ADHD Diagnosis: Why It Might Matter (and Why It Might Not)

Getting an ADHD diagnosis can feel like a relief—or a reckoning. For some, it finally explains years of feeling scattered, misunderstood, or “too much.” For others, it stirs up a wave of shame that’s harder to name than the label itself and becomes yet another layer of the shame already stored within the body.

Why It Might Matter:

A diagnosis can validate your experience. It says, “You’re not lazy or broken—your brain just works differently.” This might feel like finally being seen and heard within your external ecosystem. If this is the case for you, I’d recommend leaning into exploring learning styles, supporting your sensory perception of the external world, and paying attention to the importance of language and frequency to validate the meaning you place on your experiences.

It can unlock access to supports, accommodations, and treatment options you may never have known existed. The trick here is that these are often not offered through the same system that delivered the diagnosis—but I’m assuming if you’re here, you already know that. Prescriptive medication can certainly serve a purpose, but it can also have a big impact on the body’s physical and energetic responses. The whole foundation of Achieving Balance Kinesiology is just that, to find your balance for what ever the outcome of your decision is.

It can help loved ones and colleagues understand you with more compassion and clarity. When handled well, this can open you up to new communities and genuine support from like-minded people—rather than simply validating your war stories and reinforcing old patterns of shame held in the body.

Why It Might Not:

The label itself—and the process of receiving it—can sometimes reinforce shame, feelings of being different, and a lack of clarity about who you are or what comes next. Labels don’t define your potential or your worth, nor do they stop you from tapping into your gifts.

Not everyone resonates with the medical model of “disorder.” Some prefer to see ADHD as simply a different neurotype rather than a deficit. We’re also living in a time when the rate of diagnosis is higher than ever. For some, this doesn’t necessarily bring more meaningful support within school or work environments—it may just add to an already overloaded system or lack of empathy.

A diagnosis doesn’t change the reality of daily life. Often, after the moment of naming it, nothing around you actually shifts. The diagnosis may even add to the already experienced overwhelm.

What I Want You to Know:

There are so many tools, techniques, and supports available to help individuals before, during, and after a diagnosis or treatment plan. And when it comes to ADHD—there’s absolutely no one-size-fits-all. Which is often why individuals end up down the medical pathway.

This is exactly why I love Kinesiology. Out of all the approaches I’ve explored, muscle testing offers something truly unique: it shows you exactly what your individual system needs, and where to start and the steps you need to take to achieve your goal.

It sets you up for success by telling your unique story—working with your nervous system, your physical symptoms, and the emotional imprints you don't even realise you’ve been carrying.

My Own ADHD diagnosis Experience

When I was diagnosed, it wasn’t a simple conversation in a local clinic. I travelled nine hours by car to Sydney to be physically, emotionally, and neurologically tested. The process was long and, in many ways, confronting. I remember sitting in a glamorous office adorned with the most beautiful crystal chandelier. The psychologist—Dr Salikavizits (a complete tongue-twister for little dyslexic me!)—oversaw the process, while a team of professionals asked detailed questions about how I learned, behaved, and responded to the world around me. There were paper-and-pencil tasks to measure problem-solving, puzzles to test spatial awareness, and memory exercises requiring me to recall patterns and sequences.

Later, I underwent EEG testing. Small electrodes were attached to my scalp to record brainwave activity as I sat as still as possible—initially in rest, then later while reading, tracking with my eyes, and responding to visual stimuli. My results showed exceptionally high spatial intelligence, excellent visual memory (shapes and patterns over letters), strong problem-solving skills, and a high IQ—but also lower-than-average brainwave activity trending toward the theta range. The final diagnosis was ADHD and dyslexia, and I was prescribed dexamphetamine to “speed up” my brainwaves. At the time, I internalised the idea that my intelligence was trapped—waiting behind the sluggish pace of my brain’s rhythm. I now know the opposite to be true.

At that moment in time, medication felt like the only solution. And while I did notice improvements—particularly in how quickly I could complete tasks, organise my thoughts, and write during the peak of my HSC—the gains were more about output speed than depth. It didn’t enhance my capacity for deep learning or the integration of complex ideas. Instead, I became a machine for rote learning, repetition, and textbook regurgitation. I mastered the game of matching syllabus dot points with content, not the art of meaning-making. On the outside, I may have seemed more emotionally regulated, but in truth, there was simply no time for emotions to land. I was thinking, moving, and performing faster than my natural rhythm—too fast for feelings to process through the body.

What I lost was my kinesthetic sense. While the dexamphetamine gave me more physical energy in the sports I played, I could no longer feel the game in the same way. I lost my natural ability to anticipate movement, to read the play before it unfolded, and to respond intuitively in the moment. More than that, I lost touch with the subtle intelligence of my body—my ability to connect to and interpret other people’s emotions, to physically feel sensations that once guided my intuition, and to channel my energy toward manifesting the goals I deeply desired. That embodied intelligence, which had once been my internal compass, went quiet.

In retrospect, I reinforced the belief that I needed to work harder, achieve more within a limited timeframe, and operate through structure and logic alone. The medication didn’t just shift how my brain processed—it distanced me from my own inner wisdom. Now, through the lens of my Human Design blueprint, this realisation is nothing short of mind-blowing. That phase of disconnection wasn’t a reflection of my true energy, my natural gifts, or my intelligence—it was a temporary override. The loss of my kinesthetic sense didn’t just dull my intuition; it amplified the shame I was already carrying—the story that I was dumb, useless, and less-than.

And what’s even more mind-blowing is this: people actively maintain meditation practices to access theta-level brainwaves—to improve intuition, creativity, manifestation, and calm. And I? I was essentially a walking, talking version of this. But instead of being celebrated, I was medicated. Instead of being supported in developing my innate gifts, I was told I was to much and taught to override them to meet a standard that was never designed for someone like me.

And this is where Kinesiology and Human Design offer a completely different approach. Instead of overriding the system, we learn to listen to it. To work with the body, not against it. If you’ve made it this far, chances are something in this story resonates—whether it’s your own journey, or that of a child or loved one. Stay tuned, because in the next few posts I’ll be sharing simple, practical tools you can use between sessions to restore balance, unravel the nervous system, and reconnect with your own unique gifts.