I’m a late-diagnosed AuDHDer navigating the competing needs of myself, my neurodivergent kids, and our health. Here’s how I take it day by day.

Iris Wong is a speech therapist and executive function coach who was diagnosed as AuDHD (autistic and ADHD) a few months shy of her 40th birthday. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her similarly wired children.

8:05 a.m. Snooze. I wake up on the floor cushion in the living room, alongside my 7-year-old. My 3-year-old finally went back to her own room after a long hiatus. It was our first sleep at home after being out for weeks for mold remediation.

8:40 a.m. The 3-year-old needs her dad to take her to daycare drop-off. It’s just a street behind our home. I’ll take the help. 

9:15 a.m. My 7-year-old and I roll in late to an art camp. We get a cackle out of a cat who slipped into the entryway of the nearby cat rescue and knocked over a trash can. My son sticks his fingers to the glass door to try to get a touch. I say, “After camp.”

10:00 a.m. I do a Zoom call with some neurodivergent caregivers. We share our “both/and” experiences. Mine is about mold, and a part of me still feeling safe. A visual metaphor comes up for me: A magnet yo-yo thing. It’s like being pulled down by gravity (our moldy circumstances and growing list of chronic illnesses), countered by our own will, agency, and help that I’m hoping was good help. 

11:55 a.m. Pick up kid from camp. It’s a busier week than usual. We’re usually at home, squatting. We’ve had a lot of change this summer. Figuring out meds. And what are mycotoxins?

12:00 p.m. Before we leave for home, we visit the cats at the rescue because of the trash can diver. Turns out the cat is a lap sitter, too. There are so many tiny kittens. I can’t tell them apart! Thank goodness they have collars. 

2:54 p.m. Order burgers and onion rings, a new safe food for my 7-year-old. I lie down and finish a mini series I got sucked into. I never do this. But I stayed up late the night prior, and I’m feeling it. 

5:40 p.m. My 3-year-old comes home from daycare. My spouse — aka her preferred parent — picked her up. 

7:15 p.m. My spouse leaves to catch up on some work, an accommodation we make for each other sometimes. The kids and I do some trampolining outside, but we can’t agree on how to play, so we come back in. We move on to some play-dough and gaming. 

9:00 p.m. Spouse returns. Late dinner for the 7-year-old. Third dinner for the 3-year-old. 

9:20 p.m. I see a bill for the reconstruction portion of our mold remediation project. Yay. One less thing to track. Zelle-ing immediately. Get a nice text back from the contractor. Closing this loop helps my autistic part and gives me some external social assurance that I did my part of the comms “right.”

9:50 p.m. My 7-year-old is out. I try to help my 3-year-old to bed. She cries for daddy. We swap again. I’m asleep. 

5:33 a.m. My 7-year-old crawls into my floor bed. I get onto the couch. I need my space. Log in to my asynchronous kidlit class that I pop into when time and energy align. I don’t know if I should be writing for kids. Hi, ADHD — where everything’s an interest and experiment! I turn on the fan to block out our cats’ early morning play. I fall asleep at some point.

7:42 a.m. Feed the two cats. They headbutt me and kibble dive. 

7:48 a.m. Kitty dopamine over. It’s a similar morning to yesterday, and my autistic part loves that. It helps my ADHD, too. I’m more able to gauge time without it ticking up time anxiety. Yesterday, the art teacher was super kind and waited for my kid. I’m trying for “on time” today. 

7:55 a.m. I redirect my 7-year-old to a sunny spot to wake up with some tablet time. At some point, our senior dog lies down on the floor bed next to him. I do like my brain for the small, sweet things it notices.

7:57 a.m. Coffee! I have to have good coffee. I don’t take meds because my mindbody is oversensitive. 

8:04 a.m. Kid meds next. Complicated, and a lot for my own executive function. But I do it — and do it well. 

8:18 a.m. I prep my no-makeup face and sensory-friendly outfit. High of 79 degrees today. Humidity is thankfully down from 90 percent last night. I have to check for sensory comfort and overheating. It’s a need, not a want. I make a mental note to clear the front door visual clutter so we don’t miss what to load into the car. Shoes! Pants! I run back in a couple of times. My 3-year-old is sad about her transition to daycare because she wishes she were going to go grocery shopping instead, endearingly termed “shop-yay-yay.” 

9:08 a.m. Take myself to a solo movie for sensory self-care: Being alone in a dark space with my popcorn and no crowd. I got the tickets last night, so one less executive function to-do for me today.

11:31 a.m. Early for camp pickup. I do some digital errands, paired with a podcast on SSRI history. I log my to-dos in Google Calendar. I keep it simple to reduce demand but support my working memory. Unsubscribe from emails. Reduce clutter/info in. I check my phone a lot as I get closer to pickup time. I can’t feel time — I need to see it. I use alarms less in public. 

12:42 p.m. Give my 7-year-old second meds before his reading Zoom. He wants to do the Zoom in our cat room. I say “nope” because cats walk all over keyboards. So he shows the tutor his cats during the last 5 minutes.

2:27 p.m. The 7-year-old FaceTimes a friend. I put on a podcast episode about pathological demand avoidance (PDA) where an AuDHD therapist I’ve followed online is a guest. 

2:50 p.m. Late lunch. I run into my spouse on break and give an update on the funny (and some important) items.

4:00 p.m. Put on some brain.fm as I edit down my notes for this piece. 

5:45 p.m. My 3-year-old and spouse go to get groceries. There is some dysregulation for those of us at home. I put in my earbuds to process. My nervous system healing is not quick or permanent. 

7:00 p.m. Spouse heads out for work prep. It’s a heavier lift week. The rest of us partake in the art that is a progressive system shutdown. I need a nap before I can brush my teeth. 

8:48 a.m. After a long snooze, I wake up to a post of an online friend who saved a historic tree some time ago, and that makes me happy. It also reminds me of the things we don’t know about people.

8:56 a.m. Hubs gets us coffee because he has a big meeting. I start to think about how eating helps me wake. Think about old friends I miss. Some I’ve had to let go of because of this life and what it looks like. I read about the health update of my favorite artist, Brit Chida. I think of an email about planning a neurodiversity talk at a lovely pre-K co-op. I’m missing the energy that I need to write back, but I really want to. I sit on the floor to ground myself. I think of the fall and restarting with my private practice clients that I haven’t seen all summer, due to needing to stabilize our own complex health needs. I get that familiar feeling of the tug of wanting it, and the pull of some anxieties about whether I can show up in the ways I want and be a good collaborator. 

9:20 a.m. Grateful for past-me who made a 100+ deep playlist that is a gentle support for this nervous system. 

10:45 a.m. We leave early for a one-hour-ish drive to a mental health therapy appointment for my 7-year-old. It’s new. I don’t like help because it often misunderstands us. But right now, we choose curiosity with this crack in our window of tolerance. My son likes getting a mochi doughnut next door, and we deal with car sickness, so leaving mega early is the way to go. I wonder how I come off to the therapist. When providers are openly neurodivergent, that helps me. I’m not sure if this one is.

12:13 p.m. Oops! Miscommunication on the start time, and the therapist is waiting for us. Kid is happy to go in and play. This is a win. I take a bio break and splash water on my face. I feel a good cry coming on, but I save it for later. Since my AuDHD self-identification (and then later official diagnosis), I notice so much more. It’s a complicated gift. 

1:30 p.m. To break up the drive home, we drop by a boba spot. We know and like the staffer there. 

5:30 p.m. We try to take it easy together for a few hours. At the moment, we seem healthier. But in the chronic illness life, things can change on a dime. A couple more weeks, and it’s back to school, and those waves will move things around again. Seasons. I remind myself that this is naturally occurring, too. 

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