demoralized.

Demoralized is a deeply personal, first-person podcast about ADHD, late diagnosis, and the quiet erosion of confidence that comes from trying hard in a world that doesn’t understand how your brain works. This isn’t a show about fixing yourself—it’s about naming what happened, telling the truth, and staying present long enough to see what changes.

CHAPTER NINE - THE MESSAGE. 02/09/2026

CHAPTER NINE - THE MESSAGE. 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. /episode/index/show/ca598ab9-91e0-4109-a6e4-854a3f9d7428/id/40047475

EPISODE NINE - The Message. 02/09/2026

CHAPTER EIGHT - THE RETREAT. 02/04/2026

EPISODE EIGHT - The Retreat. 02/04/2026

CHAPTER SEVEN - THE WAIT. 02/01/2026

CHAPTER SEVEN - THE WAIT. THE WAIT. I recently reread a journal I kept in my early twenties. It’s filled with questions about my life at that age—what things meant, where I was headed, who I was supposed to become. There are entries about friendships, dates, jobs, and family. Some of it is funny. But most of it reveals a younger version of me trying desperately to fit into a world she simply wasn’t built for. Even then, I was already trying to reshape my creative, nonlinear mind into what I believed was the correct way to live. I was trying to find my place. When I finished reading it cover to cover, one word stood out more than any other: Wait. I closed the journal’s hard navy cover and smiled wryly. No wonder, at 51, I couldn’t stand to do nothing about my otherness any longer. I’d been waiting for thirty years. The Long Wait So much of life, especially for those of us who are neurodivergent, is spent waiting. Waiting to fit. Waiting to feel steady. Waiting for things to finally click. We’re told, over and over, “Just wait. It’ll happen when it’s supposed to.” Words echoed across generations in an attempt to offer hope to young people searching for their place in the world. But those statements have always felt incredibly ambiguous to me. They offer no edges to hold onto. And for a mind that craves clarity, that kind of ambiguity can feel maddening. I’ve spent much of my life searching for the place that feels like it’s mine—really mine. A place where a mask isn’t required and who I am is enough. Almost Right Isn’t Quite Enough More often than not, I settled for places that were good enough or almost right just to have some sense of stability and normalcy. The contortion it takes to make those places work always grows exhausting. Eventually, something has to give, and a new place must be found. The wake of my life is strewn with friendships, relationships, jobs, and hobbies—left behind once it became clear that my authenticity still wasn’t truly recognized. That cycle reinforced a painful belief: that effort and outcome would never quite align. Seeing Yourself in the Story One cold, gray Friday afternoon, I picked my daughter up from school and decided a movie felt like the right way to spend the day. We put on our cozies, pulled out the blankets, and curled up on the couch to watch Wicked. As we pointed out which of Galinda’s outfits we loved most, I found myself drawn to Elphaba. She was different from the start. And no matter how hard she tried—no matter how much she wanted it—nothing was going to change who she was. She was strong. She was smart. She was talented. And still, she wasn’t understood. She wasn’t heard. Her desires weren’t met—not until she found connection, not until someone truly saw her. Living with ADHD has often felt like that to me—like standing on the other side of a window, watching people do the very things I want to do. I’m not a jealous person, but I do feel envy when I watch how effortlessly some people seem to move through life. They decide. They follow through. They keep going. I know that’s not the whole truth—but it looks that way often enough. That straight, linear path can feel incredibly appealing when your own feels winding and unpredictable. ADHD-related demoralization reinforced that gap over time, training me to expect disappointment before I ever reached for hope. Wings on the Inside In the final scenes of Wicked, Elphaba tries to give herself wings—casting incantations to escape the guards coming to imprison her. I commented that the spell hadn’t worked. Without hesitation, my daughter said, “Yes it did. Her wings are on the inside.” What a perfect response. She recognized the magic where I couldn’t. That moment shifted something in me. Everyone else seems to have wings we can see—ones that let them do things easily, visibly, effortlessly. But those of us with ADHD have something else. Talents. Depth. Insight. Wings on the inside—ready to lift us once we learn how to trust them. Building the Place Maybe the reason I haven’t been able to find my place is because I didn’t trust my wings yet. Maybe I was waiting for belonging to arrive instead of realizing I needed to help create it. To find my own strength. To understand that my worth lives in sharing my differences, not hiding them. Creating a place where the next generation of neurodivergent minds can belong—without masking, apologizing, or shrinking—feels like the work I was meant to do. The wait may be over. But the work is just beginning. I’ll be back next time to talk about what comes after waiting—when belonging stops being a question and becomes a choice. Until then, give yourself grace. /episode/index/show/ca598ab9-91e0-4109-a6e4-854a3f9d7428/id/39949975

EPISODE SEVEN - The Wait. 01/31/2026

CHAPTER SIX - THE LEAP. 01/29/2026

CHAPTER SIX - THE LEAP. THE LEAP. There’s a moment that comes after awareness—after fear has been named—when nothing is unclear, but nothing feels safe either. That’s where I am now. Not confused. Not lost. Not unsure of what I want. Just standing at the edge of something I can’t ignore anymore. Knowing what’s been holding you back doesn’t automatically give you the courage to move forward. Sometimes it just brings you face-to-face with how little certainty you’re willing to tolerate. This episode lives in that space. Standing at the Edge Right now, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a massive chasm. Wide. Deep. Unforgiving. The only way forward is to trust myself enough to take a step into it—to believe that instead of falling, a foundation will rise up to meet me. And I don’t know if I trust that yet. The image that keeps coming to mind is the leap of faith from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Stepping forward without knowing if the bridge is real or imagined. Except I don’t have a diary telling me what to do. I don’t have instructions. I don’t know what outcome is waiting on the other side. I walked up to the edge with confidence and purpose. And then I froze. Fear Doesn’t Look Like Fear I’ve stood on this edge hundreds of times. I’ve put my foot out. I’ve leaned forward. And just before the moment of commitment, I’ve pulled back. It’s a cycle I know well. A cycle that feels like safety—but is actually fear. Fear doesn’t usually announce itself loudly. It disguises itself as logic. As restraint. As waiting for the “right time.” It convinces you that staying still is responsible—even when the place you’re standing no longer fits. Living Nonlinear in a Linear World Nothing about the way I move through life is linear. My ADHD makes me feel like the curly straw from childhood—colorful, inefficient, exhausting—when all I want is to be the straight one everyone else uses. Everything takes longer. Everything costs more energy. Everything feels heavier. Frustration takes over, and my brain defaults to distraction. To avoidance. To moving on to something easier. I know it’s fear. I know why it’s there. I know how it works. And knowing doesn’t magically stop it. Half a Map Is Still a Map Lately, it feels like I’m preparing for a trip with only half the map. The destination has disappeared. The route is unclear. The timing is unknown. But maybe that’s all of life. So I have a choice. Do I stay frozen and enter the familiar cycle of self-beratement? Or do I start tossing pebbles onto the path—one step at a time—to see if something solid appears? The pebbles, for me, are words. Words come easily. What happens after they leave me does not. I can’t control how they’re interpreted. I can’t control who stays or who walks away. All I can decide is whether I’m willing to step forward anyway. Taking the Step So I’m taking the step—not because I’m brave, but because it’s the only direction left. I’m holding my breath. And I’m hoping the floor rises up to meet me. This process is happening in real time. I don’t have a neat conclusion. I don’t have a finished framework or a polished answer to what comes next. I’m learning as I go. And I’m letting you hear it as it unfolds. If you recognize yourself here—if the word demoralization landed for you the way it landed for me—I hope you know this: There is a reason this feels so heavy. And you are not alone inside it. I’ll be back soon. Until then, give yourself grace. /episode/index/show/ca598ab9-91e0-4109-a6e4-854a3f9d7428/id/39923690

EPISODE SIX - The Leap. 01/29/2026

CHAPTER FIVE - THE FEAR. 01/28/2026

CHAPTER FIVE - THE FEAR. THE FEAR. Personal growth is hard. Not because we don’t want it. Not because we aren’t capable. But because growth requires leaving the things that once kept us safe. So many times, we think we want something—but then we find every excuse possible not to move toward it. We tell ourselves we’ll do it later. When things settle down. When we feel more prepared. When the timing is better. Personal growth doesn’t wait for certainty. It asks us to move away from what’s familiar and step into a future we can’t predict. One where outcomes aren’t guaranteed. And even when the place we’re in no longer fits us—when it’s limiting or painful—we stay anyway. Because fear convinces us that staying is safer than risking change. When Fear Disguises Itself Fear doesn’t usually announce itself as fear. It shows up as logic. As responsibility. As restraint. It tells you this isn’t the right time. That you’re not ready yet. That waiting is the smarter choice. But what it’s really doing is keeping you tethered to a version of life you’ve already outgrown. I didn’t realize how much fear was shaping my decisions until I began to understand ADHD-related demoralization. Naming that experience cracked something open. It made it harder to ignore how often fear had stood between me and real solutions. Why I Listen Instead of Read I love audiobooks. Not just because they entertain me or teach me something new—but because they give me a break from my own voice. Traditional reading has always been difficult for me. Part of it is impatience. I struggle with filler words and unnecessary dialogue that feels like it exists just to add bulk to a book. More often than not, I’m already several steps ahead, guessing what the next hundred pages will entail and wishing I could skip to the actual point. I’ve often thought the creator of Cliff’s Notes might have had ADHD. Another reason is distraction. If other people are around, I’ll read the same page five times without absorbing anything before eventually giving up. Audiobooks solve most of that. They have a fast-forward button. I can move around while listening. I can do other things. But most importantly, I’m not reading to myself. Because when I read to myself, I’m not just reading—I’m judging. I’m critiquing. I’m giving myself feedback in real time. It’s exhausting. Finding Insight Where I Didn’t Expect It As I’ve been moving through this process—truth, grief, clarity—I’ve been taking a one-step-at-a-time approach. That’s new for me. I’m usually planning far into the future, whether it’s realistic or not. One cold, gray day, I opened the Libby app and decided to do something different. Instead of reaching for another self-help book—the you’re a hot mess and here’s how to fix yourself genre—I wanted something light. Something funny. Something short. Something immediately available. That’s how I found How Y’all Doing? by Leslie Jordan. I’ve always loved him. His humor filled me with genuine joy during some heavy days. Near the end of the book, he tells a story about his recovery. His sponsor asked him to call every day, at the same time, and list his fears. That was it. Just name them. There were eighty. Leslie passed away a few years ago, and when I finished the book, I felt unexpectedly sad knowing there would be no more stories. But what stayed with me was this: Even someone who radiated that much joy had lived with tremendous fear—and survived it. Naming My Own Fear That story made me start thinking about my own fears and the role I’ve let them play in my life. So I started writing them down. And one stood out immediately. My biggest fear is rejection. I don’t think anyone can honestly say they aren’t afraid of rejection. We’re wired for belonging. Being accepted by others is foundational. So why did this fear feel so consuming for me? When I followed it back, it led me to something I’ve carried since childhood. The First Mask One of the most enduring masks I’ve worn my entire life is the mask of not being stupid. As a child, I played games with my older sibling. There was no effort to help me understand or improve—just constant competition and constant commentary. I trusted that my own brother would love me for who I was. Instead, I was told—over and over—that I was stupid. I didn’t know my brain worked differently. I didn’t know why I struggled. So I absorbed it. Until the only option left was protection. If I could just make everyone else believe I wasn’t stupid, maybe I’d be okay. That’s where my fear of rejection began. Hiding What Hurt Those memories are hard to revisit. Not because they’re dramatic. But because they’re old. Because they shaped everything that came after. I learned to hide the “stupid.” I learned to mask early. I learned to perform competence so convincingly that even I believed it. Fear kept me safe. But it also kept me small. When Fear Begins to Loosen Personal growth doesn’t happen on your timeline. And it never follows the path you expect. But by slowly moving through truth, grief, and clarity, I’m noticing something subtle. The sharp edges of fear are beginning to dull. They’re still there. But they’re not commanding me to cower. They’re not forcing me to stay in places I no longer want to be. By allowing myself to see reality—not the version fear insists on—I’m loosening the masks I’ve worn for decades. For the first time, I’m able to wonder what I’m actually capable of. A Place to Pause If you’re recognizing yourself in any of this, I want to invite you to notice where your fears come from. What they’ve asked you to hide. What they once protected you from. Fear doesn’t appear out of nowhere. It forms around moments where being yourself didn’t feel safe. And maybe by naming it—rather than obeying it—you can begin to loosen the masks you’ve worn too. I’m still in this process myself. Until then, give yourself grace. /episode/index/show/ca598ab9-91e0-4109-a6e4-854a3f9d7428/id/39908310

EPISODE FIVE - The Fear. 01/28/2026

CHAPTER FOUR - THE CLARITY. 01/26/2026

CHAPTER FOUR - THE CLARITY. THE CLARITY. I’ve been spending a lot of time lately just being. And if you have ADHD, you know how uncomfortable that can feel. Immobility—mental or physical—feels like it breaks an unspoken rule. If we’re not actively engaged in something new, something productive, something that looks like growth, we start turning on ourselves. We tell ourselves we’re falling behind. That we should be doing more. Becoming better. Catching up. Stillness feels wrong. Quiet feels suspicious. But sitting with my thoughts has given me something I’ve wanted my entire life: clarity. Clarity After Demoralization Not the kind that pushes me into action. The kind that comes after understanding the emotional cost of living for years in a state of ADHD-related demoralization. Clarity didn’t arrive as a solution. It arrived as a settling. ADHD-related demoralization is the emotional consequence of living with an unaccommodated neurodevelopmental disorder. It can mimic depression, coexist with depression, or be mistaken for it—but it’s driven by chronic failure, not mood. When that distinction is missed, people spend years treating the wrong thing and blaming themselves when nothing improves. Diagnosis Isn’t the Whole Story I was diagnosed with ADHD in my mid-forties. Like many adults, that diagnosis came with a prescription—and very little explanation. There was no conversation about what decades of compensation might have done to my nervous system. No discussion of demoralization. No guidance on how my brain actually works. So I started learning on my own. New Information A few days ago, I learned that the prefrontal cortex in people with ADHD can be delayed by two to five years compared to neurotypical brains. That’s the part of the brain responsible for executive function—planning, working memory, flexibility, impulse control, self-monitoring. Suddenly, a lifelong feeling made sense. The constant sense of being behind. The feeling that my timing was off. The belief that I should be further along by now. That knowledge didn’t energize me. It calmed me. What Quiet Makes Possible One of the quiet strengths of ADHD is how deeply we love information. We absorb it, connect it, map it across our lives. And lately, the quiet has allowed me to access memories and insights I haven’t touched in years—not because I was searching, but because I stopped running. By staying still, I’ve been forming a web of connections—between experiences, beliefs, reactions. Some of those connections are painful. Some lead to memories I once blocked because I couldn’t afford to feel them. But many of them feel like removing a blindfold. As if the information was always there, waiting for me to stop masking long enough to see it. When the Body Catches Up What surprised me most is how physical this clarity has been. ADHD lives in my body as much as my mind. For years, my baseline was tension—holding my breath, bracing without realizing I was doing it. Lately, that’s been changing. I’m relaxing more than tensing. Exhaling more than holding. My nervous system seems to be catching up to what my mind finally understands. Choosing Clarity Over Avoidance Clarity, I’m learning, doesn’t demand movement. It doesn’t insist on answers. It creates space. Space to choose more carefully. Space to stop betraying myself. Space for discernment instead of urgency. This doesn’t feel like momentum yet. It feels like alignment. /episode/index/show/ca598ab9-91e0-4109-a6e4-854a3f9d7428/id/39879240

CHAPTER THREE - THE GRIEF. 01/26/2026

CHAPTER THREE - THE GRIEF. THE GRIEF. There’s a stage that almost no one talks about after a late ADHD realization. It isn’t relief. It isn’t motivation. It isn’t even clarity. It’s grief. Not the kind that announces itself loudly. Not regret or sadness in the way we usually think of it. This grief is heavier and quieter. It shows up after the self-blame loosens its grip—when you finally understand that you weren’t lazy, broken, or incapable. And then a question surfaces: What was all of that for? When Awareness Creates Stillness After my realization, something unexpected happened. The constant monitoring of myself slowed. The overthinking eased. The need to prove anything dulled. And in that stillness, grief arrived. Not over one mistake. Not over one missed opportunity. But over patterns. Years of adapting. Years of contorting myself to meet expectations that were never designed with my brain in mind. Years of functioning inside systems that quietly punished me for traits I couldn’t willpower away. That didn’t feel like relief. It felt like loss. Grieving the Cost of Survival Grief showed up when I realized how much energy it took just to survive. Managing my tone. Managing my reactions. Managing how much of myself was acceptable in any given space. I began to see that what I thought were personality traits were actually coping strategies. Perfectionism wasn’t ambition—it was protection. Avoidance wasn’t apathy—it was self-preservation. Keeping my world small wasn’t a lack of curiosity—it was safety. Seeing that clearly was devastating. Because it revealed just how much I carried in every season of my life. How Early It Starts One of the hardest parts of this grief is acknowledging how young I was when it began. Mistakes weren’t neutral for me. They weren’t just errors to learn from. They were exposure. They felt like confirmation that something was wrong. So instead of learning through trial and error, I learned through adaptation. I learned which parts of myself drew criticism. Which behaviors drew silence. Which questions made people uncomfortable. Slowly, unconsciously, I edited myself. I became skilled at reading rooms. Anticipating reactions. Knowing when to speak and when to disappear. Those skills kept me safe—but they came at a cost. Grief has shown me how often I chose silence over expression, how many interests I abandoned once they became too intense, how many versions of myself I left behind because staying felt emotionally unbearable. Being Misunderstood—Not Maliciously, but Deeply Another layer of grief comes from realizing how misunderstood I’ve been. Not intentionally. Not cruelly. But fundamentally. My inner experience often didn’t translate. The intensity I felt inside didn’t make sense to others. Comments like “it’s not that big of a deal” or “everyone struggles with that” weren’t meant to hurt—but they were deeply invalidating because they were true for them. They weren’t true for me. Living with that disconnect for so long made me doubt my own perception. I wondered if I was exaggerating. If I was weak. If I was imagining the weight of it all. Grief, strangely, has become a gift. Because it’s helping me see that I wasn’t wrong—I just experience life differently. The Untethered Middle This stage feels disorienting. The old narrative—just try harder—keeps collapsing. But nothing new has fully formed yet. I’m doing my best to stop blaming myself, but I’m not yet confident enough to trust myself either. I feel untethered. I’m grieving the version of myself who kept pushing even when it hurt. And I’m grieving the life I imagined I’d have by now. This grief isn’t dramatic. It comes in quiet flashes. Moments where I realize how much time I spent managing fallout instead of building momentum. But here’s something important: I’m finally allowing myself to feel what I couldn’t afford to feel before. Because before now, feeling it would have stopped me completely. So I didn’t. I survived instead. And that matters. Meeting Yourself Without Armor There’s also grief in identity. When so much of who you thought you were was built around coping—being the capable one, the fun one, the put-together one—it’s unsettling to consider who you are without those defenses. I feel exposed. I feel unsure how to show up without the mask. But I don’t feel like I’ve lost myself. I feel like I’m meeting myself without armor for the first time. Staying With the Grief If you’re in this stage too, I want to say this clearly: We are not required to rush through grief to get to what’s next. Our instinct is to treat it like everything else—to optimize it, resolve it, move past it. Instead, I’m sitting with it honestly. Naming what it cost me to survive without understanding my own brain. Mourning the misinterpretations. Letting go of the idea that I should have been different. I couldn’t have been. I was doing the best I could with incomplete information. My nervous system is finally beginning to feel safe enough to stop bracing itself. And that pause—that safety—is what’s allowing me to see that what comes after grief isn’t hustle. It’s discernment. It’s choosing environments that don’t require self-betrayal. It’s learning where my energy actually belongs. It’s beginning to trust myself again—slowly, quietly, without force. If this feels raw, tender, or strangely calm and heavy all at once, you’re in good company. We’re grieving. And that means something is shifting. Next time, I’ll talk about what’s beginning to peek through this grief: clarity. Until then, give yourself grace. /episode/index/show/ca598ab9-91e0-4109-a6e4-854a3f9d7428/id/39868550

CHAPTER TWO - THE DAMAGE. 01/26/2026

CHAPTER TWO - THE DAMAGE. The Damage For a long time, I thought the heaviness I carried was depression. And depression is real. It is serious. I’ve lived with that too. But what I’m talking about now—what I finally have language for—is something different. It’s the damage that accumulates when ADHD goes unrecognized, untreated, or misunderstood for years. Sometimes decades. Not one big, dramatic event. Not a single failure you can point to. But thousands of small moments that slowly teach you to doubt yourself. When the World Says “It’s Not That Bad” One of the hardest parts of living with ADHD-related demoralization is how invisible it is to people who don’t share your brain. From the outside, a missed deadline, a forgotten email, a messy house can look minor—annoying, but manageable. Like stepping in a puddle and moving on. Inside a neurodivergent brain, that same moment can feel like falling into the deep end of a pool without knowing how to swim. It’s not inconvenient. It’s destabilizing. It takes enormous effort just to come back to the surface. That difference isn’t about weakness or drama. It’s about a fundamental mismatch between how we’re wired and how the world expects us to function. A Thousand Small Cuts The damage I’m talking about didn’t happen all at once. It started early. At five years old, I was pulled aside during recess to learn to read. I was thrilled. I loved it. I devoured words. For a brief moment, I felt capable and seen. A year later, a different message arrived. I was told I struggled to focus, to learn, to keep up. That I might need remedial help. Even though later teachers praised my intelligence, something had already lodged itself inside me: Hide the parts you can’t control. Don’t let anyone see where you struggle. Don’t give them proof. That fear became a companion I carried for decades. How Damage Shapes Decisions As we get older, the stakes get higher. In college, I joined the school newspaper—something I loved, something I was good at. I wrote my first article. It ran. And then I got a call: there was an error. One mistake. To a neurotypical brain, that’s a correction and a lesson learned. To me, it was exposure. My body reacted before my thoughts could catch up. The shame was physical. My brain didn’t see a mistake—it saw confirmation. You tricked them. You’re careless. You’re not as capable as they think. So I quit. Not because I didn’t care. But because the pain of repeating that moment felt unbearable. That’s what damage does. It doesn’t just hurt—it shrinks your world. It teaches you to walk away from things you love to protect yourself from feeling that way again. The Everyday Damage No One Sees Sometimes the damage doesn’t come from big moments at all. Sometimes it’s the exhaustion of trying to function. Last year, after moving a loved one into assisted living, our garage filled with belongings from three generations. At first, it felt manageable. Even motivating. Over time, it wasn’t. That one area of overwhelm spread. Tasks that had once been simple grew heavy. Until eventually, I couldn’t open Christmas cards that arrived in the mail—cards from people who loved me, sitting right in front of me. The world kept moving. Mine didn’t. And so I judged myself. Berated myself. Retreated. I spent years of my life in my bedroom because it felt like the only place where I couldn’t be seen failing. This is what ADHD-related demoralization looks like. It’s not laziness. It’s not a lack of care. It’s a protective shutdown. You’re Not Broken—but You’ve Been Hurt When demoralization sets in, it can feel like your system has a self-destruct switch. Like a silent alarm goes off and everything inside you just… slumps. That’s not a choice. It’s not a moral failing. It’s the psychological consequence of a capable brain being punished—over and over—for traits it cannot willpower its way out of. If any of this feels familiar, I want you to hear this clearly: You are not broken. But you may be damaged. And damage doesn’t mean defective. It means something happened over time—and it had a cost. In the next episode, I want to talk about that cost: the masking, the broken connections, and the grief that comes with lost years. For now, if you’re feeling heavy after listening, give yourself grace. Understanding comes before change. And sometimes, naming the damage is the first act of care. /episode/index/show/ca598ab9-91e0-4109-a6e4-854a3f9d7428/id/39857410

EPISODE FOUR - The Clarity. 01/26/2026

EPISODE THREE - The Grief. 01/25/2026

EPISODE TWO - The Damage. 01/23/2026

CHAPTER ONE - THE TRUTH. 01/22/2026

CHAPTER ONE - THE TRUTH. THE TRUTH. I didn’t start this podcast because I had clarity. I started it because something finally had a name. For most of my life, I believed that if I just tried harder—if I stayed focused, pushed through, disciplined myself better—things would eventually line up. Effort would lead to results. Confidence would follow consistency. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Except it didn’t. What I experienced instead was something much quieter and harder to explain: a slow erosion of self-trust. A growing belief that no matter how capable or motivated I was, the outcome would eventually fall apart. Not catastrophically at first—just enough to reinforce a pattern I couldn’t ignore. I could start things easily. That was never the issue. I could see possibilities, imagine outcomes, feel momentum at the beginning. But sustaining that effort felt increasingly risky. Because every time things slowed down—as they always did—the doubt crept in. Not loud doubt. Convincing doubt. The kind that feels factual. Eventually, something in me shut down. Not because I stopped trying. Because continuing began to feel like setting myself up to be exposed again. The Word That Changed Everything A few weeks ago, while searching for answers, I came across a definition from the National Institutes of Health for ADHD-related demoralization. I didn’t just understand it—I felt it. Demoralization describes what happens after years, sometimes decades, of effort without reward. When outcomes don’t match input. When emotional regulation is strained. When self-esteem erodes not because of laziness or lack of ability, but because the system you’re operating in doesn’t align with how your brain works. For the first time, my experience wasn’t framed as a personal failure. It was contextualized. That distinction matters more than it sounds. Unrealized ADHD and the Cost of Not Knowing I grew up with ADHD at a time when it wasn’t well understood—especially in girls. There wasn’t language for what I was experiencing, and certainly no roadmap. Like many neurodivergent people, I learned to cope long before I learned to understand. Masking became second nature. Over-functioning filled the gaps. On the outside, things often looked fine. Sometimes even successful. But inside, the cost kept compounding. When ADHD goes unrealized, the damage isn’t always obvious. It shows up later—as hesitation, paralysis, self-doubt, and a reluctance to trust yourself with anything that matters too much. That’s the part no one really talks about. Why This Exists Demoralized isn’t about fixing anything—at least not yet. It’s about telling the truth out loud. About tracing the line between effort and outcome, confidence and collapse, and asking what actually happened instead of defaulting to blame. I don’t know where this journey leads. I don’t know what changes next. But I do know this: understanding has already shifted something. And staying present—rather than forcing resolution—feels like the most honest place to start. If this episode resonated with you, my hope isn’t that you take action or draw conclusions. It’s simply that you recognize the weight you’ve been carrying may have an explanation—and that you’re not alone in it. For now, that’s enough. /episode/index/show/ca598ab9-91e0-4109-a6e4-854a3f9d7428/id/39824185

EPISODE ONE - The Truth. 01/21/2026

demoralized.

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