Alex was diagnosed in 1990 at the age of 4.

I remember sitting outside the headteacher’s office, maybe aged eight. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear every word.

“Alex’s ADHD is so severe that he’ll struggle with his GCSEs. A-Levels are a long shot, and university is certainly out of the question.” It’s funny how I still remember those words. And how something in me, even then, snapped to attention and thought: I’ll show you.

That kind of defiant motivation is something many ADHDers will recognise. If you tell us we can’t do something, we’ll go all in just to prove you wrong. But as I’ve learned, there’s a cost to living like that. Especially when the world doesn’t see or support who you are.

When people hear that I was diagnosed with ADHD at age four in 1990, they often say, “You were so lucky.” And in some ways, I was. I fit the profile. A white boy. But ADHD was not spoken about in terms of strengths or brain differences back then. It was a problem to be managed. A diagnosis that made me feel broken.

I was constantly surrounded by tutors, therapists, and interventions. But all I internalised was the message that I needed fixing. I became a master of masking. Being who I thought others needed me to be. Overachieving, overcompensating, trying not to take up too much space. And all the while, feeling completely unseen.

Support often didn’t feel like support. One support session in particular sticks with me. I remember one after-school reading session where the book featured the same clown saying “Hello” on every page. I muttered, “Boring, boring, boring.” The tutor replied sharply, “Well, we could stop and try an even harder book if you like?” That kind of interaction stayed with me. Not because of the book. But because of the shame.

At 15, I was switched to a new ADHD medication that plunged me into a severe........

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