After a long day, most of us know what we should do. We should put our phone away, get ready for bed, maybe read a book, take a warm shower, or simply go to sleep. And yet, many of us with ADHD find ourselves doing the exact opposite. We sit down on the couch and start scrolling through social media. We watch one more episode on Netflix. Then another. We fall down a YouTube rabbit hole. And we stay up far later than we intended and we wonder: "Why am I doing this? I'm exhausted."

You used to care. Maybe you were the student who always pulled things together at the last minute. The one who somehow survived on adrenaline, all-nighters, and sheer determination. Maybe you worked twice as hard as everyone else just to keep up even though nobody realized how much effort it took. But then one day, it stopped working.

I give quite a few workshops and seminars every year. One of the topics I return to again and again is how neurodivergent kids can be successful in school. And almost without exception, there’s a group of parents sitting in the room who aren’t just looking for “success strategies.” They’re in complete crisis because their children are refusing to go to school.

“What’s the perfect job for my ADHD brain?” It’s a question I get asked quite often by my clients. And interestingly, most of them don’t expect a clear-cut answer. What they’re really hoping for is something else: a bit of clarity in their mental chaos. A sense that there might be a way to make a professional decision that doesn’t feel overwhelming, random, or doomed to fail.

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.