ADHD Doesn’t Have One Face: My Unconventional Road to Diagnosis

October is ADHD Awareness Month, and this year’s theme is A Community of Support. For me, part of building that community is talking openly about what ADHD actually looks like, because it rarely looks like the stereotype.

When you picture someone with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, the media often enough portrays a single image: a young, hyperactive boy bouncing off the walls, unable to concentrate. But the reality is vastly different. ADHD doesn’t have just one face.

I was never a child who struggled to concentrate and get tasks done. I followed rules and could sit through classes quite intently. But my brain was always working overtime, thinking about different subject matters, questioning processes and the reasons why behind things.

Looking back now, I’ve come to think that constant mental noise played a part in the depression I experienced at 16.

ADHD affects people of all genders, ages, ethnicities and backgrounds. This month is about breaking down those outdated stereotypes and looking at what ADHD actually is.

What ADHD actually is

ADHD is a neurodevelopmental condition that affects how the brain processes information, manages time and regulates attention. Rather than a total deficit of attention, it is often more accurately described as a difficulty regulating where that attention goes.

It generally falls into three main types:

• Inattentive: Often missed, this presentation includes daydreaming, forgetfulness and struggles with organisation.

• Hyperactive-impulsive: Marked by physical restlessness, fidgeting, and acting or speaking without thinking first.

• Combined: A mixture of both inattentive and hyperactive traits.

  
  

Everyone’s experience is different. For some, ADHD can be incredibly debilitating and affect day-to-day life significantly. What I’m sharing here is my experience. It’s one face of ADHD, not the only one.

My diagnosis

I was diagnosed with ADHD at 38, and getting there wasn’t a whim. It came out of one of the hardest periods of my life.

I was in a bad space, constantly seeking new and exciting things. I’d just returned from a mini expedition inside the Arctic Circle, which I’d agreed to only a few weeks before we left. I felt alive at that decision. It was another opportunity to throw myself into something new and challenge myself. And it was everything I’d wanted and more: pulling a pulk for 12km across frozen lakes, sleeping in a tent at -30°C under the northern lights. I felt alive.

Then I came home and went straight into a family holiday. That sudden change of pace left me feeling numb and disconnected. Board games and gentle conversation felt like such a jarring shift that I pulled further back into myself, scrolling on my phone for the next thing that would challenge my brain and fuel my dopamine.

During and after that trip, my personal relationships started to suffer. My friends and family were seeing two different versions of me. One was outgoing, adventurous, deeply curious and excited about new things. The other was fatigued, disinterested and emotionally switched off. How could I be so alive and vibrant in new situations, giving the best of myself to others, and yet be the complete opposite when I got home?

So I started therapy again, determined to dig deeper than I’d ever dug before. I wanted to understand myself on a deeper level than ever: why I work the way I do, and how I could find some balance and continuity.

My therapist pointed out that my baseline was non-existent. I had euphoric highs, where I’d rise to any challenge, indulge my creativity and drive, and feel fully “on”. But the flipside was lows that were almost as extreme whenever I wasn’t finding a situation stimulating enough.

We worked for weeks on why this pattern of behaviour kept showing up, and the answers just weren’t coming. I was completely open in those sessions and left everything on the table, but we still couldn’t establish that much-needed “why”.

It was only when someone I was speaking to began to relate to my feelings and behaviours, and mentioned they had recently been diagnosed with ADHD, that I thought it would be worth investigating.

When I told my therapist about my decision, she challenged me, and rightly so. “Would having a diagnosis of ADHD really change things that much?” she asked. “You are you, and until you fully accept who you are, a diagnosis and a ‘label’ may not help.”

I understood what she was saying. But I kept thinking to myself: I’m an open book. I’ve told her everything, and I’m comfortable with who I am as a person. I just couldn’t get to the root cause of that drive, or understand why I was struggling to maintain any balance.

So I went for an assessment, and at first it didn’t go the way I expected. My psychiatrist told me that although I was showing signs of ADHD in adult life, my old school reports and my parents’ accounts of me as a child weren’t consistent with a diagnosis.

I questioned that, because I truly believed there was a reason for my patterns of behaviour, my thought processes and the cycles of burnout I’d experienced throughout my life.

So he took the assessment further, including a 20-minute test selecting shapes on a grey background. During it, I noticed my mind was everywhere: what I’d be speaking about at an upcoming conference, how uncomfortable my chair felt, why there was a seagull sat outside the window. That test on its own didn’t decide anything. It was one piece of a fuller assessment, and it was everything taken together that led my psychiatrist to diagnose me with combined-type ADHD at a moderate level. For me, it was a huge relief.

Pulling the pieces together

The diagnosis helped me make sense of patterns I’d lived with for years. There were the 10 businesses I’ve started, the websites I’ve designed and never used, and the cupboard of equipment for hobbies I’d thrown myself into: ping pong paddles, tennis rackets, golf clubs, drones, kites, DJ decks.

It also explained the highs and lows my therapist had spotted. The energy I was pouring into a constant stream of new ideas and challenges was burning me out again and again. When life slowed down, I struggled to be present. If I heard a story I’d heard before, I’d tune out.

Chores, or an evening watching TV with the family, could feel really monotonous, and I’d find myself reaching for the next new thing.

What I’ve learned

Understanding my ADHD has helped me understand what makes me me. For me personally, it’s part of why I question how things are done, look at problems from a different angle and spot gaps others might walk past.

But it comes with a hidden cost. The energy it takes to think that way can lead to cycles of burnout, or to chasing the next new thing or the next hit of excitement. Recognising that has been one of the biggest shifts in my life.

Since starting medication, I’ve had much greater clarity. My emotional reactions are more measured, and I no longer feel I have to act on every feeling straight away. Most importantly, I can sit with an idea and let it settle before deciding what to do with it.

That pause has changed how I work. The ideas still come thick and fast, but they don’t go straight into action. I test them, sit with them and talk them through with the people around me first.

I’ve also become much better at sitting with myself. That was always uncomfortable, especially when you’re constantly seeking that next hit of dopamine. I used to find sitting alone in silence tremendously uncomfortable. Now I’ve learned that you can take pleasure in less extreme activities, and sometimes just in observing the world around you. And, I can’t believe I’m writing this, you can even find pleasure and contentment in chores. A year ago, I would have struggled to even start them. Sometimes the simple act of getting on with them and completing them is reward enough. It hasn’t been easy, and I’m still learning, but it’s a new chapter and a new, profound understanding of myself. Sometimes you have to start by putting one foot in front of the other to make progress.

Courage and community

ADHD has also helped me push through fear. I’ve done three skydives, despite being absolutely terrified. What they taught me is that fear doesn’t have to be the thing that decides.

The same was true when I started The Burnt Chef Project. Plenty of people told me an organisation focused on mental health in hospitality wouldn’t work. I wanted to find out anyway, because I believed there was a better way of doing things.

But nothing I’ve done has been done alone, and this past year has shown me that more than ever. Looking back, I’ve been surrounded by a community of support at every step:

• my therapist, who sat with me week after week and challenged me when I needed it;

• my psychiatrist, who took the time to look deeper rather than stopping at the first answer;

• the friend whose openness about their own diagnosis made me ask the question in the first place;

• my friends, family and team, who stood by me through the highs and the lows.

  
  

Bringing those closest to me along on this journey has helped them better understand me and the way I’m wired. They can now spot the signs when my balance is out of kilter again, sometimes before I do.

It’s been a personally challenging year, and without those people this journey could have looked very different. I might still be chasing the next high, wondering why I couldn’t find my balance. Instead, I found answers, and I found them because I let people in. That’s the power of community and trust. When you’re open with the people around you and they’re willing to walk alongside you, you can work through things you could never work through alone.

The same goes for The Burnt Chef Project. The willingness to try came from me. What has made it work is the team, our ambassadors, partners and supporters, and the pause-and-check approach I’ve learned to bring to every decision. That’s what a community of support looks like to me.

If this resonates

If you’ve ever had that niggle in your head about “what if”, I’d encourage you to explore it. Don’t automatically accept the narrative you’ve been told about yourself.

And if you recognise some of what I’ve described, or you’re finding things difficult, please speak to your GP or a specialist. If you feel something hasn’t been fully explored, it’s OK to ask questions. You know yourself better than anyone.

If my story resonates, please do reach out. I’m always happy to talk.

Author

Kris Hall

Founder, The Burnt Chef Project

For ADHD Awareness Month, The Burnt Chef Project founder Kris Hall shares why his ADHD didn’t fit the stereotype, what his diagnosis changed, and why nobody should have to work it out alone.