'I was diagnosed with ADHD at 30. Here's what no one tells you about the grief.'

"I think I have ADHD," I told my psychologist, trying to sound casual, like I hadn't rehearsed it five times in the car.

"I read an article."

(It was definitely a TikTok. It was many Tiktoks.)

I've always been a bit of a hypochondriac. I spent my teens researching really obscure psychoanalytic disorders that even Freud wouldn't touch. I once convinced myself I had a rare neurological disorder because I kept tripping over things.

But this felt different.

I wasn't spiralling over something I'd researched — I was drowning in something very real.

I was deep in the sleep-deprived, structure-less haze of maternity leave. The hormones were one thing, but the nothingness — no work deadlines, no calendar full of external expectations — was what really undid me. Without scaffolding, everything unravelled.

I couldn't finish a thought, let alone a to-do list. I cried when I lost the baby nail clippers for the third time in a day. I cried when I forgot the nappies twice. I couldn't explain what was wrong, only that I felt broken and that I was the worst mum.

But if I'm being honest, I'd always felt a bit broken. Like there was a gap between what I knew I could do and what I actually managed to do.

Listen to Well discuss the adults being diagnosed with ADHD. Post continues below.

I was the classic "potential" kid — clever, creative, always very ahead or very behind on assignments. I was always very early or very late to appointments. I'd burn bright in new jobs, then fizzle under the admin. I'd forget birthdays, ghost group chats, feel shame about the way I could hyperfocus for 12 hours but couldn't put away a basket of washing.

The diagnosis — ADHD, inattentive type — came like a slap and a balm. I laughed. I cried. I wanted to call every teacher, every boss, every friend I'd disappointed and shout, 'See? I wasn't lazy. I wasn't unreliable. I wasn't crazy. My brain is just wired differently.'

And then came the grief. No one tells you about that part.

The grief is enormous.

Grief for the girl who got in trouble for doodling in the margins.

For the teenager who blamed herself for being "flaky".

For the uni student who introduced herself as being "too much" so that no one else could call her that.

For the woman who thought motherhood would make her feel whole, but instead found herself overwhelmed, unravelling in a sea of noise and nappies, and never feeling good enough.

There's no way to go back and give her the diagnosis earlier.

No way to change the years she spent contorting herself to fit a neurotypical mould.

The grief was old and deep, generational. It brought up every wound I'd ignored, every time I'd internalised failure.

Eventually, I realised I didn't just need a diagnosis. I needed to heal.

Watch: The Well. Podcast discusses adult ADHD. Post continues below.

I needed to look after my inner child — the wild, curious, chaotic girl who collected shiny things and made messes and got lost in imaginary worlds. The girl who was constantly told to sit still, be quiet, try harder.

I needed to tell her she was allowed to take up space. That she didn't have to earn her rest. That she wasn't broken — just misunderstood.

I decided to turn this healing, this processing of big feelings, into a creative outpouring.

A space where emotions weren't just valid — they were the map.

I began making intricate, whimsical fibre art based on emotion, mood, memory — wild visual worlds that felt like the inside of my brain. Called The Moody Project, I started crafting felt scapes, drawing chaotic little cities built from grief and joy and the in-between.

It's more than just art. It's a reclamation. A way of saying: I'm not ashamed of my brain. I'm not hiding my mess. I'm turning it into something beautiful.

The healing isn't linear, and the diagnosis didn't magically fix everything. I still lose my phone three times a day and usually find it in my hand. I still forget what I'm saying mid-sentence. I miss meetings by accident. But now I meet those moments with compassion instead of shame.

I've stopped chasing the version of myself I thought I had to be. Instead, I'm getting to know the version I actually am — and she's kind of magic.

If you're reading this and wondering if it's you — if you've always felt like you were "too much" or "not enough" or somehow always both — I want you to know that clarity is possible. And yes, there might be grief. But there's also this strange, liberating exhale.

A chance to begin again.

A chance to create something — a project, a poem, a soft place to land — from the parts of yourself you thought were unlovable.

Featured image: Tess Ezzy.

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Tess Ezzy is a social worker, writer, and fibre artist based in Sydney. She's the founder of The Moody Project, a creative studio turning big feelings into whimsical felt scapes and emotional visual worlds. Her work blends therapeutic insight with artistic chaos, offering soft places to land for people who've ever felt "too much."

Well by Mamamia. Australian women, welcome to your full-body health check. At Well, our goal is to improve the health of one million Aussie women by delivering the game-changing health info they actually need. This initiative is made possible through the support of our presenting partner, Chemist Warehouse, and our mind topic sponsors, Ostelin and Medibank.