Everything started when I was less than three years old. My mom, exasperated by the noise I made all day, decided to buy me a drum kit. Not to encourage a musical career. Just to calm me down.
At five, when I started elementary school, my teacher warned my mom I might not pass the year. Why? Grades were good, but I couldn’t sit still for five straight hours. Not even close.
When I was twelve, my report card had two faces. On one side: the grades. Excellent. On the other: conduct. The same word, over and over, from every teacher: “esuberante” (literally: exuberant). Only two students in a class of twenty-five had that remark. I was one of them.
At eighteen, my parents bought me my first electric guitar and an amplifier. I had started studying classical guitar at eight, and I got my diploma like a good student should. But I couldn’t stand the idea of sitting on a chair, executing other people’s notes, night after night. I didn’t want to repeat. I wanted to create.
Then came the girlfriends.
First one: “Are you ADHD?”
Second one: “Same question.”
Third one: “Same again.”
Probably, they understood more about me than I did.
But I didn’t really care.
The scenario changed once I got into design thinking a bunch of years later. Suddenly, things started to click. I learned about neurodiversity and how our brains process information differently. I had been into mindfulness since years, but this was a different level.
I got curious and tried some online tests.
First result: ADHD.
Second: ADHD.
Third: again, ADHD.
And suddenly everything made sense.
The summers I spent learning Tibetan throat singing or playing Snakes on my Nokia 3310, because, you know, hyperfocus.
My complete lack of sense of direction (once I wasn’t able to find the stage after getting into the dressing room for the encore).
The rejection dysphoria.
My love-hate relationship with procrastination (more to come on that).
The way I chase adrenaline like an addict: bungee jumping, skydiving, motorcycling, stage diving. Name something wild, and I’ve probably tried it.
It made sense that I can’t stand people talking loudly on the train when I’m working.
That I start playing Bee Gees-style harmonies in Britney Spears songs at 2 a.m.
That I forced my friends watching Pulp Fiction (my fourth time) at 1 am. You know, I can be convincing…
It made sense that I never play the same guitar solo twice. Not because I plan it, but because I can’t help it. I don’t even know what I’m doing, but I like it. I need that space to explore. And thanks God, audience likes it as well.
So yeah, a couple of specialists confirmed it.
I told my parents.
“Did you know I’m probably ADHD?”
My mom: “Yeah.” Kind of: “Who cares?”
My dad: “That’s wrong.”
I mean, he wasn’t rude. He actually had some good arguments.
First: ADHD diagnoses have skyrocketed in the past years. In the U.S. alone, up by 2900 percent since the ’90s. Are we sure we’re not over-diagnosing?
Second: the stigma (aka, parents’ protection). Society still isn’t ready to truly accept neurodivergence. Moreover, most people reduce ADHD to distraction. And that’s completely wrong. It’s about dopamine. Time management. Execution.
Third: every brain is different. We talk about dyslexia, dyscalculia, autism, or ADHD as if they were clear categories, but every form of neurodivergence is different. There’s no one-size-fits-all. We’re just different points on a spectrum.
I thought about trying drugs. I mean, the good ones. Adderall, Ritalin, and the rest. Life would probably be easier. I’d get more done. Be more focused. Ensure my energy doesn’t collapse.
But there’s a “but.”
And it’s not just that I like the hard stuff.
It’s that I love improvising solos every time I play. When most guitarists execute, I create. Every solo is new. Different. And I don’t even know what I’m doing, but I feel it. I don’t want to lose that.
I don’t want to lose the stream of consciousness that flows when I write poetry.
I don’t want to lose the ability to change slides in a live presentation or improvise a joke on stage just because I feel the audience shifting.
To trust my gut. Not the plan.
I don’t want to lose the ability to write this post in less than ten minutes and publish it without rethinking everything. Give me more time, and I’ll start overthinking. I won’t publish. Or I’ll regret being bold and sincere.
Sure, I can let people speak without interrupting them.
I can use Google Maps or find ways to orient myself in a new city.
I can play without jumping around the stage like Angus Young.
But it takes much more energy to pretend I’m calm than to just be myself.
And I don’t have energy to spare.
So… am I ADHD or not?
The only answer I have is: who cares?
Because the only thing I care about is being self-aware.
And maybe learning to look at the world through new lenses, every day.
For some people, this way of being is a limitation.
For me, it’s a blessing.
