There are words that stick to you, no matter how many years pass. For me, that word is hopeless.

The first time my mum called me that, it cut deep. The worst was when I was at my lowest — when I told her I was considering ending my life. My dad tried to be supportive, pointing out how much life I still had ahead of me, but my mum just said, “You’re hopeless.”
Even now, I still think about that. It’s like it carved a groove in me that no amount of logic can fill.

What people don’t see about ADHD is that it’s not a lack of effort — it’s a neurological difference that affects how you plan, organize, and sustain motivation. Yet the world treats it like a moral failure. You can’t see executive dysfunction, so people assume it’s a choice.
It’s like expecting someone without legs to “just walk” — and when they can’t, calling them lazy.

I lose my keys. I struggle to keep things tidy. I make impulsive decisions sometimes — buying something on Amazon I probably didn’t need. I forget things. I get exhausted easily, and socializing can feel like climbing a mountain at the end of the day.
But I also have incredible strengths. I can play twelve tables of poker at once and stay completely focused. I can code a website from scratch and lose hours in creative flow.
It’s not that I can’t focus — it’s that my focus doesn’t always go where society thinks it should.

And still, even with a diagnosis, even with understanding, some people — including those in my family who also have ADHD — act as if I’m choosing this life. They think I just don’t try hard enough. Maybe they project their own shame onto me.
But it’s exhausting, trying to earn understanding from people who are committed to misunderstanding you.

The grief is heavy. I wish I had a family that felt safe — one that offered empathy instead of judgment. But I’ve had to accept that I don’t. I haven’t really lost anything by stepping back; I’ve just stopped pretending something was there that never was.
Now, I keep my emotional world separate from them. If they need practical help, I can show up for that. But emotionally, I can’t keep going back to a well that’s always been dry.

The most recent reminder came when I asked for a small loan — not even for money I didn’t have, but against funds maturing soon. I just wanted help bridging the gap, to make a few house decisions now rather than later.
They didn’t even respond. No “sorry, I can’t help.” Just silence.
That kind of non-response feels worse than a no — it’s emotionally immature and dismissive. It says, you don’t matter enough to even acknowledge.

A trauma-informed, supportive response wouldn’t mean fixing everything. It would simply mean saying:

“I can see you’re finding this hard. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Or even just:
“I get that this stuff is tough for you.”

Validation doesn’t cost anything. But its absence costs a lot.

I’ve come to see that this isn’t really about money or tidiness or memory — it’s about dignity. It’s about being seen as a whole person, not just a collection of struggles that make others uncomfortable.
People with ADHD aren’t hopeless. What’s hopeless is trying to find compassion in people who refuse to understand difference.

I’m sharing this because I want others who live with these invisible battles to know they’re not alone. You’re not lazy. You’re not broken. You’re living in a world that often refuses to accommodate the way your brain works — and you’re still here, still trying, still doing your best.

That’s not hopeless. That’s strength.
And maybe the hope isn’t in being understood by them — but in finally understanding ourselves.