AuDHD Daddy

When I was first diagnosed with AuDHD (late), it was like someone flicked on a light in a dark room. Suddenly, the chaos of my past made sense. The missed cues, the exhaustion after social interactions, the constant pressure to “just try harder”—it all snapped into focus. For the first time, my life had a framework that explained why I felt different.

But here’s the thing: diagnosis isn’t a cure. In some ways it’s made life harder, and being late diagnosed means I have a lifetime of pain and struggle to come to terms with.

Before and After

Before my diagnosis, I thought everything was my fault. If I could just put in more effort, I’d finally fit in. If I could just be less “weird,” life would smooth itself out. Now I know better—my “weirdness” isn’t a flaw to iron out. It can even be a defense response to how other people react to me.

Take social situations, for example. It’s not that I don’t want to connect with people. I do. But every interaction requires constant vigilance. I’m monitoring myself to avoid saying something awkward, watching for signs that I’ve made someone uncomfortable. Because the moment I notice I’ve done that, the shame and anxiety set in, and being present becomes almost impossible. Diagnosis didn’t make that vigilance easier; it just confirmed that this is how my brain is wired.

Living With the Noise

My mind is never quiet. It dredges up memories on repeat—embarrassing, painful, or simply confusing. For years, they were just shame-filled flashbacks. Now, with the language of AuDHD, I can reinterpret them. I see that there was a whole other version of events happening in parallel—social layers I didn’t understand, dynamics I completely missed.

Sometimes that new perspective is healing. Other times, it’s crushing. I see where I misunderstood people, where I let myself be taken advantage of, or where I said the wrong thing without even knowing it. Diagnosis gives me the map, but it doesn’t take away the weight of those memories.

A Family of Neurodivergence

Neurodivergence runs through my family. My wife has ADHD, and so do both my sons. My eldest, my stepson, is much older and has already moved out. Looking back, I can see he had a lot of struggles while growing up. At the time, though, none of us knew we were neurodivergent. I assumed his difficulties were just the same as mine—that this was simply what life was like, and that everyone had to grit their teeth and push through. That belief made it harder to be understanding and supportive.

Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I see his challenges in a completely different light. He wasn’t just being “difficult” or “rebellious”; he was trying to navigate the same invisible obstacles that had tripped me up my whole life.

With my youngest son, things are different. We know what’s going on. We can recognize when he’s struggling, and we’re less likely to jump straight into discipline or conflict. Instead, we try to talk through things, to understand what he’s experiencing. It doesn’t make parenting easy, but it does make it more compassionate.

Diagnosis in a family still carries risk. It means revealing that the person you thought you knew was, in some ways, a carefully constructed mask. But it also opens the door to more empathy—because once you see the mask, you can finally see the person underneath.

Understanding Isn’t the Same as Fixing

I’m grateful to have language for what I live with. I’m grateful to know I wasn’t “just lazy” or “too sensitive” all these years. But knowing hasn’t erased the struggles. It hasn’t stopped my brain from replaying painful memories. It hasn’t silenced the noise in my head.

Diagnosis is not a finish line. It’s the start of a new, harder kind of work: living with the truth that there’s no “trying harder” my way out of being AuDHD. There’s only learning how to carry it, how to explain it to others, and how not to dislike myself for it.

And some days, that’s enough.