It took a long time before I truly understood how deeply ADHD is woven into my life. For years, I thought I was just a bit chaotic, a little dreamy—someone who simply struggled with structure. But deep down, I always felt that something wasn’t quite right, as if I kept running into an invisible wall that made everyday functioning harder than it should be. Much later, I discovered that this wall had a name: ADHD. From that moment on, my life shifted. ADHD did not become my limitation, but rather the lens through which I finally understood why I am the way I am. It started with small things—simple, surface-level tasks that seemed effortless to others. Sending in work forms, for example, would grow into a massive task in my mind: where was the form, where were the envelopes, where did it need to go, and when would I have time? By the time I began, I was already distracted again. And when I finally did send it, it was often in an oversized envelope because I couldn’t find a smaller one. It may sound trivial, but for me, these moments represent how ADHD shows up: everything becomes just a little more complicated than it needs to be.
My relationship with Wordfather began like a whirlwind. Within three months, I was pregnant. We thought we were being careful, but impulsivity—one of the core aspects of ADHD—played a role I didn’t yet recognize. Everything moved fast, without space to truly reflect. That is what ADHD often does: it pushes you forward, without pausing to consider the long-term consequences. It led me into situations where I later wondered if I could have done things differently. But at the time, it felt logical—even necessary. And yet, ADHD has also given me strengths. Like hyperfocus. During my work at the airport, I could completely immerse myself in my tasks, everything else fading away. That same hyperfocus allowed me to excel at times, despite the chaos in my mind. That sense of control, of being fully absorbed in something, gave me peace. But the cost was high. I often forgot my own limits, pushed myself too far, and became exhausted without even realizing it.
After the birth of Riddle Daughter, my lack of structure became painfully clear. Life with a newborn is already overwhelming, but with ADHD it turned into a dizzying chaos. I remember how everyone rushed through the house looking for things I should have prepared long before. Everything was last-minute. Everything felt like survival. My daughter was weighed on top of a half-finished puzzle. It couldn’t have been more symbolic: in the middle of unfinished thoughts and incomplete tasks, this new life arrived. Since childhood, I had always been in motion. My mind overflowed with ideas, plans, and stimuli. I could never sit still, always searching for new experiences—something that made me feel alive. But that constant drive also exhausted me. There were days I didn’t understand why I felt so tired. Everything felt like too much, and I didn’t know how to stop—physically or mentally. It was as if my mind was constantly running overtime while my body simply followed along.
Perhaps the hardest part was the constant self-criticism. That voice in my head whispering that I wasn’t enough—as a mother, as a partner, as a person. I saw other mothers doing things effortlessly that I struggled with daily. Forgetting birthdays, losing things, reacting emotionally. ADHD made me sensitive, intense—every emotion arrived like a storm. I wanted to do better, but often didn’t know how. And then there was my daughter. My Riddle Daughter. Her name says it all. While my son was open and accessible, she remained a mystery. She withdrew, did things in her own way. And I? I tried to reach her, but my own inner chaos often stood in the way. I may have heard her, but I didn’t always understand her. My thoughts were louder than her whispers. My reactions were sometimes too fast, too sharp. When I felt hurt, I reacted instinctively—not out of unwillingness, but out of inability. Only afterward would I understand. But by then, it was already too late.
Looking back now, I can see how my ADHD played a role—not as the cause, but as an amplifier. Of emotions. Of misunderstandings. Of patterns I struggled to break. And yet, that same ADHD also gave me the strength to keep trying. To keep hoping. To never give up my love, no matter how difficult it became. Because that is what drives me: my love for my children. Always. Therapy gave me insight. It gave words to what I could not understand. It helped me forgive—especially myself. Because as long as I kept hating myself, I could not heal. ADHD does not disappear, but you can learn to live with it. And if you are lucky, you may even learn to appreciate it. Because it also brings gifts: creativity, passion, resilience. To anyone who recognizes themselves in this: you are not alone. ADHD is not a weakness. It is a different way of being—a different way of feeling, thinking, reacting. It is intense, confusing, but also full of fire and love. And that fire—that remains.
☕️ A cup of comfort
Come, hold a warm mug in your hands and lean back for a moment.
Because if there is anyone who has already analyzed themselves a hundred times, turned themselves inside out and tried to understand why things are the way they are… it is you.
ADHD is not a label on your forehead, not a manual you can simply read and follow.
It is a tangle of thoughts, emotions, outbursts, silences, hyperfocus and total chaos.
It is living with a mind that has 24 tabs open—one playing music, one frozen, and one suddenly attempting a cartwheel.
You have blamed yourself for forgetting things, being late, reacting too intensely.
But listen… you are living in a world built for straight lines, while your mind flows like a river full of stories.
And still, you keep trying.
You keep caring.
You keep loving.
Even when you feel like you are falling short a thousand times, you continue to mother with everything you have.
This cup of comfort is for you.
Because you are more than your restlessness.
Because your love does not count for less just because it is expressed messily.
Because your child may not always have understood what you meant,
but they felt that you never stopped trying.
You do not have to fix yourself anymore.
You do not have to reflect even more.
You are allowed to simply sit.
Breathe.
Be.
And know: it is already so much.
You are already so much. ❤️
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