My Story: Part 1- Living with Undiagnosed ADHD in Childhood

The Lost Girl in the Noise

Getting diagnosed with ADHD in midlife felt like looking in the mirror and finally seeing the truth, a stranger staring back. But not a new stranger. She’d been there all along, hidden behind the pretending, the people-pleasing, the masking, the smiles and the constant sense of not quite fitting in.

It was the moment everything shifted. The years of burnout, self-doubt, emotional overwhelm, and wondering “Why can’t I just get it together?” suddenly made sense.

I realized I’d been living with undiagnosed ADHD for decades, constantly bending myself to fit other people’s expectations. Every time I masked, every time I shrank myself to seem “normal,” I gave away a little more of my power, until I was no longer in control of my own life.

ADHD hadn’t just affected my focus, it had shaped how I saw myself, how I related to the world, and how much of me I felt safe to show. And the hardest part? I never even knew it was happening.

There was a strange kind of grief. Not just for the years I’d lost, but for the person I thought I was. Suddenly, so much made sense. But at the same time, I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I had spent my life thinking I was just “different.” Not broken exactly… but definitely out of sync. Offbeat. Awkward. A bit too much and not enough, all at once.

The diagnosis gave me language. But first, it gave me clarity.

This is Part 1 of my journey: growing up as a girl with undiagnosed ADHD, navigating a world I didn’t understand, and feeling like I was constantly behind, even when I was doing my best to hide it.

What Undiagnosed ADHD in Childhood Looked Like to me

Looking back, the signs were there. But like many women, my symptoms weren’t the “obvious” ones. No bouncing off the walls or shouting out in class. My ADHD was quieter. Trickier. Easy to miss.

For me, things started to shift around age 10 or 11. Before that, I had no trouble making or keeping friends. School felt manageable. I was social, curious, and could keep up without too much struggle. But then, slowly, things began to change.

I started noticing that my friends were pulling away, forming closer bonds with each other while I stood on the edges, not quite knowing how to join in. The classroom became more confusing. What used to feel simple now felt frustrating. I couldn’t understand why I just couldn’t “get it,” why the work seemed harder for me than for everyone else, no matter how much I tried.

I felt it in every social situation I couldn’t quite follow.I felt it in the background noise that drowned out individual voices. I felt it in classrooms where I worked twice as hard to keep up but still felt behind. I felt it in my body, the fidgeting, the restless legs, the buzzing mind I couldn’t switch off.

Always “Different,” But Never Knew Why

I didn’t have the words back then. I just knew I didn’t work the way everyone else seemed to.

• I couldn’t focus like the other kids.

• I’d zone out during deep conversations or forget what I was trying to say halfway through.

• I couldn’t get my thoughts out the way they sounded in my head, they’d fall apart mid-sentence, and I’d trail off, embarrassed.

• I had friends, but relationships never felt easy. I didn’t know how to connect like others did.

• I wasn't hyperactive in class but I would squirm, hampered by restlessleg syndrome. It would get so bad sometimes that I would pretend to need to use the restroom just for the chance to move about.

• I felt like I was constantly performing, trying to act normal, to blend in, to not be “too much.”

The worst part? I got really good at pretending. I’d nod to seem like I understood. Mimic other girls. Smile and stay quiet so no one would notice how lost I felt inside. I became a chameleon, changing who I was depending on who I was with. But underneath it all, I was exhausted.

Masking ADHD in childhood meant hiding my real self to survive, even when I didn’t realize I was doing it. I wasn’t just trying to fit in, I was fighting to be accepted in a world that never saw me clearly. And somewhere along the way, I stopped trusting my own voice.

Coping… But Never Thriving

At school, I could do the work, but only if I obsessed. I’d write page after page of notes. Then rewrite. Then condense. It wasn’t about intelligence; it was about accessing my brain. Like trying to tune into a radio station through static.

I used to love reading, until around age 12. After that, I’d find myself reading the same paragraph over and over again. Studying English Lit was brutal. The only way I could retain anything was by making notes, endless notes just to remember what I’d read five minutes earlier.

The Birth of the Mask

As I got older, the mask solidified. I wasn’t quiet, I just didn’t trust my own voice.I wasn’t shy, I was afraid of being misunderstood.I wasn’t awkward, I just didn’t fit the mold I was forced into.

I stopped trying to explain myself. I let others speak first. I filled the silence with smiles and polite nods.I shaped myself into what I thought people wanted me to be, agreeable, quiet, capable, because deep down, I believed who I really was wouldn’t be accepted.

The more I conformed to the world’s expectations, the further I drifted from myself.Other people’s perception of me became more real than my own.And somewhere along the line, I handed over my power not because I wanted to, but because I thought I had to.

Masking became my survival strategy:

• Nodding when I didn’t understand

• Laughing on cue to avoid looking confused

• Mirroring others to blend in

• Pretending I didn’t see the looks, the ones that said, “you’re not quite right” or “you’re boring.”

I avoided social situations. I shrank myself to fit into the smallest version of me I thought people could handle.And I kept going. Fidgeting. Masking. Hiding.Because I didn’t know there was another way.

Coming Next: The Mask Starts to Crack

In Part 2, I’ll share what life was like as a young adult, starting work, navigating relationships, and the slow, creeping burnout that comes from constantly pretending to be someone you’re not.