Why I Think It’s Important to Get an ADHD Diagnosis—Even If You Think You’re “Too Old” or Don’t Like Labels

Spoiler: It’s not about the diagnosis itself—it’s about the relief, the context, and the chance to stop hiding.

Before I knew I had ADHD, I just thought I was… kind of weird? I say “kind of weird” because I’d gotten scarily good at hiding the parts of myself I knew—thanks to a mix of intelligence and social conditioning—weren’t considered acceptable or desirable.

Here are a few things that felt weird and contradictory about my personality before I could pin them on ADHD:

1. I get easily distracted and annoyed by other people’s snail-paced storytelling and have to resist the urge to finish their sentences—yet when I’m in session with a client, my attention is razor-sharp (thank God for hyperfocus).

2. I get overwhelmed by simple tasks like sorting the kids’ clothes or opening the mail—yet I handle a crisis or a live TV interview like a pro.

3. I’ve always been highly attuned to other people’s emotions—able to sense what they’re feeling or thinking—yet not so great at acknowledging my own.

Before my diagnosis, I didn’t realize how much energy I was burning trying to rein in my own energy—to hide the parts of me that felt too much, too messy, too hard to explain. I didn’t have a name for the overcompensation, the performative “I’m fine,” the quiet dread of unopened emails and unread texts. I didn’t understand that what I was doing had a name: masking. I didn’t yet know how I could be living such a big life on the outside while feeling so small on the inside.

There are plenty of reasons to pursue a diagnosis—better understanding of your brain, more personalized support, the comfort of knowing you’re not alone. But for me, the biggest benefit is this: diagnosis creates space to take off the cloak of shame we’ve worn for years just for being who we are.

Challenging the stories we’ve been told—or have told ourselves—about what it means to live with a neurodivergent brain is a process. It’s work I do every day as a therapist and writer—and work I’m still very much in the middle of. But I can say this with confidence: I mask less than I used to. I show up more fully, in my personal life and my professional one. And I feel better for it.

No, diagnosis doesn’t magically solve everything. But knowing how your brain works—and learning to see it as different, not deficient—makes room for more self-compassion. And when we’re more compassionate with ourselves, we’re more free to show up as we really are: messy, nuanced, capable of both struggle and success.

Last week, I was filming with Understood.org (an amazing organization for people who learn and think differently), and I felt at home. I was surrounded by other ambitious, creative, successful people with ADHD. Suddenly, I wasn’t the only one jumping from topic to topic mid-conversation. I wasn’t the only one starting a story in one place and ending it somewhere else. I wasn’t the only one saying, “Wait—where was I going with that?”

Everyone was pinging around the room like I do. And it didn’t feel chaotic—it felt freeing. We were nonlinear, brilliant, curious, messy, and still so deeply connected. No one needed me to explain my brain. They just… got it.

It made me think of all the spaces I’ve been in over the years where I felt the opposite. Where I felt like I had to tuck parts of myself away in order to be accepted, or even just to function. Being in that room reminded me how far I’ve come. Things aren’t perfect, but I feel closer to integration than ever before. I’m at the wheel now—instead of at the whim of the spirals and self-doubt that used to control the ride.

That’s what diagnosis can do. It gives you access to relief. To context. To compassion.

If you’ve ever felt that exhale—the one that comes when you finally realize, Oh. It’s not just me—you know how powerful it is.

And if you haven’t yet, I want you to know:

You deserve to.

You’re not too much.

You’re not not enough.

Your brain isn’t broken—it’s just different.

And different isn’t bad. In fact, when we can begin to understand how our brains work and learn to let go of the shame, we start to integrate ADHD into our lives instead of battling against it. And while therapy can be a huge part of that process, I believe the most transformative piece often comes from community—telling our stories, being witnessed in them, and looking to other women who are living big, full lives with ADHD.

If this resonated, I’d love to hear from you:

Drop a comment and share what stood out or tag someone who you think would read this and feel seen!

Xo

Kaitlin