Teaching ADHD

When I was told in my thirties that I had ADHD, I laughed. Not a polite laugh, either, but the sort of slightly manic chuckle you let out when a piece of information rewrites your whole life story in the space of thirty seconds.

“Oh,” I thought, “so that’s why I can never find the whiteboard pens.”

As an adult – and a teacher – finally getting this diagnosis was like being handed the key to a room I’d been fumbling around in the dark for years. Suddenly, everything from my inability to sit through a staff meeting without doodling in the margins, to the way I hyperfocus on re-designing a lesson plan at 2am, made perfect sense. But while the clarity was refreshing, the reality of teaching with ADHD is far from straightforward.

The Sticky Bits

Let’s be honest: teaching is already an organisational marathon. There are deadlines, detentions, duty rotas, registers, reports… and that’s before you even step into the classroom. Add ADHD into the mix, and it can feel like trying to juggle twenty flaming torches while balancing on a unicycle.

Russell Barkley, one of the big names in ADHD research, puts it nicely when he says ADHD is not really about attention at all, but “a problem of self-regulation” (Barkley, 2012). That absolutely tracks. My brain isn’t short of attention – it’s that it gives it out like party bags at a Year 6 disco. A bit for the pupil asking about homework, a bit for the email pinging in the corner of my screen, and a huge bit for wondering whether I should alphabetise my classroom library right this second.

Marking is another nightmare. I’ll sit down with the best of intentions – “Right, twenty essays, let’s do this” – and suddenly I’m re-arranging my desk drawers, researching the etymology of “eyeball” (thank you, Shakespeare), or colour-coding my feedback pens. Time blindness doesn’t help either. Thomas Brown (2009) calls it one of the core features of ADHD: that slippery inability to keep track of time. For me, it means I’ll launch into a passionate explanation of dramatic irony, only to be startled when another class is queuing outside the door because I’ve gone ten minutes over.

And then there’s the emotional toll. When you’ve spent years believing you’re just disorganised, lazy, or simply not as capable as your colleagues, the diagnosis hits hard. Kessler et al. (2006) point out that adults with ADHD are more prone to anxiety and depression, often because of their long history of underachievement. For teachers, who are supposed to embody competence and authority, that feeling of being “less than” is painfully familiar.

The Upside Nobody Talks About

Here’s the thing, though: ADHD isn’t all chaos and missed deadlines. Once you stop beating yourself up about the challenges, you start to see the superpowers.

First up: creativity. Studies by White & Shah (2011) show adults with ADHD often score higher in divergent thinking – basically, coming up with lots of different solutions to a problem. That explains why I’m never short of wild lesson ideas. Did my carefully planned PowerPoint crash? Fine – I’ll improvise with a dramatic reading, a quick sketch on the board, and an impromptu role-play. Pupils often tell me my lessons are unpredictable but memorable, which, frankly, I’ll take.

Then there’s empathy. Having a brain that doesn’t always cooperate means I have bucketloads of patience for pupils who struggle. When a student confesses they “just can’t concentrate,” I don’t tut – I nod. I get it. Klein (2020) writes about the emotional intensity that often comes with ADHD, and while that can be overwhelming, it also makes you sensitive to others’ feelings. My pupils know I see them, and that goes a long way in building trust.

And of course, there’s the famous hyperfocus. Yes, I can get distracted by a paperclip, but give me a project I care about and I’ll lock in for hours. Safren et al. (2010) describe how adults with ADHD can harness this for productivity, and I’ve found it invaluable. When I’m in “the zone,” I can write an entire scheme of work in one sitting. It’s just a shame I can’t apply the same laser focus to replying to emails.

Lastly, humour. ADHD teaches you to laugh at yourself, because otherwise you’d cry every time you left the carefully prepared lesson resources at home. Pupils appreciate the honesty, too. When I admit, “Sorry, I lost my own worksheet – anyone got a spare?” they chuckle, but they also relax. They see me as human, not just a rule-enforcer with a red pen.

Life After Diagnosis

The most liberating part of finally having the label was realising I wasn’t defective – just different. I wasn’t careless, or lazy, or hopeless at adulting; my brain was simply wired to sprint in a world designed for marathon runners.

It also meant I could start putting proper strategies in place. For me, that’s been a mix of practical hacks (three alarms instead of one, colour-coded folders, and sticky notes everywhere), alongside cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT), which research suggests helps adults with ADHD manage time and self-criticism (Safren et al., 2010). Some colleagues I know have found medication life-changing; for me, it’s been about routines and external accountability.

Perhaps most importantly, I’ve stopped pretending. I’ll tell my department head straight up: “I’ll need reminders for that deadline.” I’ll ask a colleague to nudge me before meetings. And I’ve learned that requesting support isn’t weakness – it’s survival. Schools are slowly waking up to this, too. Just as we adapt lessons for neurodiverse pupils, we need to create workplaces where neurodiverse teachers can thrive.

A Juggling Act Worth Doing

I won’t sugar-coat it: teaching with ADHD is exhausting at times. There are mornings when I stare at the Everest of unmarked books and wonder if I’ll ever feel “on top of things.” There are days when my brain feels like a browser with fifty tabs open, all playing different songs.

But there are also moments of sheer joy – the laughter when a lesson goes delightfully off-script, the spark in a pupil’s eye when they realise you really understand their struggles, the burst of creative energy when planning something new.

A colleague once said to me, after a particularly lively lesson, “You don’t always stick to the plan, but you always make it unforgettable.” And maybe that’s the point. Pupils won’t remember if my registers were immaculate, but they will remember the energy, the empathy, and the feeling that difference doesn’t have to be a disadvantage.

Final Thoughts

Being diagnosed with ADHD as an adult teacher has been equal parts relief, challenge, and revelation. It hasn’t made me a “better” teacher in the traditional sense – my desk is still a disaster zone, and I still forget to reply to half my emails – but it has made me a more authentic one.

Barkley (2012) says ADHD isn’t about deficit so much as difference, and I believe that. My brain may not thrive on neat tick-box systems, but it does thrive on creativity, connection, and humour. And in the end, those are the very things that make classrooms come alive.

Now, if only I could find those whiteboard pens.