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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

I have lost what once felt impossible to lose. I’m wrestling with an unshakeable feeling. I’m mindful of the present, pausing as moment becomes moments, and at a hair’s breadth, it envelops me. I feel it pulling—a deep-seated settling that crashes and wanes in a rhythm impossible to decipher. It’s a stillness almost beyond understanding or quantification, and as time passes, I catch a glimpse of its essence. One thing becomes clear: it’s inherent in all of us. The misery and joy that it can bring can affect any and everyone. Why? Because stillness is a constant theme in the background of being. It’s that unshakable quiet that settles in when the distractions are gone, and we’re left to face the truth we’ve been avoiding. It’s the angst of the beginning of an ending you’ve been dreading and it’s a byproduct of a life that is lived. It’s dark, cold, and empty, and there is no more complete way of describing it than to say that is simply is. When I pause to take a breath, I feel it beating on my chest, its energy reserves never expiring. It reappears whenever it chooses to. Yet, it isn’t the absence of motion; it’s the heavy presence of truth. It’s what lingers in the moments when the noise of hope, denial, or distraction fade away, leaving you with nothing but the reality before you. As I ponder my own life and how I have experienced and created this stillness, I’m reminded of the events and actions that unify experience. Sure, we’re dynamic and non-monolithic, but there are times, places, and situations when our shared experiences mirror each other. I’ve found that similarity in stillness. While the name “stillness” is probably irrelevant, and different people will call it different things, the truth is that we all experience it.

Stillness is reality at its most basic. With nothing to shape or form it, it simply is. It doesn’t coax or comfort; it doesn’t wound or heal. It simply exists, unaffected by how I—or you—feel about it. However, its existence is not independent of me. In fact, we can only understand it because of being. A being shapes its ontology because its existence is shaped by perception. And because it’s so tied to perception, its nature constantly changes. There is never a point at which stillness is permanently fixed; it exists in a constant state of flux. When I am hurting and grieving, I see it through the lens of pain. It becomes the cold finality of endings—a harbinger of grief, a weight of truth I chose to ignore. As I write this, I’ve lost. So, when I see this stillness, all I can grasp is pain. It feels cruel and indifferent. Its memory is jaded by the whims of now, and it brings misery in its wake. I’m so desperate to avoid sensing the presence of stillness in my life that I anxiously pace around, waiting for a moment of peace so this stillness can flee. I’ve screamed out in pain and anguish at the God who would allow one to experience this stillness so profoundly. Why would anyone choose to follow someone who allows His creations to go through such harmful stillness? What good does this bring to its bearer? How will this transform me or create something good and pure?

When I feel these thoughts rising, I’m reminded of my error because stillness isn’t inherently pain. I pore over the details of this grief like a magistrate poring over a case, and the more I seek to find the nature of this stillness, the farther it gets. Stillness has no form or shape. It’s not the cruel hand of fate or the warmth of hope. It’s not even the voice that whispers, “Let’s move on.” It’s just there—unchanging, unmoving. And that’s what makes it so profound: it becomes whatever I project onto it. It’s pain when I am grieving, clarity when I’m ready to see, and peace when I’m finally able to rest. The problem with stillness is that we often notice it when we don’t want to. We can accept the truth of a joyful evening without the need for further reflection. We revel in it, letting it provide a boost of serotonin that jolts our system. But it is in the moments of pain, just beyond the edge of an ending, where stillness has something to communicate. Perhaps stillness is teaching me that so much of this could have been avoided. Perhaps it wants to pull me closer, to show me that if I had followed it more, pain might have been avoided. Perhaps it’s a reminder of a promise I made to myself long ago—a promise of “never again.” Unfortunately, humans tend to learn truth at the most inconvenient moments, and that is where I find myself now: inconvenienced and broken, wishing for this stillness to claim someone else, so that I might delight in a fantasy of my own making. A fantasy where my problems are nonexistent, and things go right in the world with minimal effort.

I know it’s a façade, but living with this stillness feels like a knife cutting deeper and deeper with no hope for reprieve. The façade would at least give me feelings of euphoria, even if they’re not real. It would feel more comfortable, more routine and orderly. But stillness cannot exist in such a manner, and I want to escape it. Therein lies the problem: what I’m escaping from cannot be escaped because it reflects how I see the world. This stillness follows me in every situation, and seeking its end is a fool’s errand. At its worst, it can pull me into a pit of impossible proportions. At its best, it’s a gentle reminder of the beauty of my existence.

I’ll remember it all—every moment, every negative and positive interaction. I will cherish the moments stillness brought me and will grieve the moments that will no longer find me.