ADHD and me

I sat in my makeshift home office: a large dining table with two screens back-to-back. My workspace was scattered with half-finished to-do lists, a cup of cold coffee to wake up, half a can of Redbull for energy, and a glass of water for hydration. On one of those screens, my manager paused while I stared out of my large, cobwebbed window at the traffic below. An impatient cough pulled me back to the meeting.

“Melissa… ADHD… you really cannot focus. I know you try so hard.”

I had already diagnosed myself with ADHD through doomscrolling on TikTok, but hearing it out loud from someone else was different. It was comforting, but also scary. I wasn’t lazy and I wasn’t careless. Truthfully though, I was painfully bored. What she and others didn’t see were the expensive “timesaving” tactics, the chronic insomnia, the pressure of constantly trying to cope. I didn’t want to leave things to the last minute, but without that pressure, anything beyond tomorrow just didn’t feel real.

For a long time, I hid it well: with humour, good grades, and an instinctive ability to talk my way out of detention or trouble.

A-levels were when I realised these weren’t just quirky personality traits. I’d sit for hours, eyes dragging across the same sentences, and nothing would go in. Everything else around me seemed more interesting than the thing I had to do. The only thing I wanted to do was write, and when I did, I excelled. That was my confirmation: it wasn’t stupidity, but something else. Still, the mask cracked: first the grades, then the humour. Talking my way out of things worked less and less, and for the first time in my life, I lost the words to explain how I felt.

Looking back, I can see it clearly: hyperfocus and ADHD paralysis. But nobody was looking for it. Even with a family history of neurodivergence, I didn’t fit the profile. I was a Black girl who did well academically, so I wasn’t “allowed” to be disruptive. Being late was called “disorganised,” not time blind. My rambling explanations were just “excuses.” From early on I was told that if I just tried harder, things would work out.

But what happens when you can’t?

I failed my A-levels. I knew somewhere that there would be no talking my way into passing. Jeremy Clarkson’s famous tweet about failing grades did nothing to lift my spirits. I was never going to be on Top Gear, so why would that encourage me? I sat across from my friend, our expressions saying, “What now?”

“You know we’re going to have to go through Clearing?” she said as she handed me her phone.

I wondered how many 18-year-olds were holding back tears on the phone, re-writing their futures in real time. I didn’t want to explain how heart-breaking it was, but deep down I knew I was capable of more than I let myself believe. With some encouragement, I spoke to a UEL staff member who really listened and suggested a foundation year to give me space to recover and adjust to university life. That changed everything.

There were challenges, which make more sense now that I’ve been diagnosed. Submitting essays at 11:58pm the night before would be common, but I earned my degree in Creative and Professional Writing. Although undiagnosed at the time, UEL gave me something I’d never had before: support systems and lecturers who cared about me as much as my work. That allowed me to grow and flourish personally and professionally.

Since then, I’ve taught Secondary English, worked for the National Probation Service and even got another degree in Criminal Justice. However, currently I am what I’ve always wanted to be, a professional writer. Updating my LinkedIn was genuinely a top ten moment of my life - after seeing Beyoncé, of course.

Through UEL, I’ve met so many people who ended up in places they never imagined. Friends, both home and international, who like me just needed an opportunity to be seen, nurtured and encouraged. Every results day I think of those wide-eyed children thinking their future is set and I want them to know an exam board can decide a curriculum, they cannot decide your future.

I never thought I’d be open about my ADHD diagnosis and my educational journey. The regret and shame are still hard to shake at times, but I’ve come to appreciate the resilience and creativity it has given me. When my manager asked how I felt about what she’d said, the tears I’d swallowed during Clearing all those years ago finally came. And this time, they weren’t just about regret, they were about pride.

UEL gave me more than a degree; It gave me my words back. It gave me a life and career I thought I had lost. And, ironically, even as a writer, I don’t have the words to explain my gratitude.