For many neurodivergent people, identification or formal diagnosis comes later in life. In this blog for Specialisterne, a guest contributor shares her story of navigating an ADHD diagnosis during menopause.

For most of my life, I felt like a square peg in a round hole.

I’m now 63, and only in the last few years did I discover that I have combined ADHD. Looking back, it explains so many things that once made me believe there was simply something wrong with me.

When I was younger, I had friends and I had a social life. I wasn’t lonely in the traditional sense. I had boyfriends, I went out, and I was generally busy. But I always had a lingering feeling that I didn’t quite fit in. I often noticed groups of girls going on holidays together, attending hen parties, or being part of close-knit friendship circles. I was rarely part of that world. I was never asked to be a bridesmaid,  not even the most minor one, though I was asked to be a godmother several times.

It might sound like a small thing, but over time it contributed to a feeling that I somehow didn’t belong.

I also struggled deeply with self-doubt. I worried constantly that people didn’t really like me. I now know that much of this was linked to rejection-sensitive dysphoria (RSD), something many people with ADHD experience. If someone seemed distant, didn’t greet me warmly, or appeared annoyed, my mind would magnify it. I would assume they disliked me, even when they might simply have been having a bad day.

In social situations, I often tried to cover my discomfort by drinking too much or talking too much. Afterwards, I would replay everything in my mind and feel even worse. My self-esteem was very low for many years.

People sometimes described me as “a bit much” or “a bit full on.” What they were seeing was my enthusiasm and my desire to help people. I’ve always been very empathetic and eager to support others, but at times that came across as bossy or overwhelming.

Ironically, this same quality turned out to be one of my greatest strengths. My career involved working with children, and colleagues often said I had a special ability to connect with the ones who struggled most, the children who were considered difficult or challenging. While others found them hard to manage, I could often get them onside. I understood them in a way I couldn’t quite explain at the time. Only later did I realise that perhaps I recognised something of myself in them.

In my late fifties, I began seeing more conversations on social media, particularly Instagram, about ADHD in women, especially in mature women. Posts about the signs of ADHD during menopause and about how it can present differently in women began to resonate strongly with me.

At first, I dismissed the idea. Surely I was just imagining things but the more I read, the more the pieces started to fall into place.

Eventually, around the age of 60, I decided to get assessed. The result confirmed that I have combined ADHD. In one sense, it was a relief. For the first time, I realised that the struggles I’d experienced throughout my life weren’t due to a personal failing. My brain simply worked differently.

However, there was also a sense of regret. By the time I received my diagnosis, I was close to retirement. Because of my age, there was reluctance to start medication, so that path was never really explored. I often wonder how different things might have been if I had known earlier. In fact, I may not have retired from my job when I did. I loved my work. The satisfaction I got from it was immense. But towards the end of my career I struggled with changes in the workplace, a new manager whose style felt brusque and unempathetic. Looking back now, I can see how strongly those situations triggered my ADHD traits and sensitivities. If I had understood what was happening in my mind at the time, I might have handled those challenges differently.

So yes, I do feel some anger that I didn’t discover this sooner but  I also feel something else, understanding. My diagnosis didn’t change who I am, but it changed how I see myself. I’m more aware now of my patterns and behaviours. I try not to fall back into old habits, and I try not to let my thoughts spiral into worst-case scenarios about what others might think of me. That’s not always easy, but awareness helps.

If there is one thing I would say to anyone reading this who wonders if they might be neurodivergent, it is this: don’t put it off. Getting assessed doesn’t mean you have to tell anyone. Understanding yourself, finally having a framework that explains your experiences, can be incredibly powerful. Even later in life, that knowledge can bring clarity, compassion for yourself, and a sense of peace.

For me, it helped me realise something important. There was never anything “wrong” with me. I was simply different, and that difference also gave me the empathy and understanding that allowed me to connect with so many children who needed it.

And that is something I’m very proud of.