I had considered getting an ADHD evaluation for years before I finally scheduled one. Which, in hindsight, was very ADHD of me. One of the biggest reasons for my hesitation was imposter syndrome. I knew I was struggling, but I didn’t think it “counted” since it didn’t disrupt my life. When I brought it up, I was often dismissed. Was I making it all up?
Then I started learning more about ADHD, especially how it shows up in adults and women. I switched therapists and antidepressants. I made changes to routines. I was pretty sure I had ADHD, but was still unsure about getting a formal evaluation. What I would find out is that having an official diagnosis gave me validation and opened the door for another potential tool: medication.
In this Mind Matters post, I’ll share my journey to an ADHD diagnosis and to finding a medication that works (spoiler alert: still on that journey).
Mind Matters is a blog series focused on mental health as it shows up in real life. Some posts reflect my own experiences (like this one), while others are shaped by learning, conversations, research, or current events. I’m not a mental health professional, and these reflections aren’t medical advice – just an invitation to think more openly and compassionately about how our minds shape our lives.
Before Anyone Took Me Seriously (Including Me)
About five years ago, one of my coworkers asked me, “Do you have ADHD?”
I had wondered that myself for a while – I joked about how I couldn’t tell a story without side quests, and other stereotypical ADHD symptoms that I had. My coworker had me take an online ADHD screening, which basically said: yeah… you probably have ADHD, bruh. So I started considering an evaluation, but ran into a couple of roadblocks.
Several sources said the process might require input from a parent, sibling, or someone who knew me well as a child. My heart sank. The two people who would have been most likely to notice any ADHD symptoms? My mom and my grandma. Both gone.
When I brought up the possibility of having ADHD to the therapist I was seeing at the time, she dismissed it outright. “You don’t have ADHD.” A close friend echoed that sentiment, adding, “You don’t act like (insert name of a male friend of hers). He can’t even function without his medication. If you had ADHD, you’d act more like him.” She wasn’t wrong – I didn’t act like him. What none of us were considering – myself, my therapist, or my friend – was that ADHD in girls and women often looks nothing like ADHD in boys and men.
Those dismissals fed my imposter syndrome and made me afraid that a formal evaluation would confirm what those people said, and my worst internal narrative – that I didn’t have ADHD, I was just bad at friendships and adulting. I also worried that clinicians might think I was exaggerating my symptoms to get stimulant medication – especially since I hadn’t experienced the kinds of consequences people expect with ADHD, like failing classes or getting written up at work.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is what stigma looks like. And it’s exactly why stigma is so detrimental – it delayed me from getting a diagnosis and support I didn’t even realize I needed.
When Everything Started Adding Up
What slowly shifted things for me wasn’t one big moment – it was a series of small ones that kept nudging me closer to curiosity instead of fear.
First, my brother was diagnosed with ADHD. Knowing there’s a genetic component to ADHD, I felt more confident that maybe I had it, too. He started taking Wellbutrin and said the difference it made was noticeable; life simply felt more manageable for him. I asked my family doctor about switching my antidepressant from Zoloft to Wellbutrin. The internalized stigma was strong. What I said was something like: “I gained weight when I started Zoloft, and I’ve kept gaining, and I know Wellbutrin might help with that…” What I added very quickly to the end was: “and plus also my brother was just diagnosed with ADHD and he’s taking Wellbutrin and I think I might have some ADHD symptoms too and genetics are a thing.“
Around that same time, I started working with a new therapist who specialized in ADHD. She didn’t dismiss me. She listened. She asked thoughtful follow-up questions and asked permission before offering any input. I finally felt seen instead of dismissed.
Then there was an unexpected moment at work that stuck with me. My boss was explaining how some people react to medications in ways that are the opposite of what’s expected, and said, “… like how people with ADHD respond to caffeine.” My jaw dropped. Wait… what? She explained that caffeine can actually calm people with ADHD – which was 100% my experience.
Even with all of this evidence pointing toward ADHD, I still wasn’t sure if I was ready to seek an evaluation. About a year after switching my antidepressant to Wellbutrin and working with my therapist, someone I knew – an adult woman like me – had a formal evaluation and was diagnosed with ADHD. She started taking a stimulant and noticed a significant difference in her focus and brain noise almost immediately. I actually got choked up when she said that – “what would it be like to have a quiet mind?”
I asked where she had done her evaluation, and when I realized it was somewhere accessible to me, I was ready.
I made the appointment.
When Medication Wasn’t the Plot Twist I Expected
The first step was the evaluation itself, which took about an hour. A week later I met with a psychiatrist to review my results. He asked me, “Do you think you have ADHD?” I answered honestly: “I have really bad imposter syndrome, so I’m afraid you’re going to tell me that I don’t.” He reassured me that the assessment could identify people trying to force a positive result, then said, simply, “You have ADHD.” After years of doubting myself and being dismissed, I finally had a diagnosis and validation.
My provider explained that even with mild ADHD (mine was moderate), treatment was recommended, and that stimulant medication is considered the gold standard. He shared a story about a woman whose Monday morning tasks went from taking hours to taking less than an hour. My expectations for what this medication could do for me were officially sky-high: all I could think about was the woman’s story, my brother feeling like life was more manageable, and the woman whose brain felt quieter. I wanted all of that for myself.
When I started the first medication, I noticed subtle changes: My focus improved a bit. The volume in my brain turned down slightly. I took fewer conversational side quests. I found myself wondering if it was just a placebo effect, because the changes weren’t as dramatic as I expected them to be.
I worked with my NP to adjust my medication. We adjusted doses and tried multiple medications. Some caused side effects I wasn’t willing to tolerate; others helped even less than the first. I started wondering if medication just wasn’t going to work for me. Or worse, if this was proof that I didn’t really have ADHD after all.
Eventually, I hit a breaking point and brought all of that frustration into therapy. After some crying and feeling sorry for myself, we talked about my expectations and where they came from. She reminded me of something that felt obvious once it was said out loud: I didn’t just develop ADHD as an adult. I’d had it my entire life. And without knowing it, I had built coping strategies to get through life. Medication wasn’t stepping into a blank slate – it was being layered onto a lifetime of adaptation. She also clarified for me what symptoms I could expect medication to improve, explaining that it wouldn’t create executive function, but instead would remove the friction so that I could use what I had more efficiently. She also reassured me that most people try multiple medications before finding what works best, and that many people end up circling back to the very first one they tried.
Not a Light Switch, but a Dimmer
One of the most clarifying moments for me in this journey didn’t happen in a doctor’s office or therapy session. It happened in a conversation with a friend.
She doesn’t have ADHD, but she does experience some of the same symptoms that I do. As she described what her brain sounded like – constant noise, overlapping thoughts, mental chaos – I found myself getting tired just listening. I said, “I’m exhausted just hearing about that. That’s how my brain used to be.”
Used to.
That realization stopped me in my tracks. Somewhere along the way, I had missed what had changed because I was so focused on what hadn’t. My brain wasn’t suddenly silent or perfectly organized – but it was quieter. The mental noise had turned down enough that I could think, focus, and exist with a little less friction, just like my therapist had described.
Friends and coworkers have noticed that I seem more focused, less scattered in conversation, and more present. Interestingly, they noticed these differences in my symptoms most when I was taking the very first medication – go figure.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve been gathering as much information as I can about my symptoms and side effects as I prepare to talk with my NP again. I’m no longer chasing a dramatic transformation or a cure. Understanding that medication is a tool that can reduce friction has allowed me to approach this process with more hope, patience, realistic expectations, and compassion for myself.
I may still be far from finding the right dose, or the right medication – but I’m more confident now that someday I will.
RD on the Run 