vworp.net

20 September 2026 · article

I have ADHD. This is what I've "figured out".

I’ve spent most of my life wrestling with my mental health, long before I knew ADHD was part of the picture. My dad struggled too. He and Mum were both Deaf, and he grew up in a world that wasn’t built for him. The 1950s and 60s weren’t exactly known for their emotional literacy, so his approach was basically: work hard, don’t talk about feelings, and pretend everything’s fine until it isn’t. He had a good job as an aerospace engineer, but the emotional stuff he never dealt with eventually caught up with him. By the time he was older, the “mental health debt” came due, and it was rough. His paranoia and desire to isolate were part of why we moved to New Zealand in 1996 - a decision that, in hindsight, shaped a lot of my own isolation growing up.

My teenage years were messy. I was anxious, sensitive, and socially awkward - the kind of kid who didn’t fit the school mould (which seemed designed for rugby players and people who loved sport). I was in the accelerate classes, but that didn’t stop me from feeling like I was always one bad day away from falling apart. By 14 I was dealing with suicidal thoughts and trying to hold myself together while supporting my parents. Drama was one of the few places I felt okay - until I froze on stage at the Waikato Shakespeare Competition and forgot every line. That one stuck with me.

I left school at sixteen and went straight into full‑time work as a baker. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was stable, and stability was something I desperately needed. It’s also where I met my wife - who has been the best friend I’ve ever had, even when I’ve been, well, a lot. We became parents young. She was 18 when our eldest was born, and while most people her age were out having fun, she chose us. I didn’t have extended family around, so she carried a lot. I always felt like a burden, especially because I didn’t have qualifications or a “real career” yet. Eventually I got my first IT job in 2007, and slowly we built a life that feels stable now.

Then came 2019 and the news that we were expecting our son. We were excited - felt like our family wasn’t quite finished. But instead of a gender reveal, we were ushered into the Family Room. If you’ve ever been in one, you know what that means: tissues on the table, soft lighting, the kind of room where bad news lives. Our son has a rare variant of Joubert Syndrome caused by a CEP290 mutation. He’s the only boy in New Zealand with that specific mutation. It affects organs that rely on cilia to communicate properly - kidneys, liver, eyes. He’s almost completely blind and has autism and sensory challenges. Routine is everything.

Becoming parents to a child with severe disabilities sharpened everything. ADHD symptoms I’d always had got louder. Burnout hit faster. Stress hit harder. Work became overwhelming in ways I couldn’t explain. I’d spiral, lose focus, lose emotional control, and then beat myself up for not being able to “just cope.” One small comment set me off so badly I pulled into a petrol station and cried in my car. That was the moment I realised I couldn’t keep doing this alone.

I finally got proper help: a full evaluation, a treatment plan, and medication that actually works for me. Rubifen turned down the noise in my head. Meetings stopped being a blur of “blah blah blah.” I could follow threads, contribute without rambling, and remember things. Tasks stopped feeling like mountains. I felt present. Medication didn’t fix everything, but it gave me enough headspace to use the other tools that help: timers, visual reminders, putting things at the point of performance, and breaking tasks into tiny steps.

COVID changed things in ways I didn’t expect. Working from home was brilliant at first - fewer commutes, more flexibility, and I actually flourished for a while. Then everyone started going back to the office and my routine got weird. I hated working from home later on because I couldn’t focus. If there were dishes, I’d do the dishes. If I felt tired, I’d nap. Anything but the work. But here’s the odd bit: if my family were home with me, I was fine. Having someone else around - even just being in the same room - helped me focus. That’s called body doubling, and it’s a real thing for a lot of people with ADHD: another person’s presence can make tasks feel doable. So yes, I did the dishes sometimes. No, I wasn’t slacking off at work - I was trying to find ways to get the job done in a brain that kept offering better, shinier distractions.

Another hard part was the lack of practical support and understanding from some people around us during COVID and since. We were exhausted, raising a child with complex needs, and cut off from usual supports. Some people in our wider circle didn’t really get it - mental health was dismissed as “in your head,” ADHD was waved off as a trend, and the idea of needing respite or practical help didn’t land. That lack of understanding made an already difficult period feel heavier, and it pushed me to finally take my own mental health seriously instead of trying to tough it out.

I’ve learned a few things that actually help me live better with ADHD:

I’m still figuring things out. ADHD isn’t fixed. Life isn’t magically easy. But I’m finally understanding myself, asking for help, and using tools that actually work for me. I’m better at shutting my mouth before saying something dumb. I’m better at listening. I’m better at not trying to prove myself every five minutes.

If there’s a silver lining, it’s this: admitting you need help is not failure. It’s a strategy. And if you’re reading this and thinking, “That sounds like me,” maybe give yourself permission to try something different - even if it’s just a timer and a cup of coffee.

← Back to the blog