Living Well With ADHD Is Not Just About Meds
This is the final piece in the ADHD Lifespan Series. Across the past five posts, I’ve explored the shape of ADHD from childhood to adulthood, from being misunderstood at school, to risky teenage years, to the invisible weight of adulting with executive dysfunction. I began with the truth that ADHD isn’t new and it doesn’t go away. It shifts and adapts as we do. And so must our support. This last chapter asks a bigger question: what does it take, not just to survive ADHD, but to live well with it?
What does a good life look like when you're ADHD?
It's not an abstract question for many of us, especially those diagnosed late. It's the quiet, aching one underneath the others: *Am I okay now? Is this it?*
After years of just-getting-by, a diagnosis can bring clarity. Medication can bring relief. But it doesn't guarantee ease. For many, it's the first time we realise how hard we've been working just to appear fine.
When I started ADHD medication, it felt like a system reboot. Not a fix, but a chance to finally operate in line with how I was built. For most of my life, it was like I’d been trying to run Windows software on a Mac. I kept downloading the same programs everyone else used, assuming they should work for me too. But my system was different. It was not broken, just not built for the same tools. Once I started using tools and systems designed for my different operating system, things did not suddenly become easy. But for the first time, they became manageable.
Stimulants like methylphenidate target dopamine and norepinephrine systems, helping regulate attention, motivation, and cognitive energy (Posner et al., 2020). For many, they can be life-changing. But not life-defining.
I often say that medication lowered the high-jump bar just enough that I could begin. It made the first step possible. And then the second. And the third. They were still hard, but no longer inaccessible.
But meds don’t teach boundaries. They don’t repair sleep. They don’t undo years of shame, RSD, or emotional whiplash. That’s where the other ways of treating ADHD matter.
Learning what ADHD and autism actually are, not just the stereotypes, was like turning on a light in a room I’d lived in for years. I saw myself clearly. I also saw what I’d internalised: perfectionism, people-pleasing, over-functioning and had been living in survival mode.
A book called *How to Be Autistic* helped me realise I’d lived most of my life without boundaries. At home. At work. Even with myself. That realisation was painful, but also one of the most powerful catalysts for change. I began to explore what it means to meet my own needs. To recognise that I even had needs.
Self-understanding, emotional literacy, reframing shame, these are all crucial parts of quality of life. Research shows that ADHD is associated with significantly reduced wellbeing across emotional, social, and cognitive domains (Agarwal et al., 2012; Danckaerts et al., 2010). And that’s before we account for masking or co-occurring conditions.
Medication may help you function. But it won’t help you feel.
I’m very fortunate. I’m in a senior position at a firm that I love, with a career that is in-line with my skills and motivations. I had the financial and professional security to get a private diagnosis, to undertake an ND coaching course, and set up a neurodiversity network at work. That privilege meant I could speak openly, even if I often felt exposed.
What’s surprised me most is how many people reached out. Hundreds of colleagues joined. Many told me, often with tears, that they finally felt seen. That they’d found their tribe.
Belonging isn’t a luxury. It’s foundational. The World Health Organization defines quality of life across six domains: physical health, psychological wellbeing, independence, relationships, environment, and spirituality. ADHD affects all of them. And most of those impacts are shaped by the social environment.
Adjustments, coaching, and community, these aren’t extras. They’re evidence-based interventions. Studies show that the best outcomes for ADHD come from a holistic treatment model: medication, psychological support (like CBT or coaching), environmental changes, and social inclusion (French et al., 2024; Catalá-López et al., 2017). This approach is often referred to as the biopsychosocial model, which looks at how biological, psychological, and social factors all contribute to a person's wellbeing and outcomes.
The biopsychosocial model isn’t just theoretical. It maps directly onto real life. It’s a way of understanding human wellbeing by looking at three intertwined domains, biology, psychology, and social context. For ADHD, that means acknowledging how the brain works, how we process emotions and stress, and how the world around us either supports or undermines our functioning.
What I’m learning, again and again, is that quality of life isn’t about removing difficulty. It’s about increasing permission. Permission to pause. Permission to say no. Permission to ask for help. Permission to try new ways that suit your brain.
Medication helped me start. But community and connection are what’s helping me grow.
I was fortunate to receive neurodiversity-informed coaching from Dr Jo Perkins, whose calm, insightful approach helped me begin untangling years of survival mode. Her support created the kind of grounded, accepting space I did not know I needed. You can read more about Dr Jo’s coaching here - https://www.drjoperkins.com.
I am training to become a qualified neurodiversity coach, not to build a business, but to support others more effectively. And the more I learn, the more I find myself applying those insights inward too. It’s helping me notice, reflect, and respond with greater care towards myself.
Since diagnosis, I’ve quit almost all my old maladaptive coping strategies. No more alcohol to sleep. No caffeine. No doom-scrolling. I eat well. I sleep. I exercise. I keep to routines I used to find impossible. These were the things I wanted before. But couldn’t sustain.
And when I stopped numbing, what was left was... me. Unfiltered. Sometimes overwhelmed. Sometimes unsure. But for the first time, truly experiencing everything. Not just surviving. I won’t say it was easy, and I won’t say I’m done by any means, but I now have found the tools to start and finishing things, so am actually hopeful for the future. That means a lot.
The greatest shift? I’m no longer trying to pass as “functional.” I’m trying to build a life that’s meaningful. And that’s made all the difference.
Have you been trying to use the same systems, tools, or routines that seem to work for everyone else, but never seem to work for you, no matter how hard you try?
What if the problem isn’t you, but the tools?
What might shift if you gave yourself permission to explore systems that match your operating style?
If this resonates, share one thing that was supposed to work, and what you’ve found that actually does.
You never know who it might help.
Agarwal, R., Goldenberg, M., Perry, R., & IsHak, W. W. (2012). The quality of life of adults with ADHD: A systematic review. Innovations in Clinical Neuroscience, 9(5-6), 10–21.
Catalá-López, F., et al. (2017). Pharmacological and non-pharmacological treatment of ADHD in children and adolescents: A systematic review. PLOS ONE, 12(7), e0180355.
Danckaerts, M., et al. (2010). The quality of life of children with ADHD: A systematic review. European Child & Adolescent Psychiatry, 19(2), 83–105.
French, B., et al. (2024). The impacts associated with having ADHD: An umbrella review. Frontiers in Psychiatry, 15, Article 1343314.
Posner, J., Polanczyk, G. V., & Sonuga-Barke, E. (2020). ADHD. The Lancet, 395(10222), 450–462.
World Health Organization. (2012). WHOQOL User Manual (2012 revision).
