The ADHD Hook Blog

Today me and Dave started a free 10 week SEND parenting course through Rosie’s nursery and honestly? I nearly didn’t go. Because the second you hear the words “parenting course” your brain instantly goes: Brilliant. Can’t wait to sit in a tiny plastic chair while somebody explains how my child’s emotional attachment to a yoghurt spoon somehow traces back to my unresolved trauma and inability to enforce bedtime. I think a lot of parents feel like that but nobody admits it because society has made parenting weirdly performative. Everybody’s either: “gentle parenting” “firm parenting” “crunchy parenting” or one bad morning away from hiding in the downstairs toilet eating a biscuit in silence while Bluey judges them from the background. And honestly? SEND parenting adds a whole extra layer. Because half the time you already feel like you’re under observation anyway. School forms. Assessments. Meetings. Behaviour charts. Professionals watching your child while your brain ...

thought I’d feel relief. After everything my body has put me through… the hormones, the spirals, the days where my own brain turns on me… I thought choosing a hysterectomy would feel like finally being free. And it does. But today it feels like grief has wrapped itself around my chest and refuses to let go. I’ve cried all day. The kind of crying that doesn’t ask permission. The kind that comes from somewhere deep inside your bones. Because this isn’t just a surgery. This is me closing the door on the one thing I truly, deeply believe I’m good at. Being a mum. And yeah… I mum-shame myself daily. I doubt myself. I overthink everything. I lie awake replaying moments, wondering if I got it wrong. What mum doesn’t? But underneath all of that… I love being a mum. It’s the one place in my life where, even in the chaos, even in the mess, even when I feel like I’m failing… I know it matters. I know I matter. And now I’m choosing to end the part of me that creates that life. No more pregnancy te...

 I had two babies before I had Hunter. Most people don’t know that. Not because I’m hiding it… but because I was never really allowed to have it. The first one was 7 weeks. At the same time my grandad was dying, and my mum… well, she was dealing with her own chaos. Gambling, secrets, everything spilling out. And somehow… it became my fault. I told people what was going on because I didn’t know what else to do. I was 21, living in my boyfriend’s box room, trying to hold everything together with hands that were already shaking. Instead of being held, I was blamed. Mum blamed me for telling. Dad blamed me for the timing. Like grief has a schedule. Like loss politely waits its turn. So I lost a baby… and then I learned very quickly that my pain was inconvenient. The second time… I didn’t even tell anyone at first. That tells you everything. I was living in a flat that barely deserved the name. No carpet. Holes in the walls. The kind of place that echoes when you breathe. I told him… an...

 So. I rang my dad again. I know. Growth is a journey. Apparently a repetitive one. Not a birthday. Not a dramatic date. Just a random day — which in hindsight was bold of me. Therapy didn’t cure hope. Rude. He answered. “Who is it?” Always reassuring when the man who helped make you needs a hint. “Dad.” “What do you want?” Straight in. No hello. Like I’d called to complain about something he’d already decided was my fault. I did the calm thing. The healed thing. Explained I’m not who I was five years ago. Or even last year. I’ve grown. Reflected. Learned to regulate. Learned when to shut up. Learned that silence sometimes means dignity and not dissociation (progress). He said he was at work. Told me to call later. Hung up. Efficient. Minimal. On brand. And yes — like an absolute idiot — I believed him. Hope turned up briefly. Hovered. Didn’t sit down. Just said, Maybe this time, then watched me embarrass myself. I rang later. Ring. Ring. Ring. Call ended. No argument. No shouting....

 The Two Souls I clicked ‘Leave Meeting’ on my therapy session today… and instead of feeling heavy, I just sat there for a minute. Not crying. Not overthinking. Just sitting with it — which is already different for me. My therapist told me there might be two kinds of souls in this world. Not good and bad. Not right and wrong. Just… different. I didn’t realise how much I needed to hear it until I did. What I Wrote Down From Therapy: Growing Souls The ones who go through hard things — but grow from them. They reflect. They learn. They try to do better. They break patterns. They take accountability. They build safer homes than the ones they grew up in. Stuck Souls They go through pain too… but they don’t change. They blame the world. They avoid the mirror. They repeat the lesson because they don’t believe they have one to learn. Then My Therapist Said Something I Can’t Stop Thinking About: “ Zoe, you are not a stuck soul. You’re doing the work — and that means you’re growing. And grow...

 Let’s be honest — none of us know what the hell we’re doing. Adulthood is basically running on caffeine, anxiety, and vibes, while hoping nobody notices we’re just winging it. Here’s the thing — we’re all out here winging it, but pretending we’ve got some kind of master plan. Spoiler: none of us do. Half of adulthood is googling “can you reheat rice without dying” and the other half is forgetting you even bought rice. We don’t say: “I’m exhausted but if I stop for five minutes, the guilt monster eats me alive.” “I’m scared people only like me when I’m funny or useful, not when I’m lying on the sofa staring at the wall like it owes me rent.” “Sometimes I wonder if everyone else got the manual for life and I just got the Argos leaflet that only gives you the dimensions.” And yet — if you strip away the polished Insta grids and the ‘yeah not bad, you?’ small talk? We’re all living some version of the same feral chaos. 🧶 The ADHD Flavour of Relatable Losing your glasses… while they’r...