A Brain Wired for Chaos (And a Camera That Helps Me Stay)
For most of my life, I thought I was just a bad person.
I left chaos in my wake. Emotionally, physically, relationally. I drank too much, chased highs, burned things down—not because I wanted to, but because doing nothing felt worse. Silence was unbearable. Stillness was a kind of suffering. So I kept moving. Kept wrecking. Kept hoping the next thing would make sense of me.
It never did.
I told myself, this is just who I am. Impulsive. Scattered. Always too much, always too loud, always too fast. And deep down, I hated it. I hated myself for it. I thought I was broken. Dramatic. Difficult. Damaged.
But then, late in life, I was diagnosed with ADHD.
And suddenly, the chaos made sense.
The emotional dysregulation. The substance use. The inability to sit still. The constant craving for stimulation. The reckless, restless search for anything but boredom. It wasn’t because I was bad—it was because my brain is wired differently. I live in a world not built for me. A world full of noise, distraction, unspoken rules, and invisible deadlines. A world that punishes inconsistency and labels intensity as dysfunction.
Getting the diagnosis wasn’t just a relief—it was a rebirth.
I wasn’t a failure. I wasn’t lazy. I wasn’t too much. I was just undiagnosed.
And with that knowledge came tools. Language. Understanding. A new way to see myself. And—maybe most importantly—the unwavering love of the most supportive partner I could ever ask for. Patient. Consistent. Calming. The kind of presence I didn’t think I deserved, but somehow received anyway.
Then came photography.
Controlled chaos. Walking. Looking. Reacting. Interacting. It's a practice that keeps my mind focused and busy—a rare combination that makes me feel alive but steady. When I shoot, I’m in flow. And when I’m in flow, I’m quiet. No shame. No racing thoughts. Just the camera, the world, and me. It’s meditation. It’s healing. It’s mine.
Photography gave me a place to put the energy. A way to stay present. To focus on the details, the light, the moments that slip through most people’s days. It taught me how to sit in silence and still move. It became a way to regulate my brain when it wants to be... well, an ADHD brain.
And yet—procrastination still haunts me. I can sit and do nothing for hours. Not in a relaxed way, but in a paralysed, guilt-ridden kind of way. Then I beat myself up for it. Days pass. More guilt. More paralysis. It’s a loop I’m still learning to break.
But when I pick up my camera, I move. I see. I become.
Photography gives me a reason to step out the door, to get out of my head and into the world. It gives my ADHD a direction, a rhythm, a home.
ADHD is mine. I own it now. And some days it still owns me—but at least we know each other’s name.
So here’s the question I’ll leave you with:
What if the parts of you you’ve been taught to hate… were never flaws at all—just a different kind of fire waiting to be understood?