By Neal Glendenning

I remember the first time I felt it—the shame. I was nine. We were taking a timed math test, and while everyone else seemed to be speeding through, I was stuck on the second problem, my thoughts leaping between the ticking clock, the scratch of pencils, and the smudge on the corner of my desk. When the teacher called time, I had completed just five questions. I felt the heat rush to my cheeks, my stomach twist in self-loathing. It wasn't that I didn't know the material—I just couldn't hold my focus. But try explaining that to a room full of kids and adults who equate performance with worth.

This is what ADHD feels like in a world that demands precision, speed, and conformity. And worse—it’s what it feels like to carry the weight of shame for simply being wired differently.

The Quiet Curriculum of Shame

ADHD is not just a neurological difference; it's a lifetime of being told you're wrong. Wrong for fidgeting, wrong for speaking out of turn, wrong for forgetting, for daydreaming, for being "too much" or "not enough" in all the ways that count. Even when it's unspoken, it's there—in the sigh of a teacher, the furrowed brow of a boss, the well-meaning advice from a friend that feels more like a judgment.

What society often fails to see is that ADHD isn’t about laziness or a lack of intelligence. It's a disorder of self-regulation: attention, emotion, motivation, memory. And when those functions are impaired, we don't just struggle—we internalise. We begin to believe the messages we've heard since childhood: You're not trying hard enough. You're selfish. You're irresponsible. You're a mess.

Over time, those beliefs crystalise into shame. Not guilt for something we've done—but shame for who we are.

The Mask We Wear

Most of us with ADHD become masters of masking—hiding the parts of ourselves that seem too chaotic or unpredictable for others to handle. We develop workarounds, we overcompensate, we apologise—over and over—for things we can’t control. We become people-pleasers, perfectionists, or clowns, desperately trying to fit in or deflect attention from our struggles.

But masking is exhausting. And underneath the surface, many of us are battling crippling self-doubt, imposter syndrome, and a constant fear of being found out. That we’re not actually capable. That we’re just one missed deadline or forgotten appointment away from everything falling apart.

Shame in the Workplace and Relationships

ADHD doesn't stop at childhood—it follows us into adulthood, where the stakes are even higher and the expectations even more rigid. In the workplace, being late to a meeting or zoning out during a conversation isn’t just frowned upon—it can cost you your job. At home, forgetting to pay bills or struggling to keep a tidy space can erode relationships and fuel the painful narrative that you're unreliable or careless.

We start to withdraw. We become silent about our needs because we've learned that asking for accommodations means exposing ourselves to judgment. So instead, we endure, pretending everything's fine while burning out inside.

The Grief Beneath the Shame

One of the hardest parts of living with ADHD is the grief. Grieving the version of yourself you wish you could be. The one who finishes what they start. The one who remembers birthdays. The one who doesn't live in a constant state of overwhelm. And the grief fuels the shame, because we see the gap between what the world expects and what we can deliver—and we believe the lie that the gap is our fault.

We carry this grief quietly. Often invisibly. And we rarely talk about it because shame has taught us that we're alone.

Reclaiming Our Worth

But here's what I've come to learn—and am still learning—through therapy, through community, through self-compassion:

ADHD is not a moral failing.

Our worth is not determined by how closely we align with neurotypical standards of productivity and order.

There is beauty in the way our minds work—in our creativity, our resilience, our intensity, our intuition. There is strength in surviving in a world not built for us. And while the shame may never fully disappear, we can begin to dismantle it by naming it, challenging it, and replacing it with the radical truth that we are enough, just as we are.

We are not broken. We are not burdens.

We are human.

And we deserve to live without shame.

If you're reading this and it resonates, know that you're not alone. Your struggle is valid. Your pain is seen. And there is hope—for healing, for belonging, for a life where you don't have to apologise for existing as yourself.

You're not failing at being human. You're just human, living in a world that has yet to fully understand you.

But we are changing that. One voice, one story, one act of self-acceptance at a time.