One Night I Shined. The Next Night I Spiraled.

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One Night I Shined. The Next Night I Spiraled.

 

Two Nights, Same ADHD Brain

 

Night One.

I am presenting an hour long presentation for an International Audience. Despite some technical snafus, I ended the night feeling amazing. I was articulate. I was insightful.

I left the evening feeling that high that comes from nailing something that scared the bejeepers out of me. I walked away feeling capable and confident and just a little bit taller.

 Then Night Two.

I am at a Happy Hour that I organized for International Coaching Week. Sitting in a casual social sitting wiht other coaches, most of whom I’ve met before. In the two hours we were sitting there, I suddenly became every bit that socially awkard AuDHD girl I was in high school. I was awkward and really just wanted to leave.

When I did leave, I spent that night and the next morning replaying every interaction I could remember and suddenly my brain was telling me a completely different story that it had just 24 hours before.

Same brain. Same person. Two wildly different experiences in less than 48 hours.

This is one of the exhausting things about ADHD, AuDHD and neurodivergence that isn’t always talked about – the emotional whiplash of sometimes feeling like a superstar….and other times feeling painfully “too much.”

 

 

ADHD Can Make You Shine

That first night when I was presenting, I nailed it.

I was funny, passionate, in the moment, and my timing as right. It felt natural. I felt I was able to speak knowledgeably, confidently, and authentically.

I left feeling pretty damn proud of myself. Not perfect – I could think of several things I could do better. Not magically cured of ADHD, just genuinely proud of myself.

I think sometimes we don’t talk enough about this side of ADHD. The side that makes some people liken ADHD to a super power.

Sure, ADHD creates challenges, real and exhausting ones. But there are also environments where many of us genuinely shine.

Some things that ADHD brains can be incredibly good at are

• quick thinking
• storytelling
• connecting
• being creative
• hyperfocus
• ideas
• spotting patterns
• improvising
• speaking passionately
• some of us are great in a crisis.

Sometimes what feels chaotic in one environment becomes magnetic in another. The same fast-moving brain that struggles with small talk can come alive during meaningful conversation or public speaking.

The same emotional intensity that can feel incredibly overwhelming in private moments can help other people feel deeply connected to us in others. 

That night, I felt fully in sync with myself.

If you are someone with ADHD, you are well aware of how meaningful those moments can feel after years and years of hearing mostly about what you struggle with.

I felt like – I can conquer anything!

 

 

And Then Came The Spiral

Then came the second night. A much smaller setting. Casual conversation. Colleagues gathered together talking and connecting, joking and having a good time. Looking at it objectively, nothing terrible happened.

While driving home my brain started telling me an entirely different story. All of a sudden I was remembering every conversation. I was replaying everything over and over again.

Did I interrupt anyone? Did I talk too much? Did I tell too little? Did I overshare? I’m sure I overshared. Did I make everyone feel awkward? Why did I tell that story? Am I being that person no one really wants around? Why did I say that? What the heck is wrong with me?

I’d imagine if you have a neurodivergent brain – there’s a pretty good chance you know exactly the type of spiral I’m talking about. 

 The hard part? It’s the same traits that helped me shine one night that were still present the second. The enthusiasm, the quick thoughts, the story telling, the desire to connect.

In a different setting with less structure, more social nuance – those same traits suddenly felt way less charming in my brain.  Halfway through the Happy Hour I began doubting myself and replaying old conversations of – don’t talk to much, don’t fidget too much, and remember, Kat, you often come across as a know-it-all, don’t be a know-it-all.

That emotional whiplash can be really really really exhausting.

Especially because many ADHD humans become experts at self-monitoring. We scan reactions, replay conversation, analyze tone shifts, and weird looks. We are often on the constant search for evidence that we are being “too much” again.

Sometimes we do interrupt. Sometimes we did overshare. Sometimes we were overly-enthusiastic.  But the shame spiral is often much bigger than the actual interaction itself.

Years of shame have a way of turning regular human awkwardness into proof that something is fundamentally wrong with us. So we can go right from “that was a little awkward” to “everyone thinks I’m annoying or too much” in our brains in the blink of an eye.

That’s a heavy way to move through the world. 

 

 

What I’m Trying To Hold Onto

What I’m trying to hold onto now is this: Both nights were real.

The version of me standing confidently in front of a room, connecting with people and speaking passionately? Real.

The version of me sitting in the car afterward replaying conversations and wondering if I took up too much space? Also real.

And I think part of building a more authentic life with ADHD is learning not to turn either version into the whole story of who we are.

For a long time, I treated every awkward social interaction like it was evidence of my terribleness. Evidence that I was too loud, too intense, too much.

But human beings are awkward sometimes. ADHDers and Neurodivergent humans especially are often navigating conversations while also managing impulsivity, emotional intensity, masking, rejection sensitivity, social processing, and years of accumulated shame all at the same time.That’s a lot to carry into one casual conversation.

I’m also realizing that belonging cannot depend on perfect performance. Because if the only version of me that deserves connection is the polished version — the articulate version, the funny version, the “good in public” version — then I will spend my whole life terrified of being human.

And I don’t want to do that anymore.I want to build a life where there is room for complexity.

• Room for brilliance and awkwardness.
• Room for confidence and insecurity.
• Room for shining and spiraling.
• Room for being deeply human without immediately turning every imperfect moment into a character flaw.

The truth is, the same brain that helps me connect deeply with people is also a brain that feels deeply. Processes deeply. Replays deeply. And maybe healing isn’t about becoming less intense or less ADHD.

Maybe part of healing is learning how to offer ourselves compassion after the spiral instead of punishment. I’m still working on that part.

But I think that’s the version of belonging I’m actually looking for now — not belonging that depends on getting every interaction “right,” but belonging that can survive me being imperfect, awkward, emotional, excited, messy, and fully human.

 

I think one of the hardest parts of living with ADHD is how quickly we can swing between feeling deeply capable and deeply ashamed. One moment we’re connecting, creating, presenting, helping, leading, making people laugh, and feeling fully alive in our strengths.The next moment we’re lying awake replaying a conversation from six hours ago wondering if we ruined everything by talking too much.

Neither moment tells the full story of who we are.

Maybe part of building a more manageable and authentic life is learning to stop treating every social misstep like proof that we are fundamentally “too much.”

Maybe it’s learning to hold ourselves with a little more compassion in the aftermath.

Maybe it’s realizing that being human — especially being neurodivergently human — is sometimes messy, vulnerable, awkward, brilliant, emotional, connective, and complicated all at once.

And I think there’s something beautifully human about that too.