The Restless Mind: Living Undiagnosed

The only tests I’ve ever passed with 100% (or even close to it) are the fifteen online ADHD tests I’ve taken. I keep putting off getting the official diagnosis because, well… I don’t know. I book the appointment, but by the time the date arrives I catch myself thinking, so what if I am? I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me what I already know.

Part of that hesitation comes from the system itself. I’ve watched it fail too many people, my own child included. Even with a diagnosis, the support is patchy, the solutions incomplete. So would knowing really help? I’m not sure.

But maybe writing about it does. Maybe naming it, even unofficially, lifts some of the weight. Maybe you’ve felt it too…or know someone who does…the heaviness of a mind that won’t quiet, the depth of whatever it is I’m carrying.

Whether it’s ADHD or not, for the sake of the research I’ve done and the fifteen A+ tests that all say I am, I’ll call it ADHD here. Not because I need the label, but because I need the language to tell this story.

My life is wonderful. I am a wife, a mother, a coach, a writer. I laugh with my children, build my business, dream up new projects, and chase them with relentless energy. To anyone looking in from the outside, I look capable, driven, and confident. But what people don’t see is the engine running underneath, the brain that never shuts off, the body that feels like it’s wired to explode, the constant buzzing that makes “peace” feel like a foreign concept.

I don’t have an official diagnosis, but every cell of me knows: this is ADHD. This is anxiety. This is the manic side of a mind that can do everything all at once… and burn itself to ash by nightfall.

The Manic Drive

ADHD in women doesn’t always look like bouncing off the walls or not paying attention. For many of us, it looks like manic productivity. Like becoming the girl who signs up for every committee, who runs the show, who juggles 42 tasks at once because if she stops moving, she’ll fall apart.

That was me in high school. Teachers saw me as a leader. Friends saw me as loud and confident. But behind the scenes, panic hollowed me out. I wasn’t thriving. I was surviving.

This is what ADHD looks like when you’re female and undiagnosed: you look “together,” but you’re unraveling. You are praised for the very behaviors that are destroying you. You become addicted to over-functioning because the alternative … being seen as “lazy,” “stupid,” or “weak” … is unbearable. It’s irrational thoughts and feelings. Overlooking your own needs because you can’t possibly speak your truth, what if you hurt someone else? The incessant need to do tasks that should take days and even though your body is finished and needs rest, your brain wont let that happen until all tasks are done. The feeling of needing to cry because someone needs your attention but you’re locked in on something else. The situation that sparks a mental breakdown when someone or something embarrasses you, makes you feel stupid or questions your integrity. Never talking to anyone about any of this because then they know, then they know you’re broken and you can’t come back from broken (at least that’s what you think) because who will know how to put you back together. Who would even care to try. It would all be too much. So we keep the mask on.

And it works… until it doesn’t.

The Crash

The cycle is always the same. A surge of energy, a flurry of plans, a burst of creation so powerful it feels like I could conquer the world. I drop out of University on a Friday, start hair school on a Monday. I move cities, get a new apartment, transfer schools, pick up a new job, re-invent my entire life in a matter of weeks. I’m still like this, just a little bit less than I used to be and judged for it because… well… no one knows what’s really going on inside. I’m not a flighty person, a failure or undedicated and its actually my worst fear that someone might think so.

Through all of my life living this way, the crash always comes.

Like my first huge breakdown in college. Days in bed. Missing classes. Not eating. A darkness so heavy I finally call my mother and tell her I can’t hold it together anymore. I end up in the ER, hoping someone will peel back my layers and tell me why my life feels impossible to live.

But even there, even at rock bottom, I put the mask back on. Because how do you look your mother in the eye and tell her the truth? How do you explain the racing thoughts, the panic attacks, the endless pressure to be “okay”?

So instead of help, I’m given pills. Ativan to sedate me. Anxiety meds that flip me manic. Suddenly I’m awake at 3 a.m. scrubbing my apartment, wired and restless, looking “better” to everyone around me but feeling less like myself than ever.

This is ADHD, undiagnosed. This is what it does: it convinces the world you’re fine because you can still perform. It convinces you that being held together with duct tape and Gorilla Glue counts as survival.

The Masks We Wear

Undiagnosed ADHD in women often looks like perfectionism. Like people-pleasing. Like being everything to everyone while secretly believing you are nothing at all. And when people misjudge or misunderstand you, gossip about you or use the things you hate most about yourself against you, it doesn’t just hurt, it rips away a part of your soul. I know, dramatic, but honestly that is how it feels.

I’ve worn masks my entire life. The confident woman at the party who can talk to anyone. The student leader. The coach. The wellness practitioner. Even now, I can walk into a room and seem like I belong, while inside I am still that nervous child panicking about tires blowing out on the highway.

The truth is, I still feel like a child. Like an alien. Like I’m intruding on spaces that were never meant for me. And when I am bullied, gossiped about, or misunderstood, when people reduce me to a version of myself that doesn’t even exist it rocks me to my core, rips at my soul.

Because you can’t control perception. You can’t explain the thousand layers of your story to someone who doesn’t want to listen. Your story is always “too long.” And it is in those moments, when I can’t control the narrative, that I finally give it to God. Because if I don’t, I break.

Motherhood and Mania

Motherhood saved me, but it didn’t cure me.

When my son was born, something shifted in my brain. The constant craving for validation in relationships faded. Suddenly, all I cared about was him. My people-pleasing instincts didn’t disappear, but they transformed. My settling for less than I deserved in life wasn’t acceptable because my son deserved the best version of me I could be. My energy narrowed into a singular focus: protect, nurture, raise.

Each of my three children has cracked me open in different ways. They are mirrors and teachers. My son, with his own unique struggles, has shown me the power of advocacy, how to fight when no one else seems to understand. My middle daughter, imaginative and witty, reminds me that creativity is not distraction but brilliance. My youngest, stubborn and joyful, forces me to slow down and notice the beauty of the present.

But motherhood also exposes my fractures. ADHD makes consistency hard. Anxiety makes patience thinner than I wish it were. The exhaustion of managing my body, its weight loss resistance, autoimmune triggers, hormonal chaos, sometimes leaves me short-tempered or withdrawn.

And then comes the guilt. The shame spiral. The late-night promises to myself to “do better tomorrow.”

This is what ADHD looks like as a mother: loving your children so fiercely it hurts, while fearing you’re failing them in ways you can’t even articulate. Meanwhile, you’re actually giving them the best life, experiences and they feel protected and loved. But you feel like your edging the cliff daily of being a complete failure of a parent.

The Healing Years

Over time, I rebuilt. From hairstylist to wellness coach, from yoga teacher to writer. I stacked certifications and experiences, not because I wanted letters after my name, but because each step was survival. Holistic nutrition. Functional movement. Reiki. Meditation. Breathwork.

They were never hobbies. They were lifelines.

And yet, even now, I am still searching. I still experiment with lifestyles. Not because I don’t know what I’m doing, but because my body refuses to settle into the rules. It’s been in survival mode for so long that it’s fighting more than the chemical toxicity I endured as a hairstylist. What works one week fails the next. What soothes one symptom flares another.

This is what ADHD looks like in the body: a nervous system that refuses calm, a digestion that rebels, hormones that flip the script without warning. And layered on top is the shame (and this one hits HARD) because as a wellness coach, I’m supposed to have it all figured out.

But here’s what I’ve learned: nobody has it all figured out. Not even the professionals. Healing is not an arrival point. Healing is the daily decision not to give up.

Giving It to God

If I have found any relief, it’s been in God. Not in the neat, polished way religion sometimes demands, but in the raw surrender of someone who has tried everything else and knows she cannot carry the weight alone.

I have given my panic to God. I have given the gossip, the misunderstandings, the bullying, the alien feeling that never quite leaves me. I have given Him my children, my body, my failures, my manic plans and half-finished dreams.

And He has never given me a diagnosis or a cure. But He has given me enough light for the next step.

I am 36 years old. I am still undiagnosed. I am still figuring it out. But I am here.

And maybe that is the point. Maybe the point is not to be finished, but to keep going. To build a life out of duct tape and gorilla glue and grace, and to know that even in the chaos, you are still loved.

The Story You Tell

What about you? Are you living this life or someone you know and love? Have you struggled to any capacity?

Tell your story, because it is the people in my life who have bravely told me theirs that led me to understand, it’s ok to be exactly who I am. This story doesn’t even scratch the surface of my lived experience, but I hope it sheds some light on the fact that things are not always as they seem.

I work hard to carry myself every day. What looks easy and effortless is actually like carrying a thousand pounds on my shoulders.

So my hopeful lesson to you is not to judge people. You just never know. If you’re in the trenches too, you’re not alone.