THE MESSAGE.
We are surrounded by messages.
They arrive constantly—through emails, texts, conversations, music, social media, podcasts, headlines, phone calls. Some are necessary. A few are important. Most feel like background noise we absorb without thinking.
Or at least, that’s what we tell ourselves.
Because the truth is this: no message is received without impact.
A compliment can lift us instantly.
A criticism can settle into the body just as fast.
Whether we acknowledge it or not, the words we take in shape our beliefs, our actions, and our sense of self.
When Words Lose Their Guardrails
We live in a world where language often has no boundaries.
Words are used as weapons—politically, culturally, socially—so frequently that many of us have grown numb to them. We tolerate more than we should. We absorb more than we realize. Sometimes we don’t even notice how deeply a message has settled until we feel its weight years later.
Weaponized language has become normalized.
And still—we listen.
We ingest.
We tolerate.
I’m reminded of something I hear often at church: guard your heart and your mind.
I’ve heard those words my entire life. So often that for years, I stopped really hearing them. But they aren’t filler. They’re instruction. They’re reminders that what we allow in eventually shapes who we become.
How My ADHD Brain Receives Messages
With ADHD, messages don’t all land the same way.
If something is urgent—a bill, a deadline, a crisis—it takes over my attention completely. But if a message contains something interesting, connective, or meaningful, it climbs in importance. It stays with me.
I turn it over in my mind. I pull at it from different angles. I study it until something opens.
That’s how my brain makes sense of the world—through connection, not hierarchy.
And recently, the messages I’ve been receiving from others have stayed with me in a way I didn’t expect.
Since I began talking openly about ADHD-related demoralization, people have started reaching out—not casually, but honestly. They’ve shared their fears, their realizations, their long-held shame. Each message has helped unlock another piece of my own story.
And I want to say this clearly: the honor of being trusted with someone else’s vulnerability is not something I take lightly.
For most of my life, I built walls that kept that kind of honesty at a distance. But as I’ve dismantled those walls—slowly, carefully—I’ve discovered something surprising.
I’m not just not alone.
I’m surrounded.
The Messages We Send Without Realizing
There’s another message I’ve been turning over in my mind—one that’s closer to home.
Every weekday morning, I ask my daughter the same question:
Did you take your medicine?
She has ADHD too. We’ve tried different medications, different approaches, trying to support her in a world that demands focus, speed, and compliance.
She attends a school we chose long before we had language for neurodivergence. I remember leaving the first tour thinking, this is how I wish I had been taught.
The curriculum is integrated. Learning happens through conversation. Students are supported instead of managed.
And still—I worry.
I worry about the years ahead. About standardized testing. About systems that demand black-and-white answers from minds that think in color.
For neurodivergent brains, a simple question doesn’t stay simple. It expands. It branches. It becomes a pop-up book when the system only wants a flat page.
That mismatch—being misunderstood, being misinterpreted—is what leads to ADHD-related demoralization.
I don’t want that for her.
But here’s the moment that stopped me cold:
I realized that every time I ask that question—Did you take your medicine?—I’m also sending another message.
You are not enough as you are to function in this world.
Your brain needs to be altered to belong.
That realization hit hard.
It made me sad.
It made me angry.
And it forced me to confront something deeper.
Our world rewards conformity.
It rewards sameness.
Neurodivergent minds bring color, depth, and possibility—but we live inside systems that value uniformity.
Why the Messages Matter
So I keep asking myself:
How do we make room for pop-up thinkers?
How do we build systems that reward connection, not compliance?
How do we become more intentional about the messages we pass on?
Innovation, creativity, and progress don’t come from linear thinking alone. They come from minds willing to see differently, to connect ideas across boundaries, to imagine what doesn’t yet exist.
That’s what I want for my daughter.
And for the people who have shared their stories with me.
And for anyone who has ever felt demoralized by being misunderstood.
Our messages matter.
The ones we absorb.
The ones we repeat.
The ones we don’t even realize we’re sending.
And when we begin to notice them—to question them—we create the possibility of something different.
I don’t have all the answers yet.
But I’m learning to listen more carefully.
To choose my words with more intention.
To carry forward messages that leave room for humanity.
I’ll be back next time.
Until then, give yourself grace.