I Thought I Was Broken—Turns Out, I Just Had ADHD

Guest Blogger: Matthew Townend

About our Blogger: Matt Townend works for SALT, a Christian dating app that seeks to connect Christians from all walks of life. He met his wife on SALT in 2019 and now has a 1-year-old son and another boy on the way. He lives in Leeds, UK.

It wasn’t too long ago that I couldn’t sit through meetings without zoning out. I’d reread the same line in a book five times and still not absorb it. I’d plan my day the night before, only to forget the plan in the morning. I was forgetful, scattered, sometimes brilliant, sometimes totally paralysed—and I hated that I couldn’t explain why.

People joked that I was impatient and easily distracted, and I laughed along, but I also

carried this quiet weight. I always felt like I was underperforming at life. Like if I just tried

harder—got more sleep, bought another planner, quit caffeine, prayed more—then maybe I could finally function the way everyone else seemed to.

I’m the Commercial Co-ordinator for a Christian dating app, and on paper, my job is

amazing. I get to help launch the app in new countries, work on campaigns that connect

believers, and shape how single Christians experience dating online. But behind the scenes?

I was barely keeping my head above water. Tasks that seemed simple to others—replying to emails, managing time, staying consistent—felt like uphill battles for me. I constantly worried I was letting people down and wasn’t going to progress in my career. I carried a deep fear that someone would “find me out”—that I wasn’t as capable or reliable as I appeared.

That all changed a few months ago, when I was officially diagnosed with ADHD.

It’s hard to describe how emotional that moment was. I cried. A lot. Not because I was sad, but because for the first time, my whole life started to make sense. All the shame I carried, all the internal accusations of being lazy or flaky or undisciplined—they suddenly had a name. And that name wasn’t “character flaw.” It was ADHD.

Since the diagnosis, two major things have transformed my world: medication and self-

Understanding.

First, let’s talk about medication. I was prescribed Vyvanse, and to say it’s changed my life is an understatement. I didn’t realise how much of my day was spent chasing dopamine.

Coffee. Sugar. Scrolling. Overthinking. I was in a constant loop of trying to get my brain to “click in.” On Vyvanse, that loop quieted down. For the first time, I could sit still. I could finish a thought. I could write a report and not feel like my brain was trying to drag me in ten different directions. It’s not a miracle drug—I still have to manage my time and create structure—but it’s like glasses for my brain. Everything just feels clearer. Sharper. Calmer.

But the bigger transformation has come from self-awareness.

I used to beat myself up for zoning out in conversations, especially with people I care about.

I thought it meant I was rude or self-absorbed. Now I realise my brain literally struggles to regulate attention, especially when it’s tired or overstimulated. That knowledge doesn’t excuse everything, but it gives me language. And with language, I can make choices. I can say, “Hey, I really want to be present to talk about this—can we come back to that topic?” or “I’m finding it hard to track, can you say that again?”

I used to wonder why I was drawn so strongly to snacks, caffeine, even alcohol—anything that gave me a short-term dopamine hit. Now I understand my brain was under-stimulated and seeking regulation. I’m not broken. I’ve actually done a remarkable job of surviving, adapting, and even thriving in a world that wasn’t designed for brains like mine.

And maybe the most healing realization? I’m not lazy. I’ve always worked so hard—just

under the weight of a brain that was constantly trying to self-soothe, juggle distractions, and manage emotions without any tools or explanation.

This awareness has changed how I show up in relationships too. I can catch myself being impatient, drifting away in a conversation, and I can honestly share that with people, and they understand. I’ve heard people say “that makes sense” when I share about my diagnosis, and even a few “I didn’t perceive you that way”, which shows that I was at least somewhat good at masking my symptoms.

Even in my faith, I feel a shift. I used to beg God to help me be a better person, and always felt that pain of guilt behind it all. Now, I feel Him saying, You’re not broken. You’re beautifully made—brain quirks and all.

There’s this passage in Psalm 139 that hits me differently now: “You knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” I’ve read that verse a hundred times. But this year, I finally believe it applies to me. Not the “me I should be”—but the actual me.

I’m still learning what this all means for my future. I’m building better systems for work. I’ve changed how I structure my day. I set timers, take breaks, and I try to celebrate what I do get done rather than focusing on what’s still unfinished. I’m kinder to myself. I no longer feel like I need to pretend I have it all together. It turns out that vulnerability actually makes me a better colleague and a better Christian.

I don’t know where you’re reading this from—maybe you’ve always known you had ADHD. Maybe you’re just beginning to wonder. Or maybe you’re someone who’s struggled silently for years like I did. Whatever your story is, I just want you to know: there’s nothing wrong with you. Diagnosis isn’t about labelling you—it’s about liberating you. Giving you tools. Language. Compassion. Grace.

God doesn’t make mistakes. And He’s not surprised by how your brain works. In fact, He probably loves that it works just like that. The hyper-focus. The fast thoughts. The creativity. The empathy. The mess. The brilliance.

And if you’re someone like me—working in a high-output, highly relational job where your mind sometimes feels like both your greatest asset and your biggest challenge—please hear this: You’re not alone. You’re doing better than you think. And you are not broken. You’re just wired differently. Wonderfully.