Neurodiversity Celebration Week – Jordan’s story

Growing up, I had on-and-off struggles with my mental health, but I never really understood why therapy or prescriptions didn’t seem to help in the way I expected them to.

I struggled through school, but it was more of an internal struggle. I wasn’t loud, hyperactive or ‘naughty’, which is often what people used to think ADHD looked like. Because of that, no one ever suspected it. Looking back now, I realise my symptoms were probably more noticeable at home. I would spend the entire school day masking, trying to hold everything together, and then come home and completely crash.

It wasn’t until I became a mum that things really started to shift. I found it harder to keep masking the way I always had. I often felt like I was failing, especially when comparing myself to other mums on the school run who always seemed to remember things that I couldn’t. It started to feel harder just to get through the day.

At the same time, I was researching autism and ADHD because I was concerned about my son. The more I read, the more it felt like I was reading about myself. When I looked further into ADHD, particularly how it presents in women, everything suddenly started to make sense.

I joined the NHS waiting list and waited around three years before being told the assessment could take another three to four years. Eventually I learned about the Right to Choose pathway, which thankfully allowed me to access an assessment much sooner.

When I reflect on my childhood and teenage years now, there are so many things that make more sense.

I never fit the stereotypical picture of ADHD. I was quite timid, emotional and sensitive as a child. I could only really manage one or two close friendships at a time, partly because I was terrible at replying to messages, something that still hasn’t improved much!

Looking back, I wish I could tell the younger version of myself that there was nothing wrong with me. The labels I was given weren’t a reflection of who I was as a person, they were simply a result of my brain working differently to those around me.

There were signs along the way. I was given extra time in exams because concentrating was difficult. I struggled with managing money and would go through phases of isolating myself and then being extremely social, often burning myself out in the process.

I’ve always been quite “all or nothing” in the way I approach things, often relying on spontaneity rather than planning ahead. Revising for exams felt almost impossible, I was late for everything, and I always needed to know who else would be attending an event before agreeing to go. Looking back, I think that was because I needed time to mentally prepare myself and avoid the feeling of rejection.

I’ve also always been very sensitive to noise, even as a baby, and incredibly forgetful, not because I didn’t care, but because my brain simply worked differently.

When I became a mum, these challenges became much harder to manage. Suddenly it wasn’t just my own responsibilities I needed to keep track of, but everything for my children as well.

When I finally received my diagnosis, I expected to feel relieved. Instead, I felt quite low for about a month afterwards. I later learned that this reaction is actually very common.

For me, there was a sense of grief. I felt sad for the younger version of myself who struggled without understanding why. I felt sad for the version of me who was a new mum, trying to work out why everything seemed harder for me than it did for other people. I also felt sad for my mum, who saw me struggling and tried to help but didn’t understand why nothing seemed to work.

It was a lot to process, especially as there was still a long wait before starting medication. I remember thinking, “Well… what now?”

Some people also experience something called skill regression after diagnosis. I hadn’t heard of this before and initially thought I was just failing at things I used to manage. In reality, it’s when the masking strategies you’ve relied on for years temporarily stop working. It can feel like the protective wall your body built to cope suddenly disappears, leaving you feeling quite vulnerable.

During that time, connecting with others who had recently been diagnosed helped me enormously. While support from friends and family is important, speaking with people who truly understood what I was experiencing was incredibly validating.

Since my diagnosis, the journey has been an adjustment.

For most of my life I had one perception of who I was. Suddenly, I had to rebuild that understanding of myself. I thought getting the diagnosis would be the hardest part, but in many ways it was only the beginning.

I remind myself that this isn’t a quick fix. I’ve spent decades not understanding how to support myself or ask for help, so it’s unrealistic to expect everything to change overnight. But I am making progress.

At the end of last year, I began medication titration. The process can be physically, emotionally and mentally demanding. Not knowing how your body will react while still being a parent, going to work and managing everyday responsibilities can be challenging.

But if the version of me who had just received her diagnosis could see where I am now, she would be incredibly proud.

ADHD can bring its challenges, but it can also come with strengths.

I’m naturally quite empathetic, which helps when speaking with vulnerable residents. I care deeply about fairness and making sure people feel heard. Advocating for others is something I feel very passionate about.

ADHD can also bring creativity, strong problem-solving skills and the ability to look at situations from a different perspective. That different way of thinking can sometimes help when finding solutions others might not immediately see.

There are still many misconceptions about ADHD.

One of the most important things to understand is that ADHD does not look the same for everyone. For many people, particularly women, hyperactivity can be internal rather than physical. It might show up as racing thoughts, constant mental noise, overthinking or catastrophising.

Another common misconception is that ADHD is simply about not trying hard enough. In reality, ADHD affects executive functioning, the part of the brain responsible for things like starting tasks, organising information and managing time. It’s linked to neurological and chemical differences, including lower dopamine levels, which means it’s not something that can be solved by simply “trying harder”.

You may also hear people say, “Everyone is a bit ADHD.” While this is often well-intentioned, it can minimise the challenges people with ADHD experience. The difference is the severity and the impact on everyday life.

ADHD also doesn’t disappear in adulthood. It often presents differently as responsibilities increase.

Another important point is that emotional responses can sometimes be misunderstood. Many people with ADHD experience emotional dysregulation or rejection sensitivity. That means how we feel inside and how that emotion is perceived by others don’t always match up.

Often people with ADHD aren’t struggling because they don’t care, they’re struggling because they care deeply and feel frustrated when their brain doesn’t cooperate.

Everyone experiences ADHD differently, so the type of support someone may need will vary.

Not everyone who is neurodivergent will want to share that information with colleagues, and that’s completely valid. For those who are diagnosed later in life, they may still be learning how to support themselves, which takes time.

Many workplace adjustments that support neurodivergent colleagues can also benefit neurotypical colleagues too.

The most important things colleagues can offer are patience, understanding and a non-judgmental environment. When people feel safe to ask for help or discuss adjustments, it becomes much easier to reach out.

I would always encourage people to learn more about neurodiversity, even if they don’t consider themselves neurodivergent. The chances are that someone in your life, a colleague, friend, family member or resident, may be. Understanding what neurodiversity really looks like, rather than relying on stereotypes, can make a huge difference in how we support each other.

Greater awareness also means the next generation of children may be recognised earlier and receive the support they need to grow up feeling confident and understood.

If I could go back and speak to my 16-year-old self, I would hug her for everything she went through without the right support.

I would tell her that it’s okay not to have everything figured out.

I’d tell her that everything she experiences will shape the person she becomes, and that one day things will start to make more sense. It won’t fix the past, but it will help make life a little easier and help her learn to be kinder to herself.

Most importantly, I would tell her that I wouldn’t change anything about her. The courage and determination she showed back then are what led me to where I am today.

She may not have had the knowledge or confidence to advocate for herself then, but she had the strength to keep going. That strength now helps me advocate for myself, for my children, and for others who need reminding that their voice matters.