I’ve always been wired to feel life more deeply—mentally, emotionally, and physically. But for years, I didn’t have the language to explain it.
I was diagnosed with ADHD in my early 20s by a doctor who checked off the boxes: restless, distracted, emotionally intense, trouble sitting still, easily bored, “messy,” disorganized, and always leaving a trail wherever I went. I was animated, talkative, and drawn to new ideas and experiences. As a child, I gravitated toward singing, dancing, drawing, and writing—anything creative. I could hyperfocus for hours, but only on what truly lit me up. But I always remembered birthdays, and if anything, I was chronically early—driven by the anxiety of being late.
Ritalin was prescribed, but it never felt like the full answer.
Pills were offered my entire life—for anxiety, for focus, for sleep, when my mood was low. I was even prescribed birth control solely to “regulate” my mood. But none of them addressed what I was really struggling with: an overstimulated nervous system, a body constantly on high alert, and a deep feeling of not quite fitting in.
It’s only now, looking back, that I wonder how often we diagnose sensitivity as something to fix—rather than something to understand.
Years before ADHD became a buzzword for adults, I attended a small lecture in San Francisco by psychologist Dr. Elaine Aron. It was around 1997, and the event was part of The Learning Annex—a popular hub at the time for self-development workshops, from psychology to personal growth.
The talk was on The Highly Sensitive Person: How Your Relationships Can Thrive When the World Overwhelms You. It was her first time presenting this material publicly, and she admitted to being nervous. But for me, it was a lightbulb moment.
I had browsed The Learning Annex listings many times, hoping to find something that could explain why I felt things so deeply. This one did. As Dr. Aron described the traits—deep processing, emotional responsiveness, sensitivity to noise, light, crowds, and moods—it felt like she was describing me. She gave me language for the inner world I had never been able to explain.
I wasn’t broken.
I was sensitive. Wired differently.
From that point on, I identified more with being highly sensitive than with having ADHD—though it’s possible I carry traits of both.
Yes, I was distractible, impulsive, and scattered at times—but not in the ways ADHD is typically described. I was never late. I remembered every birthday. I followed through when something mattered.
What I couldn’t tolerate was chaos, boredom, or emotionally disconnected environments.
And if you grow up in a family that doesn’t understand sensitivity—especially in a Brooklyn neighborhood like mine, where it felt like most didn’t—you often end up looking like a problem child.
My mother was practical, reserved, and emotionally distant—she didn’t know how to meet my needs, and I didn’t know how to manage the bigness of my emotions. She often criticized my restlessness or talkativeness.
At dinner parties, if I squirmed or spoke out of turn, she’d twist my ear or pinch me under the table—a quiet correction with a lasting echo. I got the message early: sit still. Quiet down. Don’t be so much.
Don’t take up too much space.
I started to believe there was something wrong with me—too loud, too much, too sensitive.
Looking back, I think many of my symptoms may have been less about ADHD—and more about an overwhelmed, unsupported nervous system.
At 17, I had what now feels like an inevitable, full-blown panic attack.
I was working in midtown Manhattan and commuting from Brooklyn. It was a hot summer day. I was late for work, racing toward the subway when I heard the train rumbling through the grate. I quickened my pace to catch it.
The train was packed during rush hour—standing room only. I was hanging onto the overhead hand strap, pressed between bodies. The AC wasn’t working. The lights were flickering. And then we got stuck between stations.
I couldn’t breathe. My heart pounded so loudly it felt like everyone could hear it. I thought I was having a heart attack.
It felt like we were stopped for an eternity. I prayed for the train to start moving so I could get off what felt like a death trap. That ride changed everything.
After that, I started associating the subway with panic. The attacks kept happening. And no one around me—at home or in the medical system—knew how to help.
I was hospitalized for a week at Methodist Hospital in Park Slope, Brooklyn—the same hospital where I was born, just blocks from where we lived. Doctors ran every test: heart monitor, lung scans, labs. All came back normal.
There was no diagnosis, no explanation. Just “You’re fine”—and a prescription.
I suddenly didn’t do well in crowded spaces—and in New York, that was most spaces. The noise, the crush of people, the sensory overload—it pushed my system past its limit. I was grateful for Prospect Park, just across the street from where I grew up. A place to exhale and just be.
The subway is the artery of New York City—its pulse, its rhythm, its lifeline. When I began to fear it, it was like my oxygen had been cut off. I could no longer breathe in the very place that once gave me life.
A year later, I left New York for California—and never moved back.
Brooklyn had been the most stable part of my life. Letting it go felt like losing a part of myself.
What I needed growing up was self-understanding, emotional safety, and nervous system regulation. What I got were prescriptions and praise for being high-functioning.
But high-functioning isn’t the same as healthy. And being “fine” on the outside doesn’t mean you’re okay inside.
This was the 1980s. No one talked about this kind of thing—emotional regulation, sensitivity, or nervous system support.The medical system did what it always did back then—and still often does today: rule out the physical, then send you home with a prescription.
I spent years trying to understand why my body seemed to defy me. I was always searching for meaning. I read every book I could find, wandered libraries like they held the missing pieces, signed up for workshops, attended lectures—and I even became a research participant in a UCSD study on panic disorder. It helped. The anxiety didn’t vanish, but the out-of-the-blue panic attacks stopped. I had tools.
For decades, I followed thinkers and writers who put words to things I had always felt but never learned how to fully articulate growing up. I was trying to understand my body, my wiring, my reactions to a world that often felt too loud, too fast, too uncertain.
And through it all, I worked. I overachieved. I burned out. I took pride in being the one who could handle the pressure—tight deadlines, high demands, constant chaos—until I couldn’t. I built a life, had a career, even stability for a while. But I also started over more times than I can count.
Looking back, I was addicted to reinvention—moving, starting over, leaving cities, leaving men. For a long time, it felt like freedom. Exploration. Control. Until it didn’t.
Was it ADHD? HSP? Trauma? Anxiety?
At some point, the labels blurred. What mattered most was coming to understand how I’m wired—and learning to work with it, not against it.
Today, I know what I need to stay regulated: gentle structure, nourishing food, movement, creative outlets, and time to reset.
I’ve learned to work with my sensitivity—not override it.
Maybe you relate. Maybe you’re still figuring it out.
If you suspect you might be wired differently, these self-tests are a good place to start:
A label can be helpful. But it isn’t everything.
What matters more is what you do with what you learn.
You’re not too much. You just need something different.
I’ve come a long way in understanding my wiring.
And still—my life has felt like a paradox.
Being highly sensitive in a world that moves fast is one thing.
But being highly sensitive and extroverted?
That’s the contradiction I continue to navigate.
“The highly sensitive person is not weak—they are finely tuned.”
— Elaine N. Aron
Read next: The Highly Sensitive Extrovert: The Paradox
