“If you have met one person with ADHD, you have met one person with ADHD.”

ADHD is often explained through symptoms, assessments, and diagnostic criteria. Those things matter, but they do not always capture what it feels like to live inside an ADHD mind. That sentence has stayed with me because ADHD is not a checklist, one personality, or one fixed way of thinking. Everyone of us experiences it differently. This is simply what it feels like inside mine.

Imagine a Ferrari travelling at full speed with bicycle brakes. The engine is extraordinary: powerful, responsive, and built for performance. It can accelerate in an instant. But when the time comes to slow down, change direction, or stop, the brakes do not always keep up. For me, that is one of the closest metaphors for living with ADHD.

People often think ADHD is about a lack of attention. In my experience, it has never felt that simple. It is not always too little attention. Sometimes it is too much attention, moving in too many directions at once. My mind rarely stops wondering, questioning, connecting ideas, or experimenting. Every object becomes an invitation to understand how it works. Every conversation creates ten more questions. Every new hobby feels like a door waiting to be opened.

Curiosity is not something I choose. It is simply how my brain is wired. Sometimes I joke that by the time I have finished my first glass of water in the morning, my mind has already travelled through what feels like a week’s worth of thoughts. One idea sparks another. A memory becomes a question. A question becomes a new project. Before breakfast, I may have mentally redesigned a process, planned a holiday, remembered an email I forgot to send, wondered how aircraft wings are engineered, and somehow ended up thinking about whether penguins have knees. Whether that is literally true does not matter. That is simply what it feels like inside my head.

I have always loved working with my hands. I am one of those people with ADHD who genuinely enjoys using tools, fixing things, dismantling things, and understanding how they fit together. I often joke that I could take apart a Boeing aircraft with nothing more than a screwdriver and put it back together again. Of course, thanks to engineering excellence, there would probably be a handful of spare screws left over.

Behind the humour is something real. People with ADHD often become deeply fascinated by how things work. Whether it is a camera, a watch, a manufacturing process, a computer, or a piece of furniture, curiosity becomes more than a personality trait. It becomes a way of life.

I was diagnosed in the early 1980s, at a time when ADHD was barely understood. Looking back, I realise how fortunate I was. My family recognised that something was different and sought professional help when many people would not have known where to begin. School, however, was confusing. Some teachers believed I was one of the brightest students in the classroom. Others could not understand why I was not living up to my potential. “You could achieve anything if you only tried.” I heard those words countless times.

The painful part was that I wanted to—more than anything. I could not always find the road between wanting to do something and actually doing it. Around the same time, reports described me as gifted, highly intelligent, and possessing a high IQ. Those reports looked impressive, but they also taught me one of the biggest lessons of my life: intelligence and execution are not the same thing. Knowing exactly what to do does not always mean your brain allows you to begin.

One of the greatest frustrations of living with ADHD is not failure. It is knowing, with complete certainty, that you are capable of doing something while feeling as though an invisible force is holding you back. It is like driving a car fitted with summer tyres across snow and ice. The engine works. The steering works. You know exactly where you want to go. You press the accelerator, yet the car refuses to move. That is one of the hardest parts of ADHD to explain.

From the outside, people with ADHD are often described as “a jack of all trades, master of none.” I have never believed that description tells the whole story. Our brains continuously explore. They sample ideas, skills, experiences, and possibilities in search of what truly captures our curiosity. What looks like inconsistency from the outside often feels like exploration from the inside.

One metaphor I particularly love compares the ADHD brain to a rambling rose. Every stem overflows with beautiful pink roses. Ideas bloom everywhere. Possibilities bloom everywhere. Questions bloom everywhere. It is colourful, alive, and wonderfully chaotic. The challenge is not a lack of ideas. It is deciding which flower deserves your attention first.

If I had to choose only one image to describe my ADHD, however, it would be an octopus. Picture an octopus with eight arms. Two arms are focused on the task you are trying to complete. The other six are constantly reaching into every corner of the room, searching for something more interesting. Then, suddenly, one arm excitedly shouts, “Everyone! I found something better!” And everything changes.

Within seconds, you are no longer writing an email. You are wondering whether you should have tea with the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland. If you did, what cake would you bring? What tea would be served? What would you wear? Would the White Rabbit be late? Would Wonderland have weather forecasts? Five minutes later, you suddenly remember the email you were writing. In fact, while writing this very article, I have caught myself stopping several times and asking, “Wait... where was I?” If you live with ADHD, you are probably smiling. You have done the same thing.

Medication has also been part of my journey. Everyone’s experience is different, and I would never suggest mine is the same as someone else’s. For me, medication can feel like putting on a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. The world becomes quieter. The competing thoughts begin to fade. Focus becomes easier. But occasionally I also miss some of the colour that comes with the noise. At times, it feels like replacing a vibrant garden with the quiet order of a courtroom. Neither experience is right nor wrong. They are simply different.

Living with ADHD has taught me something else: no assessment, diagnosis, personality profile, performance review, or report can ever fully define a human being. A few years ago, I was selected for the General Management Acceleration Program, something I was incredibly proud of. Later, I was not selected to continue. Afterwards, my manager and I sat together reviewing the assessment report. Page after page described competencies, ratings, and observations.

When we finished reading, he quietly looked at me and said something I will never forget: “I don’t agree with what’s written here. No report can define who you are, regardless of who wrote it. You are successful because you are you. Never stop being yourself. Even when the weather is rainy, remain exactly who you are, so you never lose your self-respect.”

I have carried those words with me ever since. They reminded me that people are always bigger than the labels we place around them. One of my favourite Turkish quotations expresses this beautifully: “This world is beautiful because of those who are different from you. Difference gives us colour. Difference gives us meaning. Difference gives us perspective.

To me, that is the true meaning of neurodiversity. Not that we all think the same, but that we do not. No one can fully understand what another person experiences inside their own mind, whether they live with ADHD, dyslexia, autism, anxiety, or challenges we cannot see. That is why empathy matters. That is why listening matters. That is why kindness matters.

If there is one thing I hope you take away from my story, it is this: please do not try to understand people only through reports, labels, or diagnoses. Get to know the person. You might discover a Ferrari learning how to brake, an octopus trying to keep six curious arms busy, a rambling rose overflowing with ideas, or simply another human being doing their very best with a brain that experiences the world differently.

And perhaps that is what inclusion has always been about: not understanding every detail of another person’s mind, but respecting that their experience is just as real as your own.

Note: This article reflects my personal experience of living with ADHD. ADHD presents differently from person to person, and everyone’s journey is unique.