Tag: healing

Emotional Dysregulation in ADHD

One of my intentions this year is to understand my ADHD more deeply, especially the parts of it that show up in my relationships. Not just the visible, functional stuff, but the emotional turbulence I’ve struggled with for as long as I can remember.

Emotional dysregulation is something I’ve been learning to name. Simply put, it’s the difficulty regulating emotional responses. For me, it feels like emotions arriving quickly and with intensity, sometimes before I’ve had a chance to make sense of them. Feelings of sadness, frustration, defensiveness, and overwhelm. At times it can look like reacting too strongly or pulling away completely. Neither feels good afterward.

What I’ve come to understand is that this often happens with the people I feel safest with. In the outside world, I hold it together. I read the room, choose my words carefully, push feelings down, and keep moving. That kind of self-monitoring takes a lot of energy. When that energy runs out, usually at home or with someone I love, everything I’ve been containing finds its way out.

ADHD is often talked about as an attention issue, but beneath that is so much more, and what some call the ADHD iceberg. Attention, impulses, motivation, and emotions all live under the surface. The pause that helps someone to stop and think before responding is the same pause that softens emotional reactions. With ADHD, that pause can be hard to access, and emotions can take the lead before wisdom has time to arrive.

I’ve written about this before, but another layer of this is Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. Small moments others might brush past can land deeply. Whether it’s a change in tone, a slower reply, or a gentle correction. People with ADHD are often highly intuitive, able to read emotions and energy in others in ways that many might miss. We can also be creative, energetic, vibrant, and deeply empathetic, but with that comes an intensity to ‘leak’ our emotions onto the people we feel safest with. In those moments, our nervous system is trying to keep us safe, even if the response doesn’t reflect what’s actually happening.

For anyone who has a loved one with ADHD, learning about how ADHD shows up for them can make a real difference. Even just trying to understand why someone reacts the way they do can reduce misunderstandings, deepen connection, and create space for patience on both sides.

Lately, I’ve been marinating in the words, Philippians 4:6 ‘Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.’ Instead of fighting my feelings or judging myself for having them, I’ve been trying to entrust God with what’s rising in me. And sometimes it’s simply about sitting in His presence which gives me peace in the midst of everything.

One practice I’m learning is something called Opposite Action. It’s a CBT tool, and it means doing the opposite of what an intense emotion is urging you to do when that emotion isn’t helping the situation. If the instinct is to shut down, Opposite Action might look like staying present. If the urge is to defend yourself or snap back, it might mean pausing and listening instead of absorbing. Depending on what works for you, some other good options could be taking a few deep breaths, holding your breath for 20 seconds, walking away from the situation until you’ve reached a calm state, or splashing your face with cold water. I’ve come to know that it’s not about dismissing or suppressing emotions but about creating that positive distraction that causes less harm to yourself or to others.

This is an ongoing process, but my hope is to both understand my own brain better and share a little awareness of how ADHD shows up, while learning strategies and tools to cope along the way.

To those who need to pause long enough to listen

It’s funny how it takes something breaking down in your body to realise what’s been breaking down in your spirit. I injured (or should I say reinjured) myself recently, nothing dramatic, nothing life-altering. Just one of those niggly, frustrating injuries that lingers and forces you to pause.

At first, I was annoyed. Retearing an ankle ligament is not fun, especially when forced to rest and unable to train. But beneath the surface of that frustration, I began to unravel something deeper.

The truth is, I’d been running on tunnel vision, trying to give everything 100 percent. I had fallen into the overachiever mindset, chasing too many goals at once, and believing I could handle it all if I just pushed hard enough. But that pace wasn’t sustainable. It was the pressure I was putting on myself, the kind that easily slips under the radar until something finally forces you to stop.

One thing that stuck with me was a conversation with someone who said that people pleasing is a form of manipulation. That one hit hard. Because when I looked at my behaviour honestly, I saw how much of it came from fear: fear of rejection, of not being worthy, of not being liked. And that fear was fuelling my ego just as much as my pride was.

Turns out, ego doesn’t always look like arrogance. Sometimes it seems like overachieving, like pretending you’re okay, and ignoring your limits because you should be able to do it all. But that’s not strength, that’s self-abandonment.

This injury turned out to be a blessing in disguise. It gave me time to pause and reflect on what honours me, my body, my spirit, and my time. It reminded me that rest isn’t weakness, that saying no doesn’t make you a villain, it makes you your own protector. When your senses are telling you something, when your thoughts are louder than usual, and when your spirit feels off, that’s when you should listen. The signs are always there before the breakdown.

We spend so much time trying to be everything for everyone, but sometimes the most radical thing you can do is choose yourself, again and again, even when it feels uncomfortable, even when people don’t get it. The real power lies in your intuition.

People will have opinions, they’ll judge, they’ll project, they’ll talk. But they’re not the ones living your life; they only see what you choose to show them. The same is true in reverse: when you make assumptions about others, you’re often casting them in a negative light, not because of who they are, but because of the story playing out in your mind.

Right now, I’m choosing to focus on my hauora, on being okay with rest, okay with softening, okay with slowing down, because I know I’ll only come back stronger.

It’s in those pauses, the quiet moments, that we finally tune into ourselves. And in those moments, it’s okay to be selfish. Sometimes, you need to be.

Being selfless all the time can lead to self-abandonment, constantly putting others first until there’s nothing left of yourself.

You need to take care of yourself too. And knowing that, well, that’s one of the greatest strengths you can carry.

To those who are facing trauma

Lately, I’ve been hearing more and more experiences of people carrying trauma, whether recent or deep-rooted. And it’s got me thinking that everyone is fighting a battle. Whether loud or quiet, visible or hidden, heavy or seemingly small, it’s still a battle.

One of the most important things I’ve learnt, especially training in trauma-informed care as a social worker, is never to diminish your pain because someone else has it worse. Never shrink your story in comparison to someone else’s. Trauma is trauma. It’s all relative.

Whether you were raised in a home where violence was the norm, whether you’ve lost someone who meant the world, or whether you’re trying to make sense of heartbreak that still lingers longer than expected, your experience matters and your feelings are valid. You don’t need to justify them.

What I’ve come to understand is healing doesn’t come from suppressing the hard stuff. It comes from sitting with it. Letting yourself feel it. Allowing yourself to be uncomfortable, and learning that even in discomfort, you are safe and supported, even if it doesn’t feel that way.

I’ve carried my own trauma too. For me, it centres around my father. Or, more specifically, his absence. He was never really present. Never played with us. Never really held us as kids. He wasn’t there through the dark times, and he’s never supported my brother and I emotionally or financially – beyond the basic child support, which stopped the moment it legally could.

That absence left a hole. It shaped how I moved through the world, constantly craving validation, struggling with self-worth, and entering relationships, already preparing for them to fail. I didn’t want children for the longest time, and then when I finally came around to the idea, before dating anyone, I’d think, ‘If we have children and then broke up, would we co-parent well?’ Because I didn’t want my future children to feel what I felt. And that’s not love. That’s trauma talking.

I’ve had my share of toxic patterns. I’ve stayed in relationships longer than I should have. But one thing I’ve never done is cheat. Loyalty, for all its weight, is one of my strengths. And that’s mainly due to the fact that I don’t want to be like my father, as well as fundamental values.

It’s no surprise that every therapy session circles back to him. And now, years later, the same man who wasn’t there for me, who blew his inheritance, and who contributed to my wounds asks me for financial assistance to help him with food. And I give it. Because how can I not? What kind of person would I be if I didn’t? I’ve inherited manaakitanga (hospitality and care) from my mum and Gran! That value is stitched into my being until the day I die.

My last visit with him wrecked me; I felt like I was working as his social worker, trying to find solutions to his problems. It ends up being all about him, and if and when he finally asks about me, it doesn’t even feel like he’s listening.

The moral of the story is your trauma is valid. You don’t have to shrink it or apologise for it. Acknowledging it doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human. And healing? It doesn’t come all at once. It comes little by little.

There may be pain in the night, but joy comes in the morning.

So, if you’re walking through something right now, whether it’s heartbreak, grief, anxiety, abandonment, or whatever it may be, know that you’re not alone; you’re not broken beyond repair; you’re worthy of healing. Be gentle with yourself; that’s where it begins.