Before We Were Adults - How ADHD Changed Us First

For many of us with late-diagnosed ADHD, it wasn’t childhood where things truly unravelled. It was adolescence, that difficult middle ground, where we were expected to act like adults but were still wired like kids. This was the period when the traits that shaped us became more visible, more consequential, and more misunderstood. Not just by teachers and parents, but by us. And because we didn’t yet have the language to make sense of what was happening, we often absorbed the blame.

ADHD is a neurodevelopmental condition that doesn’t disappear with age, and adolescence is no exception. The traits that define ADHD in childhood often persist into the teen years and beyond, with around two-thirds of individuals continuing to meet criteria into adulthood (Faraone & Larsson, 2019). But the context changes, and so do the consequences.

The teenage years are already a time of massive brain and identity development. But for ADHDers, they carry an extra layer of friction. As our brains go through puberty, the prefrontal cortex which is responsible for planning, self-regulation, and working memory is still maturing. At the same time, hormonal changes in adolescence affect emotional intensity and reward-seeking, leading to an even greater imbalance between impulse and control (Casey et al., 2008; Barkley, 2010).

Research shows that reward anticipation and delay aversion in adolescents with ADHD is tied to dopamine signalling in the brain — which is often less consistent or responsive than in neurotypical peers. This can make teens with ADHD more reactive to immediate stimuli, more sensitive to feedback, and more prone to impulsive behaviour, even when they understand the risks (Plichta & Scheres, 2014). It’s not that we didn’t know bettter but that the regulation system couldn’t keep pace with the stakes.

At home, things got tense. I was rarely there. I stayed out late, got into mischief, sought stimulation - not recklessly, but restlessly. I was always seeking more. More fun. More movement. More intensity. Smoking felt like a shortcut to calm. Goofing off felt like something to do. I didn’t realise it then, but I was unable to find my groove, never quite fitting in, trying out different masks to see what worked.

Adolescence is when masking often intensifies. As social demands become more complex, many ADHD teens, especially those who don’t fit the disruptive stereotype, start adapting their behaviour to fit in. We become the funny one, the high achiever, the people pleaser, the quietly anxious perfectionist. Masking helps us avoid punishment, but it also increases our internal load. And over time, we lose track of which version of ourselves is real.

The emotional toll is compounded by the moral language used to describe ADHD traits during this period. Impulsivity becomes rudeness. Inattention becomes laziness. Forgetfulness becomes irresponsibility. There’s less compassion, and more judgement. Studies have shown that adolescents with ADHD often internalise this feedback, developing lower self-esteem and greater vulnerability to anxiety and depression as a result. Meta-analytic evidence shows that emotional dysregulation — including poor frustration tolerance and rapid mood shifts — is a core and measurable feature of ADHD in youth, not just a side effect of environment (Shaw et al., 2014). When mistakes are seen as character flaws, not cognitive differences, the shame can run deep.

There was no social media back then, but that didn’t stop the stimulation-seeking. I’d stay up all night rereading the same books over and over, totally immersed in the familiarity of imagined worlds. Later, it was nights out, late shifts, and multiple jobs in the holidays. At university, I was a club DJ most nights a week, making people dance until 3 a.m., then writing code until sunrise. Sometimes I’d hide in the computing labs after hours, switching off the lights so the security guard wouldn’t spot me on his rounds. That’s when I did my best work, not because I wanted to be sneaky, but because it was finally quiet and I could think.

I spent more money than I had, and worked even harder to earn more so I could party harder. From the moment I had money, I needed more than I earned. It looked like independence. But really, I was chasing interest, novelty, and intensity because anything else felt unbearable. I lived by my internal clock, not the world’s. And while it worked for a while, it came at the cost of rest, routine, and sustainability.

My final project at university was a complex bit of software that pushed the limits of what was expected. It also accidentally crashed the entire university network more than once, thanks to a rogue line of code or two. But the thing that really cost me wasn’t chaos. It was paperwork. I just couldn’t bring myself to write the long, formal documentation required. That missing motivation cost me a first-class degree. I knew the material. I did the work. I just couldn’t finish it in the right format, at the right time .

The DIVA assessment I undertook later in life as part of my ADHD diagnosis confirmed what I had always sensed. There was a stable pattern of impulsivity, distractibility, and executive function difficulties that traced back to these years and earlier. I struggled to complete tasks, lost items constantly, and lived in cycles of hyperfocus and collapse. But at the time, these traits weren’t seen as signs of ADHD — they were seen as signs of immaturity or failure. And because of that, they were often frowned at, or ignored.

Many ADHDers first notice the fallout from these years not in school, but in their sense of self. Identity formation is a core task of adolescence, but for those of us who were never seen clearly, the story we built around ourselves was shaped more by coping than clarity. Erikson described this developmental period as a crisis of identity versus role confusion. For those with ADHD, that confusion often runs deep (Erikson, 1950). We don’t just wonder who we are; we wonder why we can’t seem to be who we’re supposed to be.

That’s why late diagnosis can feel like both a relief and a reckoning. It helps explain what happened, but it also raises painful questions. What if we’d known sooner? What if we’d been taught how our brains worked, instead of being told to try harder? What might we have done differently, or believed about ourselves?

We can’t go back. But we can reflect with more compassion than we were ever given.

We can name what wasn’t our fault.

And we can begin to rewrite the stories that shaped us before we were even adults.

💬 What stories did you learn to tell yourself during these years?

Were they true, or just what you needed to survive?

If you’re ready, try looking back with the lens of knowledge and kindness.

You might find the real story was always different.

American Psychiatric Association. (2022). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (5th ed., text rev.; DSM-5-TR).

Barkley, R. A. (2010). Taking Charge of ADHD: The Complete, Authoritative Guide for Parents (3rd ed.). Guilford Press.

Casey, B. J., Jones, R. M., & Hare, T. A. (2008). The adolescent brain. Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 1124(1), 111–126. https://doi.org/10.1196/annals.1440.010

Erikson, E. H. (1950). Childhood and society. W. W. Norton & Company.

Faraone, S. V., & Larsson, H. (2019). Genetics of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Molecular Psychiatry, 24(4), 562–575. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41380-018-0070-0

Shaw, P., Stringaris, A., Nigg, J., & Leibenluft, E. (2014). Emotion dysregulation in attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. American Journal of Psychiatry, 171(3), 276–293. https://doi.org/10.1176/appi.ajp.2013.13070966

Plichta, M. M., & Scheres, A. (2014). Ventral–striatal responsiveness during reward anticipation in ADHD and its relation to trait impulsivity in the healthy population: A meta-analytic review of the fMRI literature. Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews, 38, 125–134. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.neubiorev.2013.07.012