ADHD, Medication, and the Fight to Be Myself
I don’t remember how old I was when I was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, or ADHD. But I do remember the car rides—so many of them—to see a doctor. Later, I’d learn he was a child psychologist specializing in kids like me. I remember going to the nurse’s office before or after lunch almost every day in elementary school, lining up for a pill that none of my friends had to take. And I remember what people said about me when my medication wasn’t quite right—how I was too hyperactive, too uncontrolled, too much.
Even into my teens, the phrase “Did you take your medicine?”—often tossed at me as a dig rather than a genuine question—made me bristle with anger.
What I didn’t realize back then was just how much the medication helped me. How Ritalin, Concerta, and other stimulants brought my system into balance, allowing me to focus and develop the skills I needed to function in a world that wasn’t designed for me.
Maybe that’s part of why, in my late teens and early adulthood, I refused to take them. I got caught up in the idea that the medication was changing me, warping me into someone I wasn’t. I believed I could only be my real self if I was completely unmedicated.
I look back on that now with regret.
You know that question people ask—What would you tell your younger self? Over the years, I’ve had plenty of answers. But right now, the one that stands out the most is this:
I wish I could find that teenage version of me, the one struggling with his identity, trying to figure out what worked and what didn’t. I’d tell him: Listen. The meds don’t make you someone else. Sure, they might make you feel different—you might have sharper focus, more drive, or even more energy depending on what you’re taking. But they don’t erase who you are. They don’t turn you into someone fake. They allow you to be the truest version of yourself, the best version of yourself. And I know that’s scary right now. But trust me: taking them is the right choice.
That insight didn’t come to me until fairly recently. And I have my wife, Sarah, to thank for it. She encouraged me to take my mental health seriously, to really examine my ADHD symptoms. That’s when I also realized I had depression.
Looking back, it seems obvious. But in my family, like so many others, mental health struggles were only ever discussed in hushed whispers, wrapped in layers of trauma and secrecy. I was lucky—I got treatment. I went through trial after trial of different antidepressants, trying to find the right fit. And eventually, I even got back on ADHD medication.
And when I did, it hit me—how much time I had wasted fighting against a tool that could have made my life so much easier. How I had let a misguided belief about medication hold me back.
I used to think meds like Ritalin and Vyvanse were just legal meth, only used by people looking to get high or pull all-nighters to ace their exams. But if I had actually taken them in college? I think my entire experience would have been better. Maybe I would have been better.
But there’s no changing the past. All I can do is move forward. I’ve learned how to take care of my mental health, and though I know it’s a lifelong journey, I’m getting better at it.
That’s why hearing politicians compare ADHD medication and antidepressants to heroin—why hearing them talk about detox camps to force people off their prescriptions—terrifies me. It’s a level of ignorance that isn’t just frustrating; it’s dangerous.
I worry. About my friends. About my family. About myself. And now, that worry feels bigger than ever.
So if you’re someone struggling with the way ADHD medication, antidepressants, or other necessary treatments are being misrepresented right now—if you’re taking care of yourself the way you and your doctor decided was best, or if you know someone who does—I want you to hear this:
These are not “legal drugs.” They are not tools of laziness, indulgence, or deception.
They are lifelines.
They help people who struggle in ways others can’t understand. They give someone the ability to go to the grocery store without a panic attack. To maintain basic hygiene, eat regular meals, and function without spiraling into exhaustion.
Just as someone with a physical disability might need a wheelchair or a prosthetic, people with neurological conditions or cognitive differences sometimes need medication to navigate life. And we need to stop stigmatizing that.
We need to stop assuming these medications are something they’re not.