Balancing Briefs & Bedtime: A Mother’s ADHD Journey
A Picture of Dysregulation
I want to share a picture of my dysregulation—because it happens often, and I’m learning to stop hiding it.
There’s a common but misinformed belief that once you begin a wellness journey, you can erase anxiety and stress like a magic marker on a whiteboard. I believed that, too. After my first deeply grounding meditation, I started chasing an elusive version of peace—some kind of nirvana I thought was just around the corner if I just “did the work.”
In hindsight, I’m grateful for that naïve pursuit. It gave me something to hope for. That early spark created the momentum I needed to build a sustainable relationship with myself. Over time, I learned that peace wasn’t a place to arrive at—it was a way of relating to the chaos differently.
The journey itself is the destination.
Motherhood & the Mental Load
But even as I cultivated these practices, motherhood cracked me open in a way nothing else had.
My postpartum experience was overwhelming—not just emotionally, but neurologically. I didn’t know it then, but I was battling more than just sleep deprivation and hormonal shifts. I was fighting a brain that was already overstimulated, disorganized, and on edge long before birth even entered the picture.
The mental load of motherhood is heavy for anyone, but I wasn’t just overwhelmed—I was consumed.
I wasn’t forgetting tasks; I was hypervigilant, scanning for anything that might be wrong. Every minor cry, every change in behavior sent me spiraling into a mental maze of worst-case scenarios. I constantly questioned if I was doing enough, doing it right, or missing something critical.
I became the sole gatekeeper of my baby’s care, unable to trust others—even my partner—for fear they’d miss something I’d catch.
It wasn’t just new mom anxiety.
It was something deeper. More relentless. And while I didn’t have the language for it at the time, that sense of always being “on” was slowly breaking me down.
The Loop of Inspiration & Burnout
Still, I kept going.
I went back to work. I led meetings. I took on creative projects.
And yet, behind the scenes, I was barely holding it together. I’d hyper-focus on a big idea, obsess over it for days… and then abandon it before anything meaningful could be built.
This loop—inspiration → burnout → shame—became familiar.
The longer my list of non-started or unfinished tasks grew, the more I questioned my worth. I felt like I was constantly failing both at home and at work.
ADHD: A Name for What I Carried
That’s when I started to wonder:
What if this wasn’t just poor time management?
What if this wasn’t just “mom brain”?
I began researching ADHD. I listened to podcasts, read articles, and combed through personal stories. With every line I read, something clicked.
I wasn't just scattered—I was wired differently.
My therapist offered resources, and suddenly I could look back at years of frustration with new eyes. I wasn’t lazy. I wasn’t broken. I was neurodivergent—and I’d been compensating for it my whole life without knowing it.
When my husband asked what the label changed for me, I said:
“It gave me language.”
It gave shape to what I had been silently fighting for years.
Working With Myself
That’s when everything shifted.
I stopped trying to fix myself and started working with myself.
I began structuring my days around how my brain actually works—not how I thought it should.
✅ 10- to 15-minute breaks between focus blocks
✅ Walks, tea breaks, or a focus playlist to reset
✅ Oura ring to monitor stress, guilt-free rescheduling on high-stress days
These micro-adjustments helped me realize:
I wasn’t failing—I just needed tools that worked for me.
The Power of Restful Community
And more importantly, I stopped isolating myself in the struggle.
The real transformation came when I leaned into community—specifically, my sisterhood of mothers. These women have become my sacred space. We hold one another with a kind of grace and depth I’ve never found anywhere else.
There’s no performance, no posturing—just shared values, radical honesty, and unending support. We invest in each other’s growth. We laugh from the gut. We cry without apology. And in a world that so often pits mothers against one another, we move on the same wavelength—with no jealousy or competition.
When I feel myself spiraling—whether it’s from a blown deadline, an overflowing inbox, or the emotional whiplash of being both a corporate leader and a bedtime-story reader—I reach out.
I send a voice note.
I take a walk with one of them.
I let myself be witnessed—not as someone with all the answers, but as someone still learning how to ask the right questions.
And in that sacred exchange, I’ve come to understand:
This kind of community is a form of rest.
It’s where I can finally exhale.
It’s where being seen is the softest kind of healing.
Still Becoming
I haven’t “solved” my anxiety. I still forget things. I still have off days.
But now, I laugh more. I forgive myself faster.
And I return—again and again—to the people, practices, and structures that remind me:
I’m not broken.
I am a consistent work in progress.
And that’s more than enough.