For years, I knew my brain didn’t quite work the way other peoples seemed to — but for the longest time, I couldn’t put a name to it.
As a child, I experienced selective mutism, a condition often misunderstood as shyness but rooted in intense anxiety. I would freeze in social situations, unable to speak, even when I desperately wanted to. Adults around me interpreted it as disobedience or rudeness. I internalised that. It laid the groundwork for what would later become a diagnosis of generalised anxiety disorder (GAD) in my teens.
That diagnosis made sense. I was constantly on edge, always worrying — about everything and nothing at once. But while the anxiety label explained part of the chaos in my mind, it never quite told the whole story.
In my 20s, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) entered the picture. Like many, I carried trauma I did not fully process until adulthood. Flashbacks, hyper vigilance, emotional numbing — the symptoms weren’t just disruptive; they were exhausting. It was around this time I started realising just how complex mental health can be. It’s never just one thing. It’s a web — tangled, overlapping, often hidden beneath a mask of “I’m fine.”
But the biggest turning point came in 2024: I was diagnosed with ADHD — something that, in hindsight, had been shaping my life all along.
The Missed Signs
Like many women, my ADHD flew under the radar for decades. I was not bouncing off the walls or getting into trouble at school. I was the “quiet daydreamer,” the child with a messy mind and a million half-finished stories. I was brilliant at hyper-focusing on things that interested me but struggled to follow through on tasks that bored me — no matter how important they were. I blamed myself constantly.
Deadlines were my nemesis. I had bursts of intense productivity followed by burnout and brain fog. My working memory was unreliable. I would interrupt people mid-sentence, not out of rudeness, but because if I did not say it right then, the thought would vanish.
It was not until I began researching neurodivergence in adulthood — initially to help a friend — that the penny dropped. I saw myself in every checklist, every forum, every personal blog. The official diagnosis felt like a relief, but it also brought a wave of grief for all the years spent feeling “lazy” or “too sensitive.”
Why I am Speaking Out
I am sharing this not just to tell my story, but because mental health conversations need to be louder, especially for those of us whose conditions do not present in obvious ways.
Working in healthcare and mental health content means understanding nuance. It is knowing that not all anxiety looks like panic attacks. That PTSD is not reserved for veterans. That ADHD isn’t just a childhood disorder. And that people can live for years — decades even — without knowing there’s a name for their struggle.
That insight gives me a powerful advantage as a writer and editor. I do not just write about mental health from a distance; I live it. I understand how it feels to navigate NHS waiting lists, to explain symptoms to people who do not believe you, to advocate for yourself when you’re already exhausted. That lived experience shapes every sentence I write — with empathy, accuracy, and a deep respect for the audience.
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