I got in trouble for coloring outside the lines.

I talked too much, overshared, couldn’t sit still.

My desk was a mess. My pencils were chewed. My pocket folders were spilling over.

Nobody called it ADHD back then—especially not for girls. What they called it was careless. Lazy. Distracted. A disappointment.

I’m in elementary school, seated at one of those clunky chair-desk combos with a hinged lid. Lifting the top reveals a squall of books, crayons, pencils, two rulers, a jar of paste, and a pencil box that’s always empty. My classmates and I are taking a math quiz. Mrs. Grange*, our teacher, paces the aisles, delivering dire warnings about what will happen to us if we don’t master multiplication. She stops at my desk, sighs, and reminds me that my brother excelled at math.

The only colorful thing about Mrs. Grange is her chalk—jumbo-size chunks of green, orange, yellow, and blue—strewn along the chalk rail like toppled monoliths or fallen children. One day, hoping to win over Mrs. Grange, I try to chat her up.

“Mrs. Grange, I love your chalk. I’m going to ask my parents to buy me some.” She smiles, tight and patronizing, and says I should ask for chalk after I’ve earned it—by getting better at math.

That moment stuck—not because of the chalk, but because of everything underneath it: the messiness, the scrambled focus, and my effort to win her over, only to fall short. My childhood was a slow accumulation of tiny dings and misread signals, the kind that burrow deep.

Later, I’d learn there’s a name for that too: Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, something common in women and girls with ADHD.

Undiagnosed for Decades: How I Masked My ADHD Without Knowing It

In college, I found my footing. I excelled in writing and theater. The only real misstep? A stage set I designed that was so unintentionally terrifying, it could’ve been scrapped from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. My instructor blamed poor spatial awareness—another thing I’d eventually learn could be linked to ADHD.

For decades, I found workarounds. I adapted. I managed the chaos caused by undiagnosed ADHD in older women. But then came the pandemic. And then a promotion into a tech-heavy writing job that pushed me past my limits. The demands overwhelmed me.

I’d mute myself during virtual meetings as my cat hacked up a hairball on my keyboard, then unmute to assure everyone that the cat was fine—and so was I. But the truth? I wasn’t.

While most people stressed, women like me were quietly burning out.

My diagnosis finally came in 2023, at age 65.

The ADHD in older women evaluation brought out all kinds of admissions: I fidget during board games, I lose my keys, and I get lost—even with GPS—in my own neighborhood. I’ve locked myself out of the car more times than I can count. Locking the entire family out of the car with the car running was a treat reserved for special occasions.

When the therapist delivered the results, I asked how severe my ADHD was. “Oh,” she said with a chuckle. “More than just a little, don’t you think?”

ADHD In Older Women Is Easier With a Friend Who Gets It

Dr. Melissa S. Quon Huber holds a PhD in Ecological and Community Psychology. She’s a social scientist who can spot patterns the rest of us miss—literally. She’s the one who finds four-leaf clovers when the rest of us see grass. It’s a superpower, and it helps her analyze data, design programs, and understand social systems.

But having a superpower doesn’t make you superhuman, and she was diagnosed with ADHD herself in her 50s.

“I’m the organized one in the family!” she said. “I don’t lose things. I’m not fidgety. But then I started seeing other attributes of ADHD in myself—like how I’m always late.”

A therapist once told her she was using lateness as a power move. In truth, she can’t estimate how long things take, or track how much time has passed when she’s hyperfocused.

She could’ve said “we,” because Melissa and I both have what I like to think of as “a smidge of time blindness.” One time, we talked for so long my daughter had to walk the dog—twice. The dog was unimpressed.

Transitions are tough. We also tend to hyperfocus on offbeat topics—what Melissa calls “obscure rabbit holes.” We’ve both learned to manage it with calendars, alarms, and to-do lists, but it’s a work in progress.

“ADHD in older women can be a superpower or kryptonite; it depends on how well our physical and social environments fit us,” said Melissa. “I have a PhD. But in high school, if I’d had to contend with the distractions today’s students encounter, I might’ve dropped out.”

When Melissa visits thrift stores, she can’t resist sorting and rearranging items, wondering what this must look like to security guards. When I browse thrift stores, I take endless photos of kitschy crockery, then spend hours at home editing them into something vaguely artistic.

Melissa’s sock drawer is arranged with the precision of a stamp collection. I just buy all-black socks and call it a system.

Melissa hums without realizing it. I hum whatever song is stuck in my head. Lately, it’s been “Surrey with the Fringe on Top.” If it’s stuck in your head now, you’re welcome.

“Some days, when there are enough voices saying you are too picky, too sensitive, or too slow, it can be hard to not feel less than,” Melissa said. “We can be too detailed, explain too much, or share too much, to the annoyance of others. You can always count on us for bonus content.”

And in my case, lopsided wallpaper, a permanently messy car, and the occasional small kitchen fire.

A Word to the Teacher

I’m 23, out at dinner with a date, sharing dessert. Across the restaurant, I spot Mrs. Grange having dinner with her husband. In that moment, the tumblers in my mental safe click into place. I excuse myself and walk over to her table. I don’t need an apology or a reckoning.

Before leaving her behind forever, I say, “By the way, Mrs. Grange, I never really needed math—not for anything important, anyway.”

 *Mrs. Grange is a pseudonym. Her name and identifying details have been changed to protect her privacy.

******

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