Daniel Yee Psychology

Daniel Yee Psychology

What Having ADHD Feels Like as an Adult

36 min · 20 mrt 2026
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ADHD has made my life really hard. When I was a boy, my mom told me she thought I was possessed by the devil. I screamed. I cursed. I broke things. I threw explosive tantrums that nobody could control. And for years, that was the story. That I was bad. Disturbed. Broken in some moral way. It took me 28 years, and getting to a clinical psychology program, to finally learn what had actually been happening. I had ADHD. At its core, ADHD is a neurodevelopmental disorder. That means the brain develops and functions differently than it does in a neurotypical person. The name itself — attention deficit hyperactivity disorder — points to a deficit in the brain’s ability to regulate attention and behavior. But what people often miss is that ADHD is not just about being distracted. It is also about emotional dysregulation, impulsivity, time blindness, shame, and the cumulative trauma of living your life in a way that other people do not understand. As a preschooler, I had explosive emotional reactions and I couldn’t calm down once I was upset. My brother would provoke me, call me a crybaby, and I would cry almost every day. I cursed at him. I knocked things over. Seeing a four-year-old screaming profanity was shocking. So my mom concluded that I must be possessed. What was really happening was that I had a brain that could not regulate emotion the way other kids could. I was also developmentally behind. Parts of my brain, especially the prefrontal cortex, were literally slower to develop. But my parents had no map for what they were dealing with, and they had developmental issues of their own. So instead of understanding the underlying problem, they reached for convenient band-aid fixes, and those fixes compounded the difficulties in my life. I couldn’t sit still during meals, so my dad put me in a high chair until I was seven. I was underweight, so he gave me baby formula until I was six. I wet the bed, so I wore pull-ups until I was six. I didn’t want to brush my teeth, so I ended up with cavities and abscesses and they gave me antibiotics. At the dentist, I screamed so violently that they had to sedate me with injections, which is unusual in dentistry. My life was already being organized around my dysregulation before anyone had words for what it was. And these struggles didn’t stay at home. They followed me into school. I got in trouble regularly from the age of four. I talked when I was supposed to be working. I didn’t follow directions. Teachers labeled me as off-task, impulsive, lacking self-control. They chided me for blurting out answers in class. In first grade I called a kid gay for sitting on another boy’s lap, and when confronted I lied badly and said I meant “happy gay.” In second grade I touched a girl’s butt and that got brought up at the parent-teacher conference too. From age 8 to 13, I got suspended six times for scuffling with other boys. People with ADHD are not inherently violent. But I grew up with an aggressive father who had anger issues. I did not have a model for emotional regulation or healthy conflict resolution. So when distress came up in me, the only way my ADHD brain knew how to resolve it was by acting out. And I didn’t anticipate consequences well. Worse, I had been conditioned not to care because I usually got away with things. The only reason I was not expelled was because I was extremely intelligent and people liked me. That intelligence hid a lot. I was in the 99th percentile in math, science, and writing. But reading was hard unless something truly captured my attention. My mind would wander off the page. Then in third grade I discovered Roald Dahl, and for the first time I could actually read books. That was one of the first clues about how my mind worked: I could only concentrate if I was hooked, if I got into a flow state. Later, when I took the SAT, my mom gave me Adderall and my performance jumped to the 99th percentile. For years I didn’t understand why my brain worked this way. If ADHD means hyperactivity, why do stimulants help? Because they increase activity in the brain systems responsible for self-control and attention. ADHD brains struggle to stay engaged with tasks that are not immediately rewarding. Boredom feels unbearable. Urgency and anxiety become the only reliable motivators. Stimulants normalize dopamine transmission and strengthen systems like the prefrontal cortex that are responsible for reward regulation and self-control. But before I understood any of that, the explanation people gave me was much simpler. They said I was lazy. My dad told me I was just like my mother. Lazy. The truth is that my mother and I are not lazy. We just have brains that are wired differently. If you have a parent with ADHD, there is a significant chance that you also have some neurodevelopmental difference, such as ADHD or autism. But because I was smart, no one thought to look deeper. In 2018, when I first suspected I might have ADHD and shared that with one of my high school teachers, she said, “If you had ADHD, you would not have been able to get into UC Berkeley.” She had worked with special education students and jumped to the wrong conclusion. People assumed that if I could get good grades and ace tests, ADHD could be ruled out. But intelligence does not fix executive dysfunction. It only hides it until life becomes too complex to compensate. And eventually, life did become too complex. One of the main features of ADHD is time blindness. For someone with ADHD, there are really only two times: now and not now. Most people can feel the passage of time like a tide slowly coming in. A deadline gets closer, the pressure builds, and they adjust. For me, that feeling was absent. If something was happening right now — if a person was in front of me, if a deadline was today, if a crisis was unfolding — my brain turned on. But if something was happening next week or tomorrow, it carried almost no emotional weight. It felt theoretical. Not real. That is why ADHD procrastination looks like laziness from the outside but feels different on the inside. You do care. You care a lot. But you cannot make the future feel real enough to act on. So the brain solves this by relying on anxiety and panic. I used to delay week-long assignments and then somehow produce something passable in the final two hours before it was due. Once the deadline became now, my brain would finally agree to show up. For a long time, I thought procrastination was a time management problem. But for me, much of it was emotional avoidance. A task was never just a task. It was attached to anxiety about my future, shame about already having avoided it, fear that I was falling behind. And because my brain was already low on dopamine, it was always scanning for relief. The longer I avoided something, the more emotional weight it accumulated. A task I skipped on Monday became embarrassment by Wednesday and dread by Friday. Then by the time I needed to do it, I also had to overcome all the emotion that had attached itself to it. So I would avoid it even more, and the whole thing would keep growing. That is what ADHD looked like in my adult life. Not a kid bouncing off the walls, but a grown man sitting at a desk, watching his day dissolve in full awareness. I would wake up, shower, ignore the dishes, skip breakfast, go to work, sit down at my desk, and immediately start drifting. I would check stock prices, crypto prices, messages. I would watch YouTube videos. I would gamble by day trading. I would go to lunch, get distracted talking to coworkers, watch a TV show while eating, message friends, and suddenly it would be 1:30 p.m. and I had not started the tasks I was supposed to do that day. Then I would come home and do the same thing again with videos and reels and my phone for hours, telling myself I would fix it tomorrow. And then tomorrow would come and the cycle would repeat. Knowing was never the problem. I always knew when I opened YouTube or placed a trade or checked messages that I was not doing the right thing. The problem was not knowledge. The problem was behavior. As Russell Barkley put it, ADHD is not a disorder of not knowing what to do. It is a disorder of doing what you know. That sentence summarized my life. By my twenties, my life had become extremely chaotic. Your outer life becomes the manifestation of what is going on in your mind, and my mind was chaotic. I moved through jobs every one to two years. I had close calls with death. I swung wildly in net worth, going from zero to a hundred thousand, down to twenty thousand, up to two or three hundred thousand, then back down again. I started projects and abandoned them. I made huge decisions impulsively. I kept hoping the next thing would fix my life. So one year it was joining a Christian cult. One year it was trying to become a pastor. One year it was crypto trading. One year it was joining a startup. One year it was trying to launch my own startup. Then it was writing a book. Then switching to clinical psychology. Then trying desperately to find a girlfriend on dating apps. Then fantasizing about moving out of the country. And now trying to become a social media creator. None of those things were inherently stupid. Some of them I genuinely enjoyed. Some of them taught me a lot. But underneath all of them was the same pattern: I was switching because my brain craved novelty. Starting something new felt like progress, and that feeling was enough to satisfy a brain trying to avoid the boring, sustained effort of actual work. Underneath that was also hope — the hope that if I found the right thing, it would finally close the gap between who I was and who I imagined I was supposed to become. I wanted to become a different person without having to sit with the discomfort of being who I already was. That same pattern showed up in gambling. When I was 22, I had a job that most people would have killed for: good salary, good stock options, real responsibility, a great boss, growth in a high-demand field. But I only lasted five months. Not because I got fired, but because I could not make myself do the boring parts of the job. At the same time, I got addicted to cryptocurrency trading. One week I got lucky and made $200,000, and that gave me a story: maybe I could leave corporate life, do something more stimulating, become someone bigger. I felt guilty that I was not doing my work, so I quit. ADHD brains are drawn to gambling the way water runs downhill. Motivation does not come from knowing something is important. It comes from how the brain processes reward. The ADHD brain is functionally dopamine deficient. Ordinary tasks do not produce enough reward signal to sustain engagement. So the brain goes looking for stronger stimulation. Gambling provides that. Every trade is uncertain. Every outcome is immediate. Every win or loss is a hit of feedback. And if that is not enough, you increase the stakes to manufacture urgency. By 24, I was addicted to gambling. By 28, I was putting tens of thousands of dollars into meme coins, penny stocks, and terrible speculative bets based on only minutes of research. I knew it was irrational. I knew retail traders do not beat the market. I knew I was gambling and that I would eventually lose. But I still watched my savings bleed away, one bad decision at a time. Three separate times I turned ten thousand into over a hundred thousand or even two hundred thousand in a matter of months, and every time I went bust. A gambling addiction is not just about the money you lose. It is about the life you destroy trying to win. And even when I did win, my life did not change in the way I imagined. I was still alone in my office. Still ashamed. Still disorganized. So I would move the goalpost. Maybe if I hit a million, then things would change. Then I could get a girlfriend. Then people would want me. Then I would not have to struggle. Then I could finally become the person I wanted to be. But the real problem was not out there waiting to be solved by the next hit of success. The real problem was that I had undiagnosed ADHD and I kept trying to solve the wrong thing. That confusion also shaped my relationships. There is something that does not get talked about enough in the context of ADHD and neurodivergence: limerence. Dorothy Tennov coined the term to describe an intense, involuntary preoccupation with another person. It is the constant mental rehearsal of interactions, the obsessive hope, the sense that this one person holds the answer to something you have been missing your entire life. It is falling in love with the idea of someone more than the reality of them. Most people experience that occasionally and then it fades as real intimacy develops or does not. But for people with ADHD, OCD, or autism, it can become something much more powerful. Think about what limerence provides: novelty, uncertainty, emotional intensity, reward, anticipation, hope, and a source of focus. For a brain that struggles to engage with ordinary life, this is neurologically extraordinary. The person becomes the one thing your brain can think about reliably, obsessively, voluntarily for months. For me, limerence was not just chemistry. It was need. I grew up carrying childhood pain I did not understand. I had eczema and health issues that made me feel like my body was working against me. I felt different from other kids. I interrupted people. I missed social cues. I made impulsive comments. I was forgetful. I was late. I went on tangents. I had poor fashion sense, I was unathletic, and I was the smallest kid in my class. That led to insecurity and rejection. People with ADHD often have rejection sensitivity — they feel even mild rejection or criticism with intense emotional force. Over time that can make social situations painful enough that you begin to avoid them, which only increases isolation. So I needed a place to put all that pain. Romance became that place. It was a story I could live inside. A face for hope. A fantasy that if the right person finally saw me and chose me, all the chaos of my life would make sense. Limerence gave me motivation without asking anything concrete of me. It was an unresolved question my brain could keep returning to. Do they like me? Could this be it? Maybe this is the thing that finally fixes me. But that made me vulnerable. At one point, I got romance scammed. By then, I had already spent years cycling through limerent states, falling for the possibility of people I barely knew, constructing elaborate internal versions of them out of minimal evidence, generous assumptions, and projection. I was lonely. I was desperate. I wanted intimacy. So when I matched with someone on Hinge who later turned out to be a scammer using stolen photos, my brain did not care enough about the evidence. We were supposed to go on a date, but she got sick. A month later, during the fires in Southern California, I reached out again because she said she lived there. We talked on the phone. I worried about her. She laughed at my jokes. She made me feel like I mattered. And that was enough. The scammers understood something important about how my brain worked. They did not ask for money casually. They created urgency. Her mother needed an emergency medical procedure. The situation was time-sensitive. There was a specific amount of money needed and a specific deadline. It was happening now. For the ADHD brain, urgency is not a warning sign. Urgency is the condition under which the brain finally activates. So even though part of me knew something was off, I looked away from the evidence because acknowledging it would have meant losing the connection, losing the hope, losing the possibility that maybe this time someone had chosen me. So I sent money. More than once. Not because I was stupid, but because I was lonely. And because years of limerence had trained me to trust the feeling of connection more than the reality in front of me. ADHD has almost gotten me killed more than once too. In 2017, I was in Croatia with my family on an island called Lokrum. People were jumping off a cliff into the Adriatic Sea. I had never done a backflip off a cliff, but I did one anyway because I was thinking about a girl back home and wanted to impress her on social media. My brain did the calculation in about two minutes: I want attention, I will probably be fine, this will make me look interesting. In the moment, it felt harmless. But I could have died. I did a blind backflip off a ten-meter cliff into water of unknown depth in a foreign country, and I do not even swim that well. I did it twice. Other times, I drove on the freeway sleep-deprived and drifted toward the concrete divider before jerking awake and correcting the wheel. In each case, I knew the safe choice. But seeing and doing happen in different parts of the brain, and those parts do not always communicate in time. That is what people misunderstand about ADHD impulsivity. It is not ignorance. It is acting even when you know better. And that pattern sat underneath everything in my life: the gambling, the abandoned projects, the risky decisions, the sleep deprivation, the shame. Because what undiagnosed ADHD creates over time is not just dysfunction. It creates shame. When you grow up hearing that you are careless, lazy, irresponsible, selfish, not trying hard enough, eventually you believe it. You internalize your failures not as symptoms of a disorder but as proof that you are morally defective. That shame shaped my identity. People told me I was gifted, destined for great things, special. So when I kept failing in adulthood, it was deeply confusing. If I was so smart, why could I not just do what other people did? Why could everyone else make a to-do list, work through it, go home to their family, and go to bed, while I could not even keep my life together in basic ways? The answer I settled on for years was character. I thought I was lazy. Undisciplined. Broken at the level of willpower. But getting diagnosed with ADHD about a year and a half ago changed that. It did not fix my life. But it helped me move on from shame. It gave me a new lens through which to see my past. Oh, that is why that kept happening. Oh, other people experience this too. The diagnosis did not change who I was. It changed what I was trying to fix. Because the hardest part about having ADHD is that you keep trying to solve the wrong problem. You keep thinking the answer is to try harder, to become more disciplined, to finally mean it this time. But the gap was never about conviction. The gap was structural. Discipline is what you exert. Structure is what you build. And when you can know something completely and still not do it, when willpower has failed you more times than you can count, eventually you stop waiting for motivation to save you. You start building scaffolding. The most useful concept I found for managing a brain like mine comes from Greek mythology. Odysseus, sailing home from Troy, knew his ship would pass the island of the sirens — creatures whose song was so beautiful that sailors would steer toward it and wreck on the rocks. He knew that once he heard the music, he would not be able to resist. So he did not rely on knowing better. He had his men tie him to the mast before they came into view, before the temptation arrived. He built the constraints before he needed them. This is called self-binding. And it is the most useful framework I have found for living with ADHD. Self-binding means making the wrong choice harder before the moment arrives when you will want to make it. For me, that means having friends or family hold money for me. Paying rent upfront. Using browser extensions that hide news feeds. Locking apps on my phone and giving the password to my girlfriend. Keeping my environment understimulating. It is not that I can never get around those obstacles. It is that the friction is often enough to break the automatic, impulsive reach. This approach is humbling, but it works. Odysseus tied to the mast was screaming to be untied. But he survived because he had built the structure before the moment of weakness. The other thing that has mattered is therapy. Therapy gave me a relationship where I had to show up consistently and be honest about what was actually happening in my life. The accountability mattered. The space for reflection mattered. Being witnessed mattered. In some ways, therapy gave me the thing I had been trying to substitute with everything else — limerence, gambling, social media, fantasy, likes, attention. I had been searching, in one form or another, for someone to really see me. Therapy does not erase that hunger, but it softens the loneliness enough that I can think more clearly and build a better life. I still wake up late sometimes. I still get disorganized. I still lose things. There are still days when I know exactly what I should do and cannot make myself do it. But something fundamental has changed. I no longer believe that beneath all the chaos there is some moral defect in me. I no longer think the problem is my character. I know what my brain does now. I know what I need. I do not need more willpower. I need better systems. I do not need more self-hatred. I need more humility. Humility to say: I know what I am like. I know where this goes. I am going to build around that accordingly. And I have also had to accept that my life may never look like the life I once imagined for myself. Eventually I learned that this is okay. The point is not to become neurotypical. The point is to build a life that is livable, honest, and stable with the brain I actually have. If you recognize yourself anywhere in this, I want you to know that you are not alone. A lot of what looks like laziness is pain. A lot of what looks like irresponsibility is executive dysfunction. A lot of what looks like chaos is a nervous system trying to survive without the right map. And sometimes the beginning of rebuilding your life is just finally learning the right name for what has been happening to you all along. Get full access to Daniel Yee Psychology at danielyeepsych.substack.com/subscribe [https://danielyeepsych.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

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aflevering Shooting Stars Are Just Burning Rocks artwork

Shooting Stars Are Just Burning Rocks

That’s the scientific reality of shooting stars. A meteoroid — a small piece of asteroid or comet debris — enters the earth’s atmosphere at extreme velocity. Friction with the air heats it to thousands of degrees. We observe a brief streak of light as it disintegrates. Most are smaller than a grain of sand. The whole event lasts a few seconds. Then it’s gone. That’s what you’re wishing on. If that’s true, why do we insist that the universe is speaking to us? That signs are real? That rocks burning up in the atmosphere are sending us personalized messages? The architecture of magical thinking There is a term in clinical psychology — magical thinking — that describes this particular cognitive pattern. The belief that your thoughts, words, or rituals can influence external events without any causal mechanism connecting them. Your lucky shirt that wins the game. The wish that makes your crush text you back. Praying that God has prepared for you a good parking spot. Some degree of magical thinking is universal. It’s a normal cognitive shortcut, especially in childhood. The problem is what happens to it in adulthood, and specifically what happens to it under stress. Here is something I’ve observed, both in my clinical work and in my own life. People who are desperate engage in magical thinking everywhere. And people are desperate when they’re in pain. When your life is functioning, you don’t require magical thinking. The universe is free to be a cold, indifferent place full of burning rocks, and you don’t particularly notice, because your life is yours and it’s working. You make decisions. You execute them. Some yield results, some don’t. You don’t require a sign. When your life is not functioning — when you’re financially compromised, when the relationship ended, when the job didn’t come through, when the medical results came back wrong, when the future you’d been constructing has collapsed — that’s when magical thinking activates. That’s when the number 11:11 starts manifesting on clocks. That’s when song lyrics begin to feel personally addressed. That’s when you find yourself checking horoscopes again. Buying lottery tickets. Wishing on shooting stars. The signs are not appearing more frequently. You are looking for them more frequently. Your nervous system, in a state of elevated distress, is scanning the environment for any indication that things are going to be okay. That you matter. That something out there is paying attention. That the situation you’re in carries a hidden meaning that will, eventually, redeem the suffering. This is the architecture of magical thinking under duress. The brain, unable to tolerate the actual conditions of your life, constructs a parallel reality in which the conditions are temporary, meaningful, and about to be resolved by an outside force. Beneath all of it lies one of two motivations. You are searching for meaning — some larger reason this is happening to you, some confirmation that your suffering is part of a plan you cannot currently see. Or you are searching for life to throw you a bone — some unearned win, some lucky break, some intervention that will lift you out of where you are without requiring you to do the slow, costly work of changing your situation. The first wants your pain to mean something. The second wants your pain to be solved by something other than you. Both feel like hope. Most of the time, neither of them is. Both are magical thinking with better branding. Where are you waiting for the lottery ticket? I don’t mean an actual lottery ticket — though if that’s part of the inventory, include it. I mean a lucky win that is not realistic. An unearned shortcut. An external force you’re hoping will arrive and resolve the part of your life you don’t know how to resolve. It might present as scratch tickets every week, even though the mathematics confirm you’re spending money you don’t have on something that will statistically never pay off. It might present as sports betting, where you’ve convinced yourself you have a system, but the truth is the house wins, and you continue playing because the intermittent wins feel like evidence you’re chosen. It might present as crypto. Meme stocks. Whatever the current speculative vehicle is. Telling yourself you’re investing when you’re actually praying. It might present as the psychic visit every few months — paying a stranger in a draped room to predict your love life, your career, your financial future. Purchasing certainty by the hour from someone who has no access to certainty. It might present as tarot cards before every consequential decision. Astrology apps that determine whether today is favorable for asking for a raise or if the person you like is compatible with you. It might present as remaining in a dead-end relationship because you keep waiting for the person to transform — telling yourself the universe brought you together for a reason, and that reason will reveal itself if you simply stay long enough. That they are your soulmate because of x, y, or z coincidence. It might present as remaining at a dead-end job because you’re trusting the timing, waiting for the correct opportunity to spontaneously emerge, instead of actually applying elsewhere. Waiting to be discovered. Waiting for the old crush to return. Waiting for the situation to resolve itself without your participation. Where are you waiting for the winning lottery ticket? Hope is not the problem I am completely in favor of hope. Hope is one of the most important psychological resources human beings possess. The capacity to believe that things can be different, that the future is not foreclosed, that the present situation is not the final word — that capacity is what keeps people alive through circumstances that would otherwise destroy them. Hope is, in a meaningful sense, sacred. I’m not attempting to remove it from you. What I’m describing is not hope. What I’m describing is a counterfeit of hope. Hope is the belief that things can improve, combined with the willingness to do the work to improve them. Hope keeps you applying after the fiftieth rejection. Hope keeps you in therapy when the progress is slow. Hope keeps you trying with the relationship because the relationship is genuinely worth trying for. Hope is active. Hope is paired with effort. What I’m describing is coping disguised as hope. It’s the part of us that, instead of doing the slow uncomfortable work of changing our situation, reaches for a story — a sign, a psychic, a horoscope, a lottery ticket, a manifestation routine — that allows us to feel as if we’re doing something while we’re doing nothing. That’s the distinction I want you to be honest about with yourself. It isn’t the hope that’s the problem. It’s the coping wearing hope’s clothes. If you can distinguish between them — if you can retain the hope while releasing the coping — you’re approaching something real. Sobriety as an orientation toward reality I want to address sobriety, and not merely sobriety from substances. Sobriety as an orientation toward reality. Living soberly, in the deepest sense, means coming to terms with how reality functions. It means accepting that the universe does not conform to your preferences simply because you have a hard life and you deserve a break. It means accepting that wishing is not a productive activity. It means accepting that the signs you’re observing are largely your brain pattern-matching under distress, not communications from an external source. That’s a difficult posture to maintain. It feels worse, in the short term, than the alternative. The alternative is considerably more pleasant. The alternative is the universe has a plan for me, and if I remain open and read the signs and trust the timing, everything will work out. That worldview functions as an embrace. It’s warm. It informs you that you are special. It informs you that something is attending to you. It eliminates the burden of being the agent of your own life, because the universe is, presumably, performing the labor. The problem is that it isn’t true. And the cost of believing things that are not true is that you stop doing the things that would actually alter your circumstances. If you’re in a financial hole, no quantity of manifestation will close it. You will close it by increasing income, decreasing expenditure, improving your skills, or restructuring your life. The work is the work. The wishing is, at best, a method for feeling marginally better while avoiding the work. If your crush does not return your feelings, no shooting star will change that. The honest assessment is that this person, for whatever reason, is not choosing you. You can continue wishing they would, which produces no change. Or you can grieve it, learn what’s available to learn, and direct your attention to someone who actually does choose you back — or you can work on yourselves. The wishing is a method for staying stuck. If you’re cycling through addiction, depression, bad relationships, bad financial decisions — additional luck is not what you require. You don’t need the universe to throw you a bone. People who are stuck in cycles do not, generally, need more luck. They need acceptance — that the cycles are not the universe’s responsibility, that the cycles are originating somewhere within or around them, and that the same patterns will continue until something is meaningfully changed. The signs you’re searching for are not coming. The reason they are not coming is that they do not exist. The reason you keep searching is that searching feels like an action. It feels engaged. It feels hopeful. It is not. It is avoidance. Wishing upon stars is avoidance Wishing upon stars is, more frequently than not, the avoidance of emotional distress rather than a magical solution in the sky. The discomfort of accepting that your situation is what it is — and that you are the only person who can change it — is real. Searching for signs is a method for dodging that discomfort. The signs feel like contact with something greater. They are not. They are contact with your own nervous system attempting, vigorously, to persuade you that you do not have to do the difficult thing. What is actually available to you The universe is not paying attention to you. The universe is not blocking you either. The same indifference that prevents the universe from swooping in to save you also prevents it from being aligned against you. It is simply present. Doing what it does. Burning rocks. Indifferent rocks. Sometimes beautiful, in their indifference. What is also true is that you have considerably more power than the wishing-on-stars worldview credits you with. You can alter your situation. Not by manifesting it. By doing things. By acquiring skills. By having difficult conversations. By going to therapy. By getting sober. By leaving the relationship. By taking the job. By making the call. By sitting with your discomfort instead of fleeing it. The thing the signs were promising you — that someone out there cares, that something is going to work out, that you are not alone in this — a version of that is actually available to you. It does not come from the stars. It comes from the people in your life. It comes from the relationships you construct. It comes from being honest with yourself about what is functioning and what is not. It comes from the slow, accumulating evidence of your own actions beginning to constitute a life. That is more difficult than wishing. It is slower than wishing. It does not come with the warm sensation of something is happening for me right now. But it functions. Wishing does not. The exit If you have been participating in the signs economy — reading the tarot, wishing on stars, calling psychics, scrolling the horoscope app — I am not suggesting any of that carries shame. Most of us engage in some version of it when we are afraid. It is a human response to feeling out of control. What I am suggesting is that if you have been doing it instead of doing what you know you should be doing, you are using it to remain stuck. And the exit is not more signs. The exit is sitting with the discomfort that has been driving you to look for signs in the first place. Identifying what hurts. Permitting yourself to feel it. And then taking one concrete action toward changing the thing that hurts. That is the work. Shooting stars are just burning rocks. Your actions are the one thing in the universe that you actually get to influence. Spend less time wishing on the rocks. Spend more time moving your hands and feet. If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear from you in the comments. Where have you been waiting for the winning lottery ticket? Naming it is the beginning of a new life. Get full access to Daniel Yee Psychology at danielyeepsych.substack.com/subscribe [https://danielyeepsych.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

14 mei 202613 min
aflevering What Having ADHD Feels Like as an Adult artwork

What Having ADHD Feels Like as an Adult

ADHD has made my life really hard. When I was a boy, my mom told me she thought I was possessed by the devil. I screamed. I cursed. I broke things. I threw explosive tantrums that nobody could control. And for years, that was the story. That I was bad. Disturbed. Broken in some moral way. It took me 28 years, and getting to a clinical psychology program, to finally learn what had actually been happening. I had ADHD. At its core, ADHD is a neurodevelopmental disorder. That means the brain develops and functions differently than it does in a neurotypical person. The name itself — attention deficit hyperactivity disorder — points to a deficit in the brain’s ability to regulate attention and behavior. But what people often miss is that ADHD is not just about being distracted. It is also about emotional dysregulation, impulsivity, time blindness, shame, and the cumulative trauma of living your life in a way that other people do not understand. As a preschooler, I had explosive emotional reactions and I couldn’t calm down once I was upset. My brother would provoke me, call me a crybaby, and I would cry almost every day. I cursed at him. I knocked things over. Seeing a four-year-old screaming profanity was shocking. So my mom concluded that I must be possessed. What was really happening was that I had a brain that could not regulate emotion the way other kids could. I was also developmentally behind. Parts of my brain, especially the prefrontal cortex, were literally slower to develop. But my parents had no map for what they were dealing with, and they had developmental issues of their own. So instead of understanding the underlying problem, they reached for convenient band-aid fixes, and those fixes compounded the difficulties in my life. I couldn’t sit still during meals, so my dad put me in a high chair until I was seven. I was underweight, so he gave me baby formula until I was six. I wet the bed, so I wore pull-ups until I was six. I didn’t want to brush my teeth, so I ended up with cavities and abscesses and they gave me antibiotics. At the dentist, I screamed so violently that they had to sedate me with injections, which is unusual in dentistry. My life was already being organized around my dysregulation before anyone had words for what it was. And these struggles didn’t stay at home. They followed me into school. I got in trouble regularly from the age of four. I talked when I was supposed to be working. I didn’t follow directions. Teachers labeled me as off-task, impulsive, lacking self-control. They chided me for blurting out answers in class. In first grade I called a kid gay for sitting on another boy’s lap, and when confronted I lied badly and said I meant “happy gay.” In second grade I touched a girl’s butt and that got brought up at the parent-teacher conference too. From age 8 to 13, I got suspended six times for scuffling with other boys. People with ADHD are not inherently violent. But I grew up with an aggressive father who had anger issues. I did not have a model for emotional regulation or healthy conflict resolution. So when distress came up in me, the only way my ADHD brain knew how to resolve it was by acting out. And I didn’t anticipate consequences well. Worse, I had been conditioned not to care because I usually got away with things. The only reason I was not expelled was because I was extremely intelligent and people liked me. That intelligence hid a lot. I was in the 99th percentile in math, science, and writing. But reading was hard unless something truly captured my attention. My mind would wander off the page. Then in third grade I discovered Roald Dahl, and for the first time I could actually read books. That was one of the first clues about how my mind worked: I could only concentrate if I was hooked, if I got into a flow state. Later, when I took the SAT, my mom gave me Adderall and my performance jumped to the 99th percentile. For years I didn’t understand why my brain worked this way. If ADHD means hyperactivity, why do stimulants help? Because they increase activity in the brain systems responsible for self-control and attention. ADHD brains struggle to stay engaged with tasks that are not immediately rewarding. Boredom feels unbearable. Urgency and anxiety become the only reliable motivators. Stimulants normalize dopamine transmission and strengthen systems like the prefrontal cortex that are responsible for reward regulation and self-control. But before I understood any of that, the explanation people gave me was much simpler. They said I was lazy. My dad told me I was just like my mother. Lazy. The truth is that my mother and I are not lazy. We just have brains that are wired differently. If you have a parent with ADHD, there is a significant chance that you also have some neurodevelopmental difference, such as ADHD or autism. But because I was smart, no one thought to look deeper. In 2018, when I first suspected I might have ADHD and shared that with one of my high school teachers, she said, “If you had ADHD, you would not have been able to get into UC Berkeley.” She had worked with special education students and jumped to the wrong conclusion. People assumed that if I could get good grades and ace tests, ADHD could be ruled out. But intelligence does not fix executive dysfunction. It only hides it until life becomes too complex to compensate. And eventually, life did become too complex. One of the main features of ADHD is time blindness. For someone with ADHD, there are really only two times: now and not now. Most people can feel the passage of time like a tide slowly coming in. A deadline gets closer, the pressure builds, and they adjust. For me, that feeling was absent. If something was happening right now — if a person was in front of me, if a deadline was today, if a crisis was unfolding — my brain turned on. But if something was happening next week or tomorrow, it carried almost no emotional weight. It felt theoretical. Not real. That is why ADHD procrastination looks like laziness from the outside but feels different on the inside. You do care. You care a lot. But you cannot make the future feel real enough to act on. So the brain solves this by relying on anxiety and panic. I used to delay week-long assignments and then somehow produce something passable in the final two hours before it was due. Once the deadline became now, my brain would finally agree to show up. For a long time, I thought procrastination was a time management problem. But for me, much of it was emotional avoidance. A task was never just a task. It was attached to anxiety about my future, shame about already having avoided it, fear that I was falling behind. And because my brain was already low on dopamine, it was always scanning for relief. The longer I avoided something, the more emotional weight it accumulated. A task I skipped on Monday became embarrassment by Wednesday and dread by Friday. Then by the time I needed to do it, I also had to overcome all the emotion that had attached itself to it. So I would avoid it even more, and the whole thing would keep growing. That is what ADHD looked like in my adult life. Not a kid bouncing off the walls, but a grown man sitting at a desk, watching his day dissolve in full awareness. I would wake up, shower, ignore the dishes, skip breakfast, go to work, sit down at my desk, and immediately start drifting. I would check stock prices, crypto prices, messages. I would watch YouTube videos. I would gamble by day trading. I would go to lunch, get distracted talking to coworkers, watch a TV show while eating, message friends, and suddenly it would be 1:30 p.m. and I had not started the tasks I was supposed to do that day. Then I would come home and do the same thing again with videos and reels and my phone for hours, telling myself I would fix it tomorrow. And then tomorrow would come and the cycle would repeat. Knowing was never the problem. I always knew when I opened YouTube or placed a trade or checked messages that I was not doing the right thing. The problem was not knowledge. The problem was behavior. As Russell Barkley put it, ADHD is not a disorder of not knowing what to do. It is a disorder of doing what you know. That sentence summarized my life. By my twenties, my life had become extremely chaotic. Your outer life becomes the manifestation of what is going on in your mind, and my mind was chaotic. I moved through jobs every one to two years. I had close calls with death. I swung wildly in net worth, going from zero to a hundred thousand, down to twenty thousand, up to two or three hundred thousand, then back down again. I started projects and abandoned them. I made huge decisions impulsively. I kept hoping the next thing would fix my life. So one year it was joining a Christian cult. One year it was trying to become a pastor. One year it was crypto trading. One year it was joining a startup. One year it was trying to launch my own startup. Then it was writing a book. Then switching to clinical psychology. Then trying desperately to find a girlfriend on dating apps. Then fantasizing about moving out of the country. And now trying to become a social media creator. None of those things were inherently stupid. Some of them I genuinely enjoyed. Some of them taught me a lot. But underneath all of them was the same pattern: I was switching because my brain craved novelty. Starting something new felt like progress, and that feeling was enough to satisfy a brain trying to avoid the boring, sustained effort of actual work. Underneath that was also hope — the hope that if I found the right thing, it would finally close the gap between who I was and who I imagined I was supposed to become. I wanted to become a different person without having to sit with the discomfort of being who I already was. That same pattern showed up in gambling. When I was 22, I had a job that most people would have killed for: good salary, good stock options, real responsibility, a great boss, growth in a high-demand field. But I only lasted five months. Not because I got fired, but because I could not make myself do the boring parts of the job. At the same time, I got addicted to cryptocurrency trading. One week I got lucky and made $200,000, and that gave me a story: maybe I could leave corporate life, do something more stimulating, become someone bigger. I felt guilty that I was not doing my work, so I quit. ADHD brains are drawn to gambling the way water runs downhill. Motivation does not come from knowing something is important. It comes from how the brain processes reward. The ADHD brain is functionally dopamine deficient. Ordinary tasks do not produce enough reward signal to sustain engagement. So the brain goes looking for stronger stimulation. Gambling provides that. Every trade is uncertain. Every outcome is immediate. Every win or loss is a hit of feedback. And if that is not enough, you increase the stakes to manufacture urgency. By 24, I was addicted to gambling. By 28, I was putting tens of thousands of dollars into meme coins, penny stocks, and terrible speculative bets based on only minutes of research. I knew it was irrational. I knew retail traders do not beat the market. I knew I was gambling and that I would eventually lose. But I still watched my savings bleed away, one bad decision at a time. Three separate times I turned ten thousand into over a hundred thousand or even two hundred thousand in a matter of months, and every time I went bust. A gambling addiction is not just about the money you lose. It is about the life you destroy trying to win. And even when I did win, my life did not change in the way I imagined. I was still alone in my office. Still ashamed. Still disorganized. So I would move the goalpost. Maybe if I hit a million, then things would change. Then I could get a girlfriend. Then people would want me. Then I would not have to struggle. Then I could finally become the person I wanted to be. But the real problem was not out there waiting to be solved by the next hit of success. The real problem was that I had undiagnosed ADHD and I kept trying to solve the wrong thing. That confusion also shaped my relationships. There is something that does not get talked about enough in the context of ADHD and neurodivergence: limerence. Dorothy Tennov coined the term to describe an intense, involuntary preoccupation with another person. It is the constant mental rehearsal of interactions, the obsessive hope, the sense that this one person holds the answer to something you have been missing your entire life. It is falling in love with the idea of someone more than the reality of them. Most people experience that occasionally and then it fades as real intimacy develops or does not. But for people with ADHD, OCD, or autism, it can become something much more powerful. Think about what limerence provides: novelty, uncertainty, emotional intensity, reward, anticipation, hope, and a source of focus. For a brain that struggles to engage with ordinary life, this is neurologically extraordinary. The person becomes the one thing your brain can think about reliably, obsessively, voluntarily for months. For me, limerence was not just chemistry. It was need. I grew up carrying childhood pain I did not understand. I had eczema and health issues that made me feel like my body was working against me. I felt different from other kids. I interrupted people. I missed social cues. I made impulsive comments. I was forgetful. I was late. I went on tangents. I had poor fashion sense, I was unathletic, and I was the smallest kid in my class. That led to insecurity and rejection. People with ADHD often have rejection sensitivity — they feel even mild rejection or criticism with intense emotional force. Over time that can make social situations painful enough that you begin to avoid them, which only increases isolation. So I needed a place to put all that pain. Romance became that place. It was a story I could live inside. A face for hope. A fantasy that if the right person finally saw me and chose me, all the chaos of my life would make sense. Limerence gave me motivation without asking anything concrete of me. It was an unresolved question my brain could keep returning to. Do they like me? Could this be it? Maybe this is the thing that finally fixes me. But that made me vulnerable. At one point, I got romance scammed. By then, I had already spent years cycling through limerent states, falling for the possibility of people I barely knew, constructing elaborate internal versions of them out of minimal evidence, generous assumptions, and projection. I was lonely. I was desperate. I wanted intimacy. So when I matched with someone on Hinge who later turned out to be a scammer using stolen photos, my brain did not care enough about the evidence. We were supposed to go on a date, but she got sick. A month later, during the fires in Southern California, I reached out again because she said she lived there. We talked on the phone. I worried about her. She laughed at my jokes. She made me feel like I mattered. And that was enough. The scammers understood something important about how my brain worked. They did not ask for money casually. They created urgency. Her mother needed an emergency medical procedure. The situation was time-sensitive. There was a specific amount of money needed and a specific deadline. It was happening now. For the ADHD brain, urgency is not a warning sign. Urgency is the condition under which the brain finally activates. So even though part of me knew something was off, I looked away from the evidence because acknowledging it would have meant losing the connection, losing the hope, losing the possibility that maybe this time someone had chosen me. So I sent money. More than once. Not because I was stupid, but because I was lonely. And because years of limerence had trained me to trust the feeling of connection more than the reality in front of me. ADHD has almost gotten me killed more than once too. In 2017, I was in Croatia with my family on an island called Lokrum. People were jumping off a cliff into the Adriatic Sea. I had never done a backflip off a cliff, but I did one anyway because I was thinking about a girl back home and wanted to impress her on social media. My brain did the calculation in about two minutes: I want attention, I will probably be fine, this will make me look interesting. In the moment, it felt harmless. But I could have died. I did a blind backflip off a ten-meter cliff into water of unknown depth in a foreign country, and I do not even swim that well. I did it twice. Other times, I drove on the freeway sleep-deprived and drifted toward the concrete divider before jerking awake and correcting the wheel. In each case, I knew the safe choice. But seeing and doing happen in different parts of the brain, and those parts do not always communicate in time. That is what people misunderstand about ADHD impulsivity. It is not ignorance. It is acting even when you know better. And that pattern sat underneath everything in my life: the gambling, the abandoned projects, the risky decisions, the sleep deprivation, the shame. Because what undiagnosed ADHD creates over time is not just dysfunction. It creates shame. When you grow up hearing that you are careless, lazy, irresponsible, selfish, not trying hard enough, eventually you believe it. You internalize your failures not as symptoms of a disorder but as proof that you are morally defective. That shame shaped my identity. People told me I was gifted, destined for great things, special. So when I kept failing in adulthood, it was deeply confusing. If I was so smart, why could I not just do what other people did? Why could everyone else make a to-do list, work through it, go home to their family, and go to bed, while I could not even keep my life together in basic ways? The answer I settled on for years was character. I thought I was lazy. Undisciplined. Broken at the level of willpower. But getting diagnosed with ADHD about a year and a half ago changed that. It did not fix my life. But it helped me move on from shame. It gave me a new lens through which to see my past. Oh, that is why that kept happening. Oh, other people experience this too. The diagnosis did not change who I was. It changed what I was trying to fix. Because the hardest part about having ADHD is that you keep trying to solve the wrong problem. You keep thinking the answer is to try harder, to become more disciplined, to finally mean it this time. But the gap was never about conviction. The gap was structural. Discipline is what you exert. Structure is what you build. And when you can know something completely and still not do it, when willpower has failed you more times than you can count, eventually you stop waiting for motivation to save you. You start building scaffolding. The most useful concept I found for managing a brain like mine comes from Greek mythology. Odysseus, sailing home from Troy, knew his ship would pass the island of the sirens — creatures whose song was so beautiful that sailors would steer toward it and wreck on the rocks. He knew that once he heard the music, he would not be able to resist. So he did not rely on knowing better. He had his men tie him to the mast before they came into view, before the temptation arrived. He built the constraints before he needed them. This is called self-binding. And it is the most useful framework I have found for living with ADHD. Self-binding means making the wrong choice harder before the moment arrives when you will want to make it. For me, that means having friends or family hold money for me. Paying rent upfront. Using browser extensions that hide news feeds. Locking apps on my phone and giving the password to my girlfriend. Keeping my environment understimulating. It is not that I can never get around those obstacles. It is that the friction is often enough to break the automatic, impulsive reach. This approach is humbling, but it works. Odysseus tied to the mast was screaming to be untied. But he survived because he had built the structure before the moment of weakness. The other thing that has mattered is therapy. Therapy gave me a relationship where I had to show up consistently and be honest about what was actually happening in my life. The accountability mattered. The space for reflection mattered. Being witnessed mattered. In some ways, therapy gave me the thing I had been trying to substitute with everything else — limerence, gambling, social media, fantasy, likes, attention. I had been searching, in one form or another, for someone to really see me. Therapy does not erase that hunger, but it softens the loneliness enough that I can think more clearly and build a better life. I still wake up late sometimes. I still get disorganized. I still lose things. There are still days when I know exactly what I should do and cannot make myself do it. But something fundamental has changed. I no longer believe that beneath all the chaos there is some moral defect in me. I no longer think the problem is my character. I know what my brain does now. I know what I need. I do not need more willpower. I need better systems. I do not need more self-hatred. I need more humility. Humility to say: I know what I am like. I know where this goes. I am going to build around that accordingly. And I have also had to accept that my life may never look like the life I once imagined for myself. Eventually I learned that this is okay. The point is not to become neurotypical. The point is to build a life that is livable, honest, and stable with the brain I actually have. If you recognize yourself anywhere in this, I want you to know that you are not alone. A lot of what looks like laziness is pain. A lot of what looks like irresponsibility is executive dysfunction. A lot of what looks like chaos is a nervous system trying to survive without the right map. And sometimes the beginning of rebuilding your life is just finally learning the right name for what has been happening to you all along. Get full access to Daniel Yee Psychology at danielyeepsych.substack.com/subscribe [https://danielyeepsych.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

20 mrt 202636 min