I Am Not My Diagnosis

Diagnosis can be a gift — a moment of clarity, a name for our pain, a reason for why things have felt so hard. It can invite compassion from others, and more importantly, from ourselves. But as comforting as diagnosis can be, it can also become a trap.

A lot of my personal struggles, many of my traits point to me having signs of ADHD, and it’s true: my life experience closely mirrors those who’ve been formally diagnosed. But I don’t say I have ADHD. I certainly don’t say I am ADHD. And it’s not because I reject mental health, or deny the challenges I face. It’s because I refuse to collapse the entirety of my being into a clinical estimate.

A diagnosis is just that: an estimate. It’s a way of grouping traits that cause suffering, distress, or dysfunction. It can open doors: to therapy, to support, to community. But it can also close others — especially when we start to identify too strongly with it.

When we say, “This is who I am”, we risk getting stuck. We start seeing ourselves through the lens of symptoms. We begin to expect limitations. We might even seek refuge in the role of the misunderstood or victimised. Because yes, it can feel good to be understood. But it won’t move us forward.

Personally, I’ve never found much help in boasting a diagnosis. I don’t seek formal confirmation — not because I’m afraid of the result, but because I doubt it would help me help myself. I’m not convinced by the standard treatments, especially not the medical and behavioural ones. And finding a therapist who truly understands neurodivergence and meets it with compassion, curiosity, and lived insight is rare. Too often, professionals come from a neurotypical perspective that can unintentionally overlook the depth and diversity of neurodivergent experiences. Some may approach us with pity or misunderstanding, framing difference as disorder rather than diversity. While there are certainly exceptions, this gap in understanding can make seeking help feel isolating rather than healing.

Much of what we label “disorder” could, I believe, be traced back to unquiet life stories. Early childhood environments. The state of our nervous systems. Birth experiences. Habits (or the lack thereof). Stress, trauma, even toxins or the sensitivity to them. Most of all, the pace and pressure of the modern world — a society that celebrates speed, independence, and sameness, while subtly punishing anyone who moves differently through life.

That’s why I don’t identify with a diagnosis. I don’t want to live inside a box, even if the box feels safer than the unknown. I’ve found that much of my healing lies in going slow. In building healthy habits. In learning to hold myself with kindness, socially and emotionally. In letting go of trying to be "normal", and allowing myself to be whole.

Because identity, too, comes with a price. Yes, it can offer a sense of belonging, but sometimes it builds walls around us. In neurodivergent spaces, I often see people retreat into new bubbles where difference is celebrated, yet shortcomings are constantly reinforced. We internalise others’ interpretations of our diagnosis and assume these definitions must be our own. But I am more than that. I am I.

I am not my diagnosis. I have a mind, a body, a voice of my own. I am not a checklist. I am not a pathology. I am someone who has suffered, yes. As I am also someone who is learning, adapting, becoming. My suffering has not only come from my wiring, but from the mismatch between who I am and the world I live in.

So here’s my gentle invitation to you: take what helps from diagnosis. But don’t let it define you. Don’t stop there. You are not broken. You are not your diagnosis. Keep growing into your self — beyond categories, beyond assumptions, into the freedom of simply being YOU.