For most of my adult life, productivity was my personality. As a millennial, I grew up in the era of hustle culture—where grinding was a badge of honor and burnout was just the price of entry. I wore “workaholic” like it was something to be proud of. I didn’t just work hard; I built my sense of worth around being constantly in motion.
But then something shifted. I began taking real time off. I moved out on my own. I entered a serious relationship. My grandmother passed away. And suddenly, the frantic rhythm I’d lived by for years stopped making sense.
With the work no longer filling every corner of my life, the empty spaces felt… uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. Even a little scary. So I filled them—with going out, with people, with my relationship, with anything that kept me from sitting still. And because I also have ADHD, stillness doesn’t come naturally anyway. My mind leaps from one branch to another before I can realize I’ve lost the moment.
I found myself asking:
How do I know where the balance is? And how do I stay grounded enough to be present in my own life?
What I’m learning—slowly—is that finding balance isn’t about dividing time perfectly. It’s about learning how to live in the in-between spaces without needing to fill them.
Here’s what I’ve discovered so far.
For years, “balance” sounded like a math equation: work, relationships, rest, creativity, social time, self-care—all perfectly proportioned. But balance isn’t static; it’s a dynamic state. It shifts with grief, transitions, stress, and growth.
After losing my grandmother, I kept expecting myself to function like nothing had changed. But grief takes up space. It blurs focus. It rewrites priorities. Expecting balance to look the same during major life transitions is like expecting the ocean to hold still.
Balance isn’t something we arrive at. It’s something we calibrate, again and again.
ADHD makes presence challenging. It’s not a moral failure or a lack of discipline. It’s wiring.
Stillness to the ADHD brain can feel like a void—one it tries to fill with movement, stimulation, or social interaction. But what helps is building “anchors”—small sensory or behavioral cues that bring us back into our bodies.
Some grounding anchors that actually work for ADHD minds:
Presence doesn’t have to look like silence on a cushion. It can be active, rhythmic, embodied.
If you’ve been a chronic over-worker, rest can feel like slacking, avoidance, or even guilt. You feel the itch to dosomething. Fill the space. Make yourself “useful.”
But the truth is: rest is a resource. Presence is a resource. A regulated nervous system is a resource.
Without them:
Taking time off isn’t abandoning productivity. It’s investing in the version of yourself that can actually sustain it.
You’re not just navigating burnout or ADHD—you’re navigating:
Any one of those would shift a person’s emotional landscape. All three at once is a full renovation of self. It makes sense that your internal rhythms feel off. You’re re-learning what stability looks like.
During big transitions, the question isn’t “How do I get back to my old balance?”
It’s “Who am I becoming, and what does this version of me need?”
The real work starts with allowing yourself to slow down long enough to feel whatever is actually happening inside you.
Presence isn’t forced. It’s permitted.
Some gentle practices that help:
Write one sentence at a time:
ADHD minds work better with low barriers to entry.
Ten minutes with no phone.
A shower with no music.
A drive with no podcast.
Stillness doesn’t have to be long—it just has to be real.
Ask yourself:
Simple questions lead to honest self-correction.
Presence isn’t all-or-nothing. It’s not about being zen 24/7 or having monk-like focus. It’s about catching yourself drifting and gently coming back.
Especially with ADHD, the goal is not perfect attention—it’s intention.
Presence is the practice of returning.
Returning to your body.
Returning to the moment.
Returning to yourself.
Again and again.
You’re balancing grief, change, growth, ADHD, independence, and love. That’s not a small thing.
Sometimes the most grounding thing is asking for support:
Balance isn’t built in isolation. It’s built in relationship—both to yourself and to the people around you.
You’re not failing at balance.
You’re recalibrating in real time.
You’re learning how to be still in a world that taught you to run.
You’re learning how to feel in a world that taught you to numb.
You’re learning how to be in a world that taught you only how to do.
Take your time.
Make space for the new you that’s emerging.
And trust that presence will grow in you the way all healing does—quietly, gradually, and honestly.
Making friends in adulthood takes courage — especially in recovery, when the friendships you once had don’t fit your life anymore.
