There’s a particular kind of tension that shows up in relationships where two people love each other deeply - and still feel like they’re speaking entirely different languages. Couples who care, who try, who genuinely want to make things work… and yet find themselves caught in the same arguments over and over again. One partner feels unheard, the other feels constantly criticized. Expectations go unmet.

I remember sitting next to one of my clients, a bright, thoughtful teenager, as she stared at a page of English text. Her highlighter had done its job. Almost every second sentence was marked in careful neon yellow. There were notes in the margins. Arrows. Underlines. She had done everything she was told to do. And yet, when I asked her what the text was about, she looked at me and said quietly, “I don’t know. I read it. But it didn’t stay.”

There is a particular kind of silence in our house that makes me uneasy. It’s not the peaceful kind. Not the kind that signals deep concentration or imaginative play. It’s the kind of silence that feels… suspicious. If you have a neurodivergent child, you probably know exactly what I mean. Screens have always held a powerful attraction for my son. Video games, YouTube, anything with fast movement and endless novelty. I understand why. His brain craves stimulation in a way that the ordinary world often cannot provide.

For a long time, cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) was considered the gold standard for working with ADHD. And to be clear: CBT is not a bad approach. It has helped many people with structure, planning, and goal-setting. But if you live with ADHD or parent or coach someone who does you may have noticed something frustrating: Knowing what to do is not the same as being able to do it.

In my coaching work with adults with ADHD, there is a theme shows up quite often - sometimes it’s spoken out loud, sometimes it’s hidden behind competence and professionalism but often accompanied by a great deal of quiet suffering. It’s the intense sensitivity to rejection, criticism, or the feeling of having disappointed someone. And in the workplace, this sensitivity can become especially painful.

Many of us with ADHD know this experience intimately: on paper, we know what would help us. Pomodoro. Body doubling. Active recall. Spaced repetition. Flashcards. Apps. Timers. Routines. And the list goes on and on. We’ve done our homework, watched all the videos, saved the posts, listened to the podcasts. In theory, we are extremely well informed.

Christmas is often portrayed as the most wonderful time of the year: peaceful, cozy, filled with baking cookies, decorating the tree, sipping hot chocolate, exchanging gifts, and spending quality time with loved ones. Movies and commercials paint an idyllic picture of harmony and joy. A season where everything slows down, everyone gets along, and stress magically disappears. But for many neurodivergent people, including those with ADHD, autism, or sensory sensitivities, Christmas can feel very different.

When we talk about ADHD in families, we often picture the neurodivergent child and the overwhelmed parent trying to keep up. But what if the equation is reversed? What if you are the one with ADHD and your child is neurotypical? It’s a situation that’s far more common than many people think and that I see in my coaching practice a few times a year.

Last week, a client of mine – let’s call him John – told me the following story: „Last Monday, I sat in front of my laptop for two hours. Doing nothing. Okay, not nothing exactly. I checked my inbox. I scrolled through Slack. I stared at my to-do list and reorganized it five times. I even made a new playlist titled “Focus, please!”