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“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Hold on, that’s not who I am.”

“Well, no, I think you misunderstood what I was trying to say.”

I have spent a lifetime trying to better explain the man that I am. A minor miscommunication with a colleague turns into an afternoon of self-reflection and guilt. A week of pondering the ontology of yourself and years of trying to piece together a presentation of yourself so that the miscommunication doesn’t happen again. For some of you, that sentiment probably resonates. That feeling of being "misunderstood." You know who you are. You have a strong sense of self, a core belief system, and an internal logic that usually guides you well—until it doesn’t. All it takes is one misinterpretation, one moment where someone sees you differently than you see yourself, triggering a crisis of consciousness. As I write this article, I’m feeling the weight and pressure of trying to bridge a gap between who I think I am and who I am purported to be. The questions in my mind are rapidly circling my focus:

Who am I, really?

What do I really want?

Is this who I come off as?

Is this who I’m becoming?

Every human who has the privilege of living life as an adult will ask themselves one of these questions. It’s a journey a lot of people take in high school or college. You experience new feelings and events and take the time to categorize them into a way that resonates with your personhood. For some of us, however, we’ve wrestled with that question constantly. It becomes a source of angst and obsession. Your mind will fixate on it for a period of time that can be long or short. Then, your mind will find something else to obsess over.

For those of us who have experienced this and have wrestled with these questions for years, a good chunk of it all comes back to a four-letter acronym: ADHD.

For my friends and family, this is nothing new. The Joe they know is loud, eccentric, forgetful, random, overwhelming, and easily distractible. Traits that, while I don’t personally resonate with, describe what I deal with. I am one of hundreds of millions of human beings who live with attention deficit-hyperactivity disorder, better known as ADHD. ADHD is categorized into three subtypes: hyperactivity, inattention, or a combination of both. I fall into the inattentive category. A good chunk of people, especially teachers, will have experience with hyperactivity. It’s a student who moves around constantly, one who struggles to sit still in their seat and constantly has a question to give. For myself, the hyperactivity takes place inside my mind. What this means is that my brain doesn’t operate in a linear, easily controlled manner. It locks onto ideas, topics, or people with an almost obsessive intensity, only to let go just as quickly when something new captures my attention. I could spend weeks obsessively researching the causes of World War I and become so focused on it that my homework, grading, and responsibilities take a backseat. It’s never a conscious decision either—it’s just how my mind works. After spending a week on that, I might become a model employee at work and a model student in school. Whatever my mind finds exciting enough will cause the dopamine to rush into my body, and when it does, I’m locked in (hyperfocused). And when the world misunderstands this, it creates friction in me. It creates a weight that can become hard to bear and hard to cope with.

For people who also live with ADHD, we’ll often hear things like, "You overthink too much," or "You take things too personally." And sure, maybe that’s true in a conventional sense. But in reality, our minds process information differently. We don’t just hear words; we dissect them. We don’t just experience emotions; we feel them at full volume. And when we engage, we go all in. If there were a lever to decide how people engage with new ideas and experiences, most people would have several levels. Perhaps the first is “disengagement,” the second is mild interest, the third is interest, and the final is: “go all in!” For a good number of people, you’d do well to avoid this final level until the appropriate moment approaches. You go from the first, second, third, and finally to the fourth when the moment arises. For myself and people who live with ADHD, our lever would only have two levels: either completely uninterested or “give 110% of your full mind, body, and soul.” For the average viewer, this is probably unfathomable, and that is where the misunderstanding begins. When we hyperfocus on a topic, a person, or a project, it can come across as "too much." We don’t mean to overwhelm; we’re just naturally wired to be deeply engaged with the things that capture our interest. That intensity can be mistaken for arrogance, elitism, or even obsession, when really, it’s just how our minds function. And when the center of who you are is mistaken for one of them, it becomes heartbreaking to experience because, in the end, all we wish for is for people to see the person we look at in the mirror daily.

This misunderstanding is particularly frustrating in relationships. Whether they be platonic friendships, dating, or family dynamics—all of them are impacted. I’ve had moments where I felt a deep connection with a colleague, where my enthusiasm was genuine, my energy was real, and my investment was complete—only for the other person to back away randomly. And in those moments, I felt defective. What did I do wrong, or how did I come across?

I asked myself: What am I doing wrong? Why do I keep hearing the same feedback? Why do I care so much when others can so easily let go?

Part of the reason I struggle with being misunderstood is that I don’t regulate interest the way a neurotypical person does. When my attention is caught, I pour it on. If I find something fascinating, I engage deeply. It’s not a strategy; it’s instinctive. But not everyone operates at that same speed, and that can create tension. ADHD isn’t just about attention—it’s about regulation. My brain struggles to regulate interest, focus, and even emotions. When something excites me, I can dive into it for hours, hyperfocused, oblivious to everything else around me. But when something doesn’t grab my attention, even if it’s important, it feels impossible to engage. In my upbringing, I’ve often been labeled as inconsistent or unreliable, but the reality is that I am battling a brain that doesn’t always cooperate with my specific wants and desires. The worst part is the frustration I feel when I try to convey what I mean. How can I explain to someone that I can feel so passionate about one thing while struggling to complete another task that seems simple to everyone else? The hardest part? Knowing that no matter how much effort I put into explaining this, some people still won’t get it.

At the end of the day, I can’t control how others perceive me. I can’t force understanding where there is none, and I can’t reshape my mind into something it was never meant to be. What I can do is embrace the person God created me to be—flaws, quirks, and all. The purpose and plan that is for me will happen whether I attempt to create it or not. My faith has always been my anchor in these moments of doubt. When I wrestle with the weight of being misunderstood, I remember that my worth isn’t determined by human validation but by the grace of God. He made me with intention. The same brain that struggles to regulate is the same brain that sees beauty in complexity, that moves with intensity, that chases knowledge with passion. Let us all, whether we struggle or not, move forward with the truth and belief in the one who made us. And as long as I continue to learn, grow, and lean into who I truly am, I know I am walking the right path. Not a path of perfection, but one of purpose. For anyone else who feels the weight of being misunderstood—whether because of ADHD, neurodivergence, or simply the way your mind works differently—know that you are not alone. Your experiences are real. Your struggles are valid. And your uniqueness is not a flaw; it’s a gift. Peace