What if your ADHD isn’t just ADHD?
When I was sixteen, I started noticing something unusual. I wasn’t just tired—I was crushed by sleepiness.
Imagine sitting in class, completely engaged, on the edge of your seat—when suddenly, a fog rolls in, numbing your senses and anesthetizing your faculties. I tried everything to stay awake: pinching my thigh, tapping my foot, anything to fight the overwhelming urge to sleep. Once, I bit my tongue so hard it bled. And then, the thought would hit me like a hammer:
If I don’t sleep right now, I’m going to die.
Quietly, I'd excuse myself, slip into a bathroom stall, fold my feet up onto the toilet seat, lean my head against the wall, and fall asleep. Fifteen minutes later, I’d wake up feeling better, slink back into class, and try again.
I described these episodes to my doctor, and her response is still seared into my brain: “You’re busy, and busy people are tired.”
It felt dismissive, but also like a rite of passage. I wanted to do all the things—so I figured I just had to muscle through.
And I did. By the time I graduated college, I had run my first campaign, sat on the board of a major state political organization, and was part of campus leadership. I moved to D.C. to work for a Congressman. I was going to change the world.
But on the Hill, everyone was busy. Exhaustion was a badge of honor. Being tired wasn’t a red flag—it was the price of ambition.
Except… my tired felt different. I wasn’t just sneaking naps in the bathroom. I felt foggy. Slower. Like I was constantly being lapped by everyone around me. And somewhere deep down, I started to wonder:
Maybe I’m just not that ambitious. Maybe I don’t want it as much as they do.
It took 19 years to get diagnosed with narcolepsy. Nineteen. Years.
Medication and symptom management improved my life in ways I can’t even begin to describe. But one question still lingered: Why did everything else still feel so hard?
Because here’s the thing—I’ve always been scattered. A chaos monster. I have a hard time doing things my brain doesn’t want to do. I’ve tried every planner, downloaded every app the algorithm throws at me, and told myself this new notebook will fix everything. Spoiler alert: it never did. They’d work for a day or two, and by day three, I’d forgotten they existed—while still paying for the subscription six months later.
By the time I hit 40, getting started on anything felt impossible.
I’d sit on the couch, outwardly frozen, while my brain ran at warp speed—spinning endless webs of possibilities, like having 150 browser tabs open with no idea which one was playing music… and that dreaded spinning hourglass of death frozen over everything.
Turns out? That’s what ADHD often looks like in women. Especially women who are also navigating perimenopause. (It’s basically like being a toddler in a middle-aged body.)
When I finally got my ADHD diagnosis at 41, I felt both immense relief and deep anger. I had spent decades thinking I was lazy, or just bad at adulting. But in reality, I’d been fighting the chaos monster all along—working four times as hard just to keep the plates spinning.
And I’m not alone. There’s an 80% overlap between people with ADHD and sleep disorders.
Let me say that again: 4 out of 5 people with ADHD likely also have a sleep disorder. Delayed Sleep Phase Disorder (DSPD), narcolepsy, sleep apnea, insomnia, restless legs syndrome… the list goes on.
But most of us never get tested—because we’re told ADHD just means we’re “bad sleepers.” We’re not. We’re tired because something else is going on.
If you’ve ever wondered why you wake up feeling like you never slept, or your nights are full of tossing, turning, or weird leg twitches that won’t quit—you’re not imagining it. You’re not broken. You might just need a different kind of support.
And here’s the part no one tells you: Your GP, psychologist, or even psychiatrist might not be trained to spot sleep disorders. It’s critical to see a sleep specialist. You can search for one near you at sleepeducation.org.
Because even if your ADHD diagnosis is spot-on, it might not be the whole story—and getting the full picture can change everything.
I Wrote a Book!
Understanding my ADHD brought a ton of “aha” moments—but it didn’t magically get me moving again. Starting was still the hardest part.
What finally helped? AI.
Not another abandoned planner or rigid productivity system. Just a flexible tool that met me where I was and helped me take the first step.
At first, I worried it was cheating. I’m a writer—I wanted the words to still be mine. But AI didn’t replace my creativity. It amplified it. It helped me go from paralyzed to productive, from swirling thoughts to clear, finished drafts. And the best part? It gave me back my confidence. No more obsessing over typos or freezing at the starting line—just progress.
So I wrote a book: AI for ADHD: A Practical Guide to Starting (and Actually Finishing) What Matters.
It’s short, helpful, and built for brains that open 14 tabs (or 45) and forget what they were doing in the first place.
And while it’s written with ADHD in mind, you don’t need a diagnosis to appreciate it—if you’ve ever felt overwhelmed, stuck, or creatively blocked, this book is for you.
It launches May 21, but you can preorder now for just 99 cents.
Let’s stop waiting until we “feel ready.” Let’s start.
