Since day one of kindergarten, doing well in school came easy to me. I’ve always been shy and introverted, so sitting attentively and quietly in class was second nature. Additionally, the pedagogy of the American elementary school system rhymed perfectly with my skill sets. I was already analytical, logical and detail-oriented, so I was a fast learner in subjects like reading, writing, grammar, math and basic sciences .The most negative comment you’d find on one of my old report cards is, “I’d like it if Julia spoke up in class more. She’s very quiet.”
I saw myself as being in stark contrast to the “problem” kids in class—the ones who couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t listen or couldn’t finish their homework. By third grade, I had learned a clinical label to assign to them: ADHD. I was not an ADHD kid, that much was clear.
Fast-forward to my junior year of high school. I was still a high-achieving student, with a 4.0 GPA and an array of AP classes on my schedule. But I felt like I was failing as a student, although by all quantifiable measures the opposite was true.
Why? Because no matter how hard I tried, I never believed that I would measure up to those students I thought to be over-achievers. I’d never be one of the kids with jam-packed schedules of extra-curricular activities, the ones with laser-sharp focus who could get their homework done twice as fast as I could. Despite my good grades, I felt hopelessly disorganized and scattered compared to my peers.
Being good at school had become a pillar of my identity. No matter how many different sports I tried, I never displayed any athletic ability; I was a mediocre artist at best; I wasn’t in any clubs because of my crushing social anxiety. I never exercised my strongest skill, writing, outside the context of schoolwork. I couldn’t imagine a life in which I didn’t do well in school. Grades were the basis of my self-worth.
I’d always been a procrastinator. I saw it as a character flaw, a trait that a truly good student shouldn’t have. But it was a method of motivating myself that undeniably worked. There was nothing like the looming prospect of a bad grade to spur me to action. However, by my later years in high school, it wasn’t working for me anymore. No one would advise a student to start a 15-page research paper the night before it’s due, but I did just that on two separate occasions in high school. I didn’t know any other methods for motivating myself or sustaining focus.
Not being able to focus like my peers caused me to question my purpose and worth. If I wasn’t ever going to be the highest-achieving student, what was the point? I didn’t see myself as having an identity outside of “student.” Feeling that pillar of my identity crumble left me without much sense of self, direction, or hope.
As a result, I spent much of junior and senior year of high school in a major depressive episode. Assignments that I would’ve finished in less than an hour a year earlier now took me weeks. I crawled toward graduation hopeless, apathetic and defeated.
In January 2014, during my sophomore year of college, I was diagnosed with ADHD, inattentive type. A label that had once felt entirely antithetical to my understanding of myself became a source of reassurance. My problems with focus, motivation and disorganization no longer felt like inherent character flaws. They were the result of trying to force myself to perform in ways that were in direct opposition with the way my brain works. I’d managed to get through school with good grades but not with an intact self-esteem.
Although my ADHD is a documented disability (meaning I’m able to request academic accommodations in my classes when I need them) I’ve found it unavoidable to get frustrated and disappointed with my inability to match the expectations our society sets for students who are good at school. I can’t study for hours at the library without breaks. My mind wanders after reading a dense text for 15 minutes. Time-management is a constant uphill battle and organization is a daily struggle. I’m still learning to work with my ADHD rather than against it.
If we want to make the system better able to help students with ADHD succeed, we need to reshape the common perception of what ADHD looks like. I know I’m not alone in being diagnosed later in life because I never displayed the stereotypical ADHD characteristics. If I had understood my condition earlier, I might have avoided the major identity crisis and depression that resulted from my feeling less-than from my peers who didn’t have ADHD.