But that’s okay.

Tomorrow is another day.

Stay safe, stay connected, take gentle care,

Louise x

This is how I work in therapy and supervision. We don’t try to force you into systems that don’t fit, or shame you for how your brain and nervous system respond. We slow things down, use what works for you, visuals, creativity, honesty, stepping back when it’s too much, and we work with regulation rather than against it. Whether you’re neurodivergent, traumatised, burnt out, or just exhausted from holding it all together, you don’t have to keep doing it alone. If any of this resonates and you’d like to explore working with me in therapy or supervision, you can email me at louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com. There is another way, and it doesn’t involve fixing who you are.