It’s 3:00 AM, again. Everyone’s asleep—except me, and the hurricane inside my brain. I’m standing in the middle of my living room, hands on my hips, deciding whether the couch would look better against the far wall or by the window. I already know I’m going to move it. Not because I want to. Not because it needs to be moved. But because I need something to do with my hands and body while I try to mute the overlapping thoughts in my head. Rearranging furniture feels like the only way I can match the chaos inside with something outside. It’s an odd form of therapy that leaves my space different, but my mind just as cluttered.

I have ADHD.

It’s not just “getting distracted” or “being hyper.” It’s living with a thousand browser tabs open in your head, all screaming for attention. It’s needing three monitors just to work. Two of them are for actual tasks—spreadsheets, emails, project timelines. The third? Always streaming something. A movie I’ve watched a dozen times. A show I’ve memorized. I don’t watch it, not really. I listen. To conversations. To people laughing. Talking. Arguing. It’s like white noise for my overactive brain. Comforting, because I was never really good at being part of real-life conversations. Listening to them, though? That I can do.

People always say I seem social. That I’m funny. That I light up a room. What they don’t see is how I shrink the second I’m out of it. How my social battery crashes the minute someone starts making eye contact for too long. How I plan what to say in advance, rehearse it in my head, then blank out when it’s actually my turn to speak. I love hearing people talk. But when the spotlight turns to me, I want to vanish.

And the worst part? I still laugh at jokes that weren’t meant for me. I still sit in the corner of the room, sipping my drink, smiling at conversations I don’t belong to, feeling like a glitch in the simulation.

I multitask like a pro. I can juggle five things at once—write a report, answer emails, reply to messages, research a new side hustle, and brainstorm another business idea. I get sh*t done. But when I finally stop to rest, I feel… useless. Lazy. Like I should be doing something. Resting feels like guilt. Like failure. Like I’m wasting time I could’ve used to get ahead, earn more, find my purpose—whatever that means.

My mind? It’s like Messenger with every group chat open and active. Notifications flying in. Messages being typed and deleted and retyped again. Some threads are urgent. Some are weird. Some are just there. And I can’t mute any of them. They’re all talking at once. I’m always “in a meeting” in my brain, trying to moderate chaos with no end in sight.

I’ve tried therapy. Multiple times. In and out. Different counselors. Different methods. Journaling. Grounding techniques. They help, sometimes. But I always feel like I’m patching a leak with duct tape. The water still rises. I still drown. I still stare at the ceiling at night wondering what it is I’m supposed to be doing with my life.

I carry impostor syndrome like a badge. I’ve done cool things. I’ve achieved goals. I’ve heard people tell me “you’re doing great.” But I don’t feel great. I feel like I’m faking it. Like I’ve just been winging everything and one day, someone will figure it out. That I’m not as competent as they think. That I’m just a chaotic mess trying to hold it together with lists, alarms, caffeine, and willpower.

Money? It’s never enough. Even when it technically is, my brain doesn’t register security. I’m always looking for ways to earn more. Side gigs. Freelance jobs. Passive income. Business ideas I never finish. I work hard, but it still feels like I’m failing. Like I’m falling behind. Like I should have it all figured out by now, and I don’t. I keep chasing “more” because somewhere in my mind, maybe “more” will finally make me feel enough.

Sometimes I wish I could just stop.

Pause the noise.

Shut it all off.

Just be.

But that’s the thing with ADHD. There’s no off switch. Just volume levels. And even when you try to sleep, your brain’s still negotiating deals, rehashing past conversations, solving next week’s problems today, and reminding you of that one embarrassing thing you said five years ago.

I live in a constant push and pull. Wanting to connect, but also wanting to isolate. Craving silence, but surrounding myself with noise. Needing to rest, but feeling restless. Wanting meaning, but questioning every path I take.

And still—I get up. I work. I try. I keep going. Because somewhere in the chaos, there’s a flicker of hope. That maybe the cluttered thoughts will slow down. That maybe I’ll find the thing that makes it all click. That maybe I’m not broken—just wired differently.

I’m not writing this because I have the answers. I don’t. I’m writing this because maybe you feel this too. The 3AM furniture rearranging. The guilt of resting. The pretending to be okay when you’re running on mental fumes. The need to do everything, while feeling like you’ve accomplished nothing.

Maybe you feel like you’re drowning in a brain that won’t shut up.

If you do—hi. Same.

You’re not alone.

We’re not alone.

And maybe that’s enough, for now.