The Missing Link

Sometimes the hardest part isn’t the struggle—it’s not knowing why it’s happening.

From My Childhood to My Clarity: The Missing Link

Growing up, I worked hard. Really hard. I did well in school—maybe not top of the class, but solid. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something. I forgot things constantly, had a hard time following multi-step directions, and needed things repeated more than once. I’d zone out without realizing it. I was slow to process at times, fast to respond at others. I was inconsistent—and I knew it.

Friends joked about it constantly. “Dense” was the go-to nickname whenever we were messing around. My family threw it out too during the usual banter. I embraced it with humor. That was my move—lean into the joke so it didn’t become something bigger. Humor was my way of staying in control, of hiding any insecurity before it had a chance to show.

At a young age, I started creating my own workarounds—long before I understood why. I began making lists early on, not realizing it was my way of coping with a working memory that just couldn’t hold onto things. I remembered little to nothing short-term. When I entered the professional arena I began carrying around a little notebook. As a teacher, part of it was about appearances and perception. It made me look sharp, organized, like I had a system. But it wasn’t just for show. It was my backup memory. I used it constantly to write down anything important I knew I’d otherwise forget. There was always a lot to keep track of. To this day, I still rely on lists. If it’s not written down, it probably won’t stick.

I had big ideas, intense focus when I was into something, and strong connections with people—especially kids who felt different. But I also battled with forgetfulness, time blindness, and task paralysis more often than I liked to admit.

As I grew into my role as a special educator, I started seeing the patterns. The executive functioning challenges I was helping students navigate? I knew them. Intimately. It wasn’t just empathy—it was lived experience.

Eventually, I scheduled a formal evaluation. I gave my family history, filled out all the paperwork, and sat down for my first session. I’ll never forget the first thing the psychiatrist said after hearing me out:
“So, how long have you known you’ve had ADHD?”

It hit me harder than I expected. I had known. On some level. But hearing it said aloud—with certainty—made it real.

Then, later in the conversation, he paused. This was an older psychiatrist—seasoned, steady, probably nearing retirement. The kind of man who had seen thousands of cases and didn’t waste words. He looked at me and said,
“You should be very proud of how far you’ve come.”

And it landed. Not as flattery—but as truth. Earned. Recognized. And for the first time, I let myself believe it. Because it had taken years—years of working, pushing, questioning—before I could finally understand myself fully… and begin giving myself the same grace I gave others.

🔍 What I Learned

Executive function challenges don’t always hold you back academically—but they shape how you see yourself. Learning how my brain works gave me clarity, language, and a whole new level of compassion—for others and myself.

💡 Why This Stuck With Me

Because I wasn’t making excuses. I was finding answers. And those answers helped me shift from constant self-pressure to intentional self-support—and that’s where the real growth began.