The author in her happy place in Maine, by the ocean, in summer 2023, the day before her wedding.

Reading the report cards from my elementary and middle school years in Oslo, Norway, where I grew up in the 1970s, was proof beyond doubt that I was a girl who had trouble following the rules.

“Nina interrupts.”

“Nina walks around in the classroom without permission.”

“Nina was sent to the principal’s office.”

“Nina disturbs other students.”

And so it goes: the early track record of a kid with ADHD.

Except back then, nobody used the label of the now-ubiquitous diagnosis, let alone offered us coping mechanisms, therapy or medication. Children like me just had to learn how to swim through our formative years full of chidings, consequences and punishments, without sinking too deep into self-loathing. When I look at a black-and-white photo of myself at 6 years old, I am filled with empathy and compassion for that little girl who looks so vulnerable.

Eventually, as a teenager, I figured out how to charm the adults around me, from teachers to neighbours, to employers and my friends’ parents. I was industrious and held down many jobs after school, my handwriting was impeccable, my school projects received good grades.

I spent more time with older adults than with my peers. I was told I was an old soul. The elderly in our neighbourhood had stories to tell and patience and time for mine. They made me feel seen and appreciated, contrary to my classmates, who found me difficult or annoying to be around.

While they were busy partying and experimenting with their budding sexualities, I babysat, groomed horses and ran my paper route. I had become a young adult with a compulsive urge to please others.

The author in Norway, the summer she turned 6.

Always one to have half a dozen balls in the air simultaneously (some say a multitasker, others a scatterbrain, or simply, a hyperactive woman running from one endeavour to the next), my young adult life — 20s, 30s —was spent pursuing a Ph.D. in French literature while raising three young sons and also embracing — with fervour — a new culture and tradition. I underwent an Orthodox conversion to Judaism before marrying the man who became the father of my children, and this “living Jewishly” (keeping kosher, observing the Sabbath and holidays, etc.) was another full-time job I pursued with hunger. I would later realise that what I was craving was order, predictability and the grounding of the minutiae of engaging, physically, in all the Jewish traditions.

Even though I earned a Ph.D. and taught languages and literature, I tired of formal academia with its convoluted sentence structures and jargon, all part of publishing papers, speaking at conferences and writing “the book.” I felt like a poser.

Then, during the........

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