By Brenda Keirnan, in collaboration with ADHD Pirates

This piece shares part of my lived experience being autistic with ADHD and as an Inclusion Advisory Teacher who now supports schools across Derbyshire. I wrote it for the many educators who are doing their best, but still miss the signs. Especially in girls.

Growing up, I didn’t have the words to explain what was going on inside me. I just knew I was intense, sensitive, impulsive and different. What I needed most was understanding. What I often got instead was silence or shame.

Talks too much, distracts others, too loud, too defiant, doesn’t listen, too emotional, doesn’t follow instructions, hangs around with the wrong people. She’s very bright but lazy, doesn’t put any effort in, she seems to act like this for attention, always forgetting kit and homework. Doesn’t seem to care!

As an advisory teacher, I hear these words in schools most days. After hearing the concerns, I usually ask: could they be neurodivergent?

Craving, hyperfocus and chasing connection

 

Craving is defined as a strong or uncomfortable desire. That sums up a lot of my life as AuDHD. When your brain is full of limitless ideas and possibilities, choosing just one to focus on can feel impossible. It leads to procrastination, overwhelm, or complete shutdown.

Hyperfocus has helped me at times. When I zone into an idea, a project, or even a person, everything else fades away. It gives me clarity and intensity, and that can be great when it’s something like research. But obsession can bring its own challenges, especially when others don’t share that same energy or interest. The disappointment can be crushing.

Rejection sensitivity is one of the most difficult parts of ADHD. Even small rejections can feel like emotional severing. For me, the intensity often felt life-threatening.

Too sensitive. Too much. Too intense. Those messages stayed with me.

As a young girl, my brain gave me access to incredible highs and crushing lows. Pleasure through connection, pain through disconnection. I didn’t have tools to manage it, just a storm of sensations to navigate alone.

She can be fine one minute, then without warning, she walks out. There was no trigger, she just exploded. She just gives up. I know she can do the work; she just can’t be bothered. She can be absolutely lovely and absolutely vile. You just don’t know where you are with her.

These are the kinds of things frustrated teachers often say. I’ve heard them said repeatedly, and so have the children. Over time, they become an inner voice.

The hormonal chaos no one warned me about

 

In my teenage years, hormones added fuel to the fire. Changes in oestrogen levels, especially during puberty, are thought to affect dopamine, a key neurotransmitter linked to motivation and emotional regulation. For many girls with ADHD, this can make emotional regulation and concentration even harder to manage. It’s something that’s only recently started getting attention, and still rarely shows up in teacher training.

Puberty is difficult for most teenagers, but for those who are ADHD or autistic, it can be completely destabilising. Everything seems to change; your body, your mood, your focus, your friendships. One day you feel confident and in control, the next you feel like a stranger in your own skin.

The monthly cycle doesn’t follow a clear rhythm at first. It’s unpredictable. Hormones are steering the ship and you’re just along for the ride. Now, in perimenopause and menopause, it feels like going through it all again.

Finding focus – the elusive skill

 

Focus is essential for learning, but not everyone can just ‘do it’ on demand. Can people really focus just because they’re told to? Can they control attention at will? I couldn’t.

I either liked something and could learn about it — or I couldn’t. Teachers told me ‘You can do it; you’re just choosing not to.’ The irony is, I wanted to — but my brain wouldn’t cooperate.

As an adult, I trained in yoga and mindfulness. I learned strategies to support my brain. Focus can be taught; it just wasn’t back then.

School, risk-taking and the art room that saved me

 

Secondary school was tough. I became impulsive and disruptive. I started going to nightclubs at thirteen, selling stolen aftershave to get in. I’d get drunk, walk home three miles, then get up and go to school.

No one questioned this at home or at school. I truant, hid under the stage during lessons I couldn’t face.

The only person who showed kindness was my art teacher. He let me stay in the art room. Never asked questions, just gave me space. It became my place to breathe.

This was the 1980s. ADHD was barely recognized, especially in girls. Back then, the common view was that ADHD was just ‘naughty boys who needed discipline’. That myth still lingers. Even now, I hear teachers question whether it’s real.

You can read more about the history of ADHD and how these misunderstandings developed here.

When I was too disruptive, I was caned, often by a nun. Corporal punishment was the go-to response for struggling children. I was only suspended once. The rest of the time, it was pain, not support.

Becoming a mum, building a life

 

Chasing dopamine and connection has defined a lot of my life. I found both in abundance when I became a mum. My children became my focus, my joy, and my anchor.

Their dad was not available. I had no external support. But the connection I felt with my kids gave me strength. I was a great mum for three weeks of the month, then came the hormone crash.

I didn’t finish school with qualifications, but I did an Access to Uni course and started a degree at 28 with two young boys. I became the first in my family to go to university.

What helped me keep going? Trusted connections. I had a solid group of friends — my tribe — who shared my chaos and kept me grounded. And I was always an optimist. Even in the hard times, I believed things would get better.

What would have helped me?

 

• Compassion – being kind and curious. Children do well when they can. If a child is struggling, ask why.

• Being seen and heard – take time to know the child’s strengths, interests and challenges. Share this with staff.

• A safe space – offer a quiet place or a trusted adult they can access when needed.

• Cognitive supports – use checklists, chunking, reminders and repetition. Make it available to everyone.

• Belonging – a warm welcome and a smile goes further than you think, even when they’re late.

• Adult regulation – students feel safer when the adults around them are calm and grounded.

Final reflections

 

So much of this comes down to connection. Safety. Compassion.

We can’t keep waiting for diagnoses. By the time a referral is made, many young people have already disengaged, or internalised that they’re the problem. They’re not.

Sometimes it’s the smallest acts of compassion, not policies, that stay with us for life.

Every child deserves at least one adult who sees them. One space where they feel safe. One smile that says: you matter, just as you are.

Author Bio

 

Brenda is a teacher, mum, nanna and founder of Forming Connections – Neuroscience Based Education for All. She has lived experience of AuDHD, and a passion for helping others feel seen, supported and understood.

A note of thanks

Huge thanks to Brenda for sharing her story so openly, and for giving up her time to write such an honest and powerful piece, all on a voluntary basis. It’s rare to find this level of depth, vulnerability, and insight in one place, and we’re incredibly grateful.

Connect with Brenda

If you’d like to learn more about Brenda’s work or get in touch, you can find her on LinkedIn here.