There’s a meme going around that captures ADHD with almost embarrassing accuracy: the brain that can produce a sprawling essay but can’t sit still long enough to read one. It’s the perfect snapshot of a mind that sprints and stalls at the same time.
For me, ADHD feels like shifting weather patterns. One moment I’m flooded with ideas, connecting dots at light speed; the next, a simple paragraph looks like a brick wall. The mind races, the attention stutters, and somehow both things are true at once.
There’s the overflow — the thoughts that multiply, branch, and spark until they turn into a whole monologue without warning. ADHD doesn’t move in straight lines. It jumps tracks. It improvises. It builds entire constellations before you’ve even named the first star.
And then there’s the crash: the sudden inability to process the very thing you just created. A page of text becomes too dense. A short message feels like a chore. The brain that generated the storm can’t always stand in it.
That’s the contradiction the meme nails so well — expressive energy slamming into limited bandwidth.
It shows up everywhere. I can talk for ages about something I love, but a three‑sentence email can derail me. I can hyperfocus for hours, then forget the most basic tasks. I can write a whole blog entry in one burst and then lose the thread entirely.
It’s not chaos. It’s design.
A mismatch between momentum and control.
But the paradox isn’t a defect. It’s a rhythm you learn to navigate. You build scaffolding. You create shortcuts. You ride the current instead of trying to force it into a straight channel.
And sometimes, you laugh — because humor is the only thing that makes the whole system make sense.
ADHD is contradiction.
ADHD is climate.
ADHD is a language you learn from the inside out.
Stories That Are All True 