How my chaotic brain became a doorway to grace

When I was younger, I was always in trouble — at home, at school, everywhere.
I couldn’t stop talking. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t remember.

I’m pretty sure I missed most of what kids learn from first through sixth grade. American history, geography, math — all the things I was supposed to know but somehow never stuck. Even now, if someone surprises me with a simple division problem or asks about U.S. presidents, I panic. Please don’t.

Meanwhile, my first grader can tell me about the planets, and my preschooler proudly shouts “ROYGBIV” when she sees a rainbow. I’m proud — and a little amused — because I still have to pause to recall the order myself.

Even after years of working at CatholicPsych, I’ll find myself wondering, does Dr. Greg spell his last name with two T’s or two R’s? Or I’ll blank on my husband’s email address, or forget to reply to something important. Some things just don’t compute — can’t compute — and for most of my life, that unpredictable glitchiness sent me into a quiet panic.

The Early Chaos

I had every classic sign of ADHD, long before anyone called it that.
Detentions, missed recess, notes home, “Needs Improvement” stamped on every report card from first through sixth grade. I can still see the red graduation gowns of previous 8th-grade classes from the cold floor of the hallway, all those times I was sent out of class for disrupting the lesson.

I didn’t hate learning — I just couldn’t seem to make it work.
Everything took me a little longer, or came a little too late. I was the kid who raised her hand eagerly, desperate to contribute, and then blanked the moment I was called on.

Teachers didn’t know what to do with me. Some tried. Some just seemed irritated.
And I internalized it all — they don’t like me, I’m lazy, I’m too much.

Every year ended with a familiar dread: You might not pass this grade. That fear would finally kick me into hyperfocus. I’d spend nights catching up on an entire quarter’s worth of work in a single sitting. My parents, grandparents, and aunt would rally around me — staying up late, reviewing assignments, re-teaching what I’d missed. It was love, but also survival.

Finding My First Ramp

Junior high and high school brought a kind of reprieve — volleyball.
For the first time, I found something I was good at. My coach believed in me, and daily affirmation replaced years of shame. When a failing history grade once benched me, the humiliation burned so deeply that I promised myself I’d never let that happen again.

That moment changed everything.
Fear shifted into motivation. I realized that when I cared — or when the stakes were clear — I could succeed.

I discovered caffeine and adrenaline as my secret weapons. I’d down venti Starbucks Frappuccinos and pull all-nighters, managing classes, sports, waitressing jobs, and daily Mass. The busier I was, the better I functioned. The law of inertia became my life motto: an object in motion stays in motion.

But stillness? Stillness was my enemy.
Because when I stopped, everything caught up — the exhaustion, the self-consciousness, the undone tasks. Even now, I live in a delicate balance between movement and burnout.

Marriage: The Mirror of My Mind

Thirteen years of marriage have taught me more about ADHD than any psychology class ever could.
It was news to me that I was difficult to live with. I knew I was forgetful and messy — but I didn’t realize how chaotic it felt to someone who didn’t live inside my brain.

Unopened mail, unpaid bills, cluttered counters, baskets of clean and dirty laundry that multiplied like loaves and fishes (but without the miracle of being cleaned, folded, and put away). I’d think, I’ll get to that later, and then later never came.

I joke that I almost went to jail because of my ADHD, but it’s only funny because I didn’t.
(That story’s for another time.)

God, in His mercy, knew what He was doing when He gave me Bryan — a psychologist, of all people. I say that jokingly, but it’s also true. His patience, his steady mind, his hyper-functioning executive skills — they have kept our family afloat.
If I’m the spark, he’s the grounding wire.

Living With the Glitch

Here’s what ADHD looks like in my daily life:
Mood swings — happy to snappy to happy again, all before breakfast.
Four baskets of clean laundry waiting to be folded, and a washing machine full of clothes I’ll need to rewash because I forgot about them again.
Talking to myself out loud to remember what I’m doing.
Running late, not because I don’t care, but because time is slippery — it only feels real when I’m anxious.
Sleep that’s unpredictable: some nights I crash, other nights I can’t stop thinking.

My basement is a graveyard of unfinished projects — wreath-making kits, bins labeled for organization that never happened, half-finished candles and craft supplies.
When an idea hits, I go all in. But if it doesn’t get finished in a day, it probably never will.

Bryan has learned to outsmart my impulsivity.
If I announce, “Let’s get a puppy!” or “I’m buying a yearly subscription to The Economist!” he calmly says, “If you still want it in two weeks, go for it.”
He knows me too well.

Even basic things, like brushing my teeth or washing my face at night, can feel impossible. Not because I don’t want to — but because by that time, my motor has stopped and I’m just out of fuel.

From Disorder to Dignity

ADHD is a disability. I feel disabled by it.
Even with medication, the “glitch” waits for me when the dose wears off.

Without understanding — from myself and from others — self-esteem takes a hit. Because with ADHD, you can’t measure up, you can’t keep up, and you can’t predict when you’ll fall behind again. It’s invisible and inconsistent. You end up looking flaky, careless, or unmotivated — when in reality, you’re exhausted from trying harder than anyone realizes.

For years, that shame felt unbearable.
But over time, I’ve learned that ADHD isn’t about effort — it’s about architecture.
If your brain is built differently, you don’t climb stairs. You build a ramp or wait for someone to build it for you. 

And I’m learning to build ramps everywhere — systems, supports, self-compassion, and prayer. God has worked through it all: through the mess, the laughter, the mania, the stillness, and the parts of me I used to think were broken.

I find kinship with St. Joseph of Cupertino and St. John Vianney, both of whom struggled academically and yet became saints. They remind me that holiness doesn’t depend on intellect or organization — it depends on love and surrender.

I give God all the credit and glory for the ways He’s worked on me, in me, and through me. ADHD has stripped me of illusions of control and taught me humility, humor, and dependence on grace.

Closing Reflection

If you’ve ever felt like you’re trying harder than everyone else just to keep up — you’re not lazy. You’re not broken. And you’re definitely not alone.

ADHD can be frustrating and humiliating, but it can also be a strange kind of teacher — one that trains us in mercy, both toward ourselves and others. Trains us to let go of control, because, let’s face it, even when we try to control, it inevitably goes sideways.

Because the same brain that forgets the laundry also sees beauty in chaos, finds joy in small things, and loves with unusual intensity.
And that, I’ve come to believe, is exactly how God intended it. 

What’s Next

Over the next several weeks, we’ll continue to unpack ADHD more deeply. Whether you live with ADHD, love someone who does, or simply wonder how much of your own quirks might fit the picture, this series is for you.

And if you’re looking for more than information — if you’re longing for community — I invite you to join my new Facebook group: Catholic ADHD Group. It’s a supportive space facilitated by Catholics (like me) who live and work with ADHD, where you don’t have to hide the struggle

God bless,

Teresa Violette