ADHD at 42: Oh Cool, My Brain’s an Asshole

I got diagnosed with ADHD at 42, and the next morning felt like I’d woken up in the Matrix. Except instead of bending spoons with my mind, I was just finally bending over to pick up the naked Barbie I'd walked past 100 times. Suddenly, everything made sense, why I could plan an international move in three days but couldn’t replace the toilet paper roll. Apparently, my brain isn’t broken, it’s just running Windows 95 with 87 pop-ups and a secret OnlyFans tab open for no reason.

Things hit peak WTF after I had my daughter and perimenopause joined the party uninvited, like that drunk friend who shows up with Jaeger at brunch. I genuinely thought I was dying: dizzy, foggy, unable to remember what I was talking about and convinced I had a brain tumor. I even got two scans just to be told, “Nope, just ADHD and anxiety, ma’am.” Cool, thanks. Middle and high school probably should’ve been clues: always mouthing off to teachers, getting detentions for “attitude problems,” and being the bad influence friend who says “let’s just do it” right before shit goes sideways. Oopsy.

But honestly? ADHD is my superpower… and my supervillain. It’s what gives me my dark humor, my ability to say “fuck it” and jump on a plane with no plan, my constant craving for new stimuli, and the reason I’ve moved around the world like Carmen Sandiego. Sure, it’s also why I get bored faster than a toddler at a tax seminar, why corporate life felt like being slowly waterboarded with beige spreadsheets, and why I need sleep like my soul depends on it. But now I finally know how my brain works. I can manage the parts that suck and harness the parts that make me a creative, chaotic badass. Which is great, because life’s too short to be normal… and honestly… wait, what the hell was I just saying?!