Have you ever had an eureka moment?

A moment where your whole existence and understanding suddenly make sense.

I was 29 when I had one.

I always felt like something was wrong with me. Like something happened to me at some point in my life and somehow made me unable to understand the world around me. I kept asking myself: Is this how other people feel? Am I the only one who feels this way? Somehow people seemed to understand each other, and I was the only one who didn't get it.

Why do I love something in a passionate way and the next day feel nothing at all?

Why can't I settle?

Why can't I focus?

Somehow everybody was excelling at being human—except me.

I never managed to fit in. I got in trouble for expressing myself and my needs. To some people, I was intense, weird, or rude. A life of misunderstandings followed. It felt like I came into this world without the social interactions playbook.

I spent 29 years feeling this way.

I visited therapists and doctors over the years, and still, I felt that something was wrong.

I went to the same school from elementary to high school, and years later I would be grateful for that. I had the privilege of growing up in a system that, unintentionally, was friendly to my brain. Even though I felt like an alien, I existed in an environment that didn't crush me.

Things got harder with time.

Adulthood meant crashing into systems that were not friendly—sometimes openly hostile.

University was hard. What I thought would be one of the best experiences of my life became one of the darkest. I had to study more than others. Entire afternoons disappeared in front of a book because I couldn't finish in one hour what others did with ease.

I was also a woman in a male-dominated field. And let's be honest: when you're the minority in the room, small mistakes turn into big ones.

I survived, but the cost was high. I was anxious. Depressed. I had intense stomach pain every day. I sought dopamine by mastering economics and solving difficult problems. Ironically, I finished my degree because it was hard—and at that point, I was a complete people pleaser.

The second major crash came with my first full-time job.

The corporate world can be soulless. I learned the hard way that being different can put you in life-threatening situations.

Starting a job in 2021 came with pandemic benefits: remote work, independence, my own environment, fewer misunderstandings.

Then everything shifted. Back to the office became the new normal, and I entered the most chaotic and exhausting period of my life.

I lost my father in November 2022.

I lost my anchor, my mentor, my lighthouse—the person who believed in me more than I believed in myself. I lost myself.

The new normal was chaos. A nightmare. A crowded highway in one of the most populated cities in the world. More than five million cars crossing the city every day. I couldn't handle it: the traffic, the aggression, the lack of rules. Every morning, I cried on my way to the office.

The office felt hostile. The lights were too bright. The temperature too cold. The noise overwhelming. The sun through the window unbearable. I never adapted to the social conventions of that environment.

The stress was constant. I was grieving and trying to survive in a place that no longer felt safe.

My distraction escalated. I lost my keys almost daily. I left my bag in the fridge. I walked into rooms and forgot why I was there. I got into several car accidents. I almost fought with a truck driver—the boldest thing I've ever done.

Something was out of control. I just didn't know what.

I talked about this with a coworker.

Do you have ADHD?—he asked.

I had never considered it. I wasn't bad at school. My parents were never called. I graduated with honors. I didn't jump around in class.

The same things happen to my son—he said—He has ADHD

I started researching. Social media showed the funny side of ADHD, but something about my brain was off. Losing things every day wasn't normal, but that was just the tip of the iceberg.

In April 2024, after returning from a trip and feeling like I hit rock bottom, I went to a psychiatrist. It was scary. I wanted answers. The thought of someone closely examining my brain terrified me.

Do you remember the eureka moment?

Mine came in August 2024, with my official diagnosis.

It may sound cliché, but everything made sense. The accidents. The career decisions. The things I forgot. The passions that appeared and disappeared. The impulsive mistakes. Why I wouldn't respond when called. Why I couldn't settle. Why I loved so deeply. Why I was clumsy. Why I quit every activity I tried as a child.

Everything aligned.

When people say, “Everyone has ADHD nowadays” it infuriates me. Invalidating lived experiences is cruel. Not everyone has ADHD. Our struggles are real—and sometimes life-threatening—because systems were not designed for us.

This is not a label. It's who I am.

I have a brain that is creative, seeks challenges, handles emergencies well, and crashes when something isn't interesting, visible, or simply disappears.

I learned a new way to inhabit the world. I finally understood that I wasn't the problem.

I was playing by somebody else's rules, destined to repeat failure.

I made peace with myself.

I'm proud of the woman who graduated while struggling ten times more than her peers.

I'm proud of the woman who solo-traveled the world, because despite her distractions and poor risk assessment, she made it back home safe.

I adopted a lifestyle that fits me.

Unmasking comes with a cost. You lose people. You lose places. Asking for accommodations doesn't always come with a positive response.

I won't go into the details now. I only know that I reached burnout, felt drained every day, felt pain—and chose to start over.

A space for shared wisdom. A space to discover paths that actually work for us.

For the first time, I have a dream I want to stick to.

I dream of a world where girls don't grow up believing something is wrong with them because they weren't diagnosed.

I dream of a future where I stop hearing: “I don't know what to do. I'm burned out. I feel drained because I can't get the accommodations I need at work.”

I dream of a place with tools and advice designed for our nervous system.

We need to build different.

Because we were built different.