It’s Not Me, It’s ADHD (Late Diagnosis)
The night I read my diagnosis: Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (inattentive) and Processing Speed Disorder, I was offended. ADHD? The psychologist reported I held a lack of attention throughout the evaluation test…but I was extremely focused throughout the whole thing! My whole life has been like that; lots of effort inputted for an unequal output. This is what being undiagnosed for ADHD was like.
When diagnosed with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, you quickly learn how poor and misleading of a name it is, and how falsely stereotyped it is. Attention and focus, in this medical case, are not what I—and many others—thought of them as. Yes, I had all my intentional focus, attention, and efforts throughout the test, but the output of my brain’s functioning was inconsistent (beyond my controlled, intentional efforts), thus recorded as “inconsistent attention.” The two things I knew as facts about ADHD were (1) you’re born with it, and (2) it’s with you your whole life. Ignorant and frustrated by her comments, I spiraled into research about inattentive ADHD. In pieces, my life started to fall into place. Now, at twenty-two years old, I finally learned I have ADHD!
From the Start
My earliest memory of hearing pages flip ahead of me in class was when I started feeling different from others. I was in fourth grade when flipping pages would brew an internal storm. I had always known my educational structure in school was different compared to other classmates. My life had always been a bit different from others.
I was adopted from China and brought to the U.S. at the age of three. Shocking to many, my parents are also Chinese like me. My mother never excludes the part of my adoption story when an American family from Texas was supposed to adopt me but feared I was deaf (I was a very quiet baby, but nonetheless very attentive), so they rejected me. “We thought you were, too,” she tells me, “until we put you in the crib at the hotel and you screamed to the top of your lungs. ‘She has a voice!’ I said.” The story continues with the doctors confirming I was a healthy baby (indeed not deaf) and my projected height to be five feet four (though I turned out to be only five feet).
Throughout elementary school, I’d get pulled from classes to follow a teacher to a different room (hi, yes, I’m just going to take her from class now). Always with me, in the small additional classroom somewhere at the end of the hallway, were at least two or three other students pulled from different classes. I did not understand what all of this was for. As I can recall, some activities I enjoyed, like (what felt like) mini games. Others were reading short passages—over and over—and working together to answer questions based on them (what’s the main point of the reading?). Some was just doing class homework (teacher, what does this question mean?). Teachers reported my progress as slow. I knew I was on an IEP but didn’t know it was for a “communication/language disability.” And whatever that meant, the lack of information about learning differences for my parents never helped me finish assignments within the standard time—I’d continue to race behind the sound of pages flipping ahead of me.
This was supposed to be outgrown as I got older. Teachers blamed my academic struggles on my adoption, thinking it was cultural differences. With caution is how my results were shortly phrased in discussion. But to be exact with the full report: “Due to her background and her delay in learning English, these scores must be interpreted with caution and may not be an accurate measure of her intellectual functioning.”
Independence was something I didn’t know the meaning of when I was younger. But when other kids saw me leaving the room, they questioned why I got to leave during social studies and why they had to stay. “I don’t know,” I would answer them, “I just get to.” I didn’t know why I’d get excused and not them, but this had been normal for me since kindergarten. This was never hidden from me. My mother told me upfront, just like about my adoption, that my learning style was different from others. Yet still, the probing questions from other students about my different educational setup were enough to make me feel embarrassed that I needed academic help. I didn’t want other kids to think of me as stupid, that I needed to be spoon-fed everything to pass classes—because that’s exactly how I felt. Despite these known struggles by the school, the idea of getting neuropsychological testing was never proposed, so my life continued under the assumption that I simply wasn’t a very bright person.
When I reached seventh grade, I started online school so my figure skating training could be more serious. School wasn’t a focus anymore. But by then, my academic performance had improved enough that we took me off the IEP. Years later, I quit skating, went back to brick-and-mortar high school sophomore year, and my academics continued like any other normal student.
The Birth of My Creativity
At my high school, taking AP classes was the standard, and honors classes were the only alternative. If you didn’t do either, you weren’t considered smart or motivated. That was me, apparently. I cried a lot in physics but eventually got through it. Math didn’t come easily, and I spent a few days a week after hours with my favorite teacher, Mrs. Houghton. She was always waiting with a smile when I walked in at the end of the day. I’d bring my math questions, and she’d have the perfect explanations. It was just me and her, and for once, I didn’t feel stupid for asking for help. Junior year, I took organic chemistry and loved every bit of it. Something about it fit the way I learned. It was all about shapes, spatial thinking, and hands-on concepts. We each got a modeling kit to build molecules and visualize their structures, but most of the time I could picture them in my head. In a way, it felt like art.
While I didn’t know about my ADHD until this year, I’ve learned the effects had been shaping my life long before I had a name for it. ADHD can make it hard for me to express my thoughts verbally or retell a story in a way that makes sense. Things often come out jumbled, nonlinear, messy, and, from the surface, not smart. These struggles birthed my passion for writing, then my love for the “delete” button on my keyboard. It entered my world as a blank Word document and a bag of emotions, saying, “Here, now get a grip of yourself.” Okay.
Writing seems to have always known I’d spend most of my life alone, and it stayed. People often mistake my solitude for being anti-social, depressed, or simply odd. I don’t care. Firmly, I believe part of growing up alone came from the struggles of my undiagnosed ADHD, but I’ve grown to protect my alone time. There’s an irreplaceable beauty in being alone—nothing better than taking in my surroundings and letting my thoughts wander while out and about. Now, we’re always plugged into our phones or expected to be networking for one reason or another. Alone is when I can process what’s in front of me—in peace. The other part to my lonely nature is growing up in a culture where emotions aren’t shown openly, so it’s no wonder writing became my personal savior.
Beyond building something that could speak for me, I could also share (communicate!) with others. I take these wild, scattered ideas, connect them, and shape them into something cohesive for others. This became the framework of my life, expanding my creativity into a portrait photography business. Every piece of work is a direct reflection of parts of myself. Whether it’s an essay or an image, creating something physical communicates for me in a way ADHD doesn’t always let me do in conversation—like what I think about something that an essay can explain, or how I see you that my lens communicates more effectively. In the best way possible, my purpose comes from the drive to create things others can connect with—things that might help them see or feel something they couldn’t put into words themselves, either.
No Excuses
In 2021, I carried myself, my writings, and photography into college. As much as I acknowledged not being a natural whiz in science, I pursued the pre-med track as an English major. Being a doctor was my dream then, but I was adamant about keeping my passion for the humanities alive. I couldn’t have one without the other, as I saw the study of English as a creative opportunity.
The first time ADHD ever came to my mind was fall of 2024, the start of senior year, after watching a short one-minute video. It was from a mutual friend of mine, who started being open about her ADHD diagnosis sophomore year of college. “Life changing” is how she described it after starting medication. In one video she posted, she gave tips on how she stays on top of schoolwork with ADHD. “You’re not stupid, you just don’t have a structure,” she began. I watched it, related to it, and half-jokingly thought maybe my struggles were ADHD. But I quickly stopped myself (don’t make excuses) and resorted back to my usual thinking (I am stupid and not disciplined enough).
To put it simply, ADHD is a neurodevelopmental condition linked to brain structure and function. It’s a bit more complicated than just a chemical imbalance, and it impacts people in various ways. There’s the hyperactive type, the inattentive type (that’s me), and a combined version of both. ADHD is an executive function disorder. Executive functions can be thought of as the brain’s control center. It’s what we use to plan, prioritize, start tasks, stay focused, remember instructions, manage time, and regulate our emotions. ADHD can make these functions work “slower,” but what’s important to know is that ADHD (as well as a processing speed disorder) is not about laziness or intelligence, though it may seem so on the exterior. It’s a difference in the wiring of our brains.
According to Dr. Daniel Amen, inattentive ADHD most often gets overlooked (especially those with a co-existing processing disorder), resulting in a delayed diagnosis. Most people associate ADHD with the hyperactive type—that one rowdy person in class who could never behave. But those with inattentive ADHD don’t display disruptive behavior as much. Rather, they’re quietly distracted, disorganized, internally fatigued, or unmotivated. The longer an individual goes without a diagnosis, compensatory strategies—like organizational systems or over-preparation—develop in adulthood that mask symptoms and further delay recognition.
My external behaviors didn’t display the “typical” ADHD signs. I never turned in homework late. I got decent grades. I always completed everything I needed to do. I keep my life organized, very organized. My room is always clean, never going unnoticed by guests. I love to read and write. And I’m relatively a quiet, shy girl—an introvert. No one would ever suspect from my behaviors that I could have ADHD, not even myself!
Maybe, the only sign is that I do not like watching any TV.
Graduation!
In May 2025, I graduated from UMass Amherst with a degree in English, a Medical Humanities Certificate, and completion of the Pre-Med track—disciplines which, when all combined, consist of lots of reading, writing, and lots of science. And I did just fine, grade-wise. I got A’s in all my English classes and was, on average, a B/B+ science student with A’s in organic chemistry and physics. I even changed my career goals to focus on Health Law the summer prior.
Grades alone do not tell the whole story of a person. Like my whole academic life, but especially throughout all my four years of college, I hardly ever thought I was made for this—school. I knew my peers around me were learning quicker than me and excelling more than I felt I ever could. I was extremely insecure about my academic learning processes and avoided studying in groups at all costs. Much of my learning was beyond the classroom and office hours. YouTube, math solution programs, and other online websites were often used to further assist my studies. Always, I had to rely on outside resources to further teach myself class material. I hardly spoke about grades, and whenever someone would sneak in a conversation about them, I’d tune out or find a way to change the subject.
I sat through commencement and graduation very sad, feeling the lowest I’d ever felt. Every student had something to be proud of, whereas I felt I didn’t have much. After listening for forty minutes to the achievements made by each twenty-first-century leader, I believed I had nothing to offer in the real world like everyone else did. The many things I was naturally good at were my hobbies, which had expanded into ceramics and poetry. Hobbies are hobbies for a reason—they’re deemed useless careers. The many things I was passionate about as a lifelong career, medicine and law, were subjects I felt I had a limited capacity in. Passion and being “more disciplined” weren’t going to cut it for me in a way it seemed to for everyone else. There was something incapable about me, it felt.
This, however, describes the feeling of most students. It’s easier to overlook potential neurodivergences/learning disabilities/differences in the culture that circulates within academic institutions, largely imposter syndrome: I’m not doing enough, or I am not enough. It’s the struggle of one to internalize their success, often attributing it as an “obligatory expectation” or “faulty” or “worth little.” I invalidated all my personal and academic struggles, turning it into “Well, every student struggles like this; you’re just simply not working hard enough.” When in fact, I was working very hard to understand concepts in classes—overcompensating more than the average to get an output of what looked like I wasn’t working hard enough—but really, I wasn’t learning information in a way that aligned with my brain’s functioning.
I reflect now, while writing this in my kitchen. Still, there truly weren’t any earlier signs I could’ve picked up on to suspect ADHD? And while I’ve spent hours on forums and websites educating myself on it, I finally realized my way of reading wasn’t normal. But before, I never knew what the “normal” way of (in all honesty, anything) reading or writing was, especially if it managed to get me through high school and college with no accommodations. The thing is that our education today is indeed much better than it was back then. It’s much easier to earn good grades in school, even with neurodivergence/a learning disability/difference, because education is more accessible, professors are more lenient, and the definition of a “right answer” has loosened to welcome more perspectives
What’s happening from the educational system’s impact on neurodivergences/learning disabilities/differences is a double-edged sword. The benefit of improved educational systems and technologies unintentionally increases masking amongst those with neurodivergence/a learning disability/difference, therefore making it easier for them to be overlooked. An improved educational system also means a higher standard of expectations from institutions, parents, peers, and the students themselves, creating that imposter syndrome. Drowned in the vicious culture within academic institutions, the true effects of ADHD and related disorders get disguised.
Despite my continuous struggles throughout college, I found ways to compensate. The structure of my classes was such that I met them every other day—or every two days—giving me enough time to complete work the way I normally did, without raising any external suspicion of ADHD or a processing disorder. So, I persisted through my ways, thinking it was all normal; being physically productive while unrelated thoughts constantly ran, taking a lot of mental energy to initiate tasks, reading skittishly, misperceiving words, or taking a longer time to read (that is, if I wanted to remember details, not solely the big picture). I thought re-reading my own essays at least seven times to only catch small mistakes like omitted words was normal. Sometimes seven times wasn’t enough because I’d still notice little mistakes in my final papers after submission. This, in turn, has made me extra conscious of proper grammar, punctuation, spelling, and good writing—great for my English degree, though! I thought reading, then forgetting, and then having to re-read many times was normal; I never thought twice about it until I was met with the LSAT, which would demand my brain to function under standard thirty-five-minute time constraints––to be normal!
The LSAT: “Just Keep Going”
After a year of studying the LSAT and my progress seemingly so small, I was ready to pack up all my aspirations and quit. My neck and shoulders ached at this point, and I was experiencing massive brain fog and headaches every day. Truly, I believed there weren’t any more tears to shed. I had my hand on the knob to the door of acceptance—that everything I want is what I’m not good enough for.
Month after month, my speed on the test never improved. I’d gotten to the point where I knew the material inside out and could answer practice questions correctly one after another, but I still couldn’t finish under standard timed conditions. At my fastest, without sacrificing my reading, I could only make it halfway through each section.
With the LSAT program I was in, their philosophy was that slowing down to fully understand passages and arguments would eventually make you faster at answering the questions. In theory, it made sense, but no matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t working for me. I attended live classes and watched recordings, taking note of how the instructors approached each question. My constant questions were: how can they read so fast and summarize a sentence after reading it just once? How do they remember what they read? During live classes, we’d get five to six minutes to read a passage or argument and come up with a summary. While the instructors muted themselves, I would panic, knowing I’d be only halfway through when time was up.
Eventually, I switched to working with a tutor to focus on my individual needs. My tutor was helpful, but in ways limited by the fact that he did not share the same challenges. Without knowing I had ADHD or a processing speed disorder, I didn’t have the language to explain what I needed. As much as I tried to explain my inability to remember the reading passages, I could never properly capture what was really happening in my brain—a weak working memory. As soon as I finished a sentence or logical reasoning argument, the information would slip away. Too often, I was reminded the LSAT is about skills, not memory, leaving me further frustrated. Not knowing my diagnosis, I convinced myself I was just a lazy, careless reader, even though I was working as hard as I possibly could.
“I can never test as well as I drill,” I told my mom.
“Well, maybe you just need to keep going.”
“It’s been a year though. People normally have their dream score by now.”
“Well, you’ve always just needed repetition and more time when learning. Even when you were younger. That’s what your IEP said.”
The truth in that made me wonder about my IEP. My mom dug out all my past reports, and as I read through them, it felt like looking at a blueprint of challenges I’d been carrying my whole life. The same struggles kept appearing: trouble following directions, difficulty seeing and describing the connections between words and ideas, and a tendency to forget important details I’d just heard or read. There were notes about grammar, morphology, and syntax errors that made it harder to form sentences the way I wanted to. Sequencing and organizing language had always been a hurdle, and sometimes I couldn’t find the right word for something even when I knew exactly what it was. After reading piles of my reports, I was quite certain that I had something I never recieved official testing for. So, I pushed to be evaluated.
The Next Steps
Here I am, with my shiny diagnoses. What now? Medication and giving the LSAT another go. I took my hand off that doorknob and thought if I was willing to work this hard untreated, let me give myself another fair chance with appropriate treatment and accommodations. Two weeks from now, as I write this, I’ll meet with my primary care to discuss medications (which I will write to update). There are different kinds, each working a bit differently but nonetheless giving the same management effects for ADHD. In this waiting period, I’ve let myself take a step back from studying to reset myself, and honestly, treat myself after a long, hard year of it.
In my downtime, I read research articles and forums from other people—just trying to relate myself to better understand. There has been helpful information, especially from Dr. Daniel Amen, and then at times not (mostly on Reddit). I’ve run into many concerns regarding ADHD medications and testing accommodations, aspects I’d like to discuss.
Firstly, ADHD is real. Most negative attitudes and stereotypes that circulate around ADHD are rooted in not understanding it, many thinking, old-fashionably, that it’s fake. Someone commented under a TikTok video that medication is a lazy way out of actually trying hard in life. Others say medication didn’t work for them and that they know many others it didn’t work for, therefore you shouldn’t take it (Hey LSAT studiers, spot the flaw!). Someone asked me, “You’d take medicine? I wouldn’t want to rely on something like that. I’d just focus on improving my life—working out, eating better, and just being better.” Right! Because I’ve never thought of trying to be better before. Revolutionary!
Testing accommodations for those with ADHD get the same pushback. I’ve encountered countless complaints about the “unfairness” of LSAC granting extra time for ADHD or learning disabilities. To directly quote someone: “I’m so sick of people getting testing accommodations for learning disabilities or ADHD. It’s totally unfair, because while I have to work my butt off, they get an advantage!”
Accommodations are only an unfair advantage when people take them without a legitimate diagnosis. But the existence of them is equal access for those who do need them. Without them, the LSAT isn’t just testing reasoning skills, it’s also testing how well someone’s brain can perform under barriers their peers don’t face. With them, it measures what it’s supposed to: analytical ability. But I agree accommodations are used unfairly when used unethically. LSAC’s history of lawsuits for being too strict pushed them to ease standards, which has opened the door to occasional misuse. But if people want to be angry about “unfairness,” their frustration should be aimed at those abusing the system—not at students with legitimate documented reasons who depend on these supports to compete on equal footing. Taking them away from those who truly need them would create a different kind of injustice.
The common “just work harder” remarks neurodivergent people often face are ignorant of reality. As I have experienced myself, many of us from this community do work very hard, and even harder to compensate just trying to keep standard pace. Even for myself, I am reframing the way I think about this after believing since I was eight years old that all my struggling was my fault. With these diagnoses, I am assured that I was never meant to fit neatly into the structures or footprints considered ‘standard.’ My life will follow a path I build my own, repatch, and rebuild along the way—something I’d already been doing.
ADHD Related Resources
Dr. Daniel Amen | Instagram Page
How To ADHD | Instagram Page
They Can’t All Have ADHD: Law School Assessments in the Age of Extended Time
Can ADHD Cause Reading Difficulties?
The Task Matters: A Scoping Review on Reading Comprehension Abilities in ADHD
