Gentle Beginnings — on Grief, ADHD, and New Rhythms
- Coach Mary
- Jun 30
- 7 min read
Updated: Jul 8
Welcome, and thank you for joining me here in this space! 🪴
This marks the very first blog post on Hesed ADHD, a vision I’ve long hoped to bring to life — something meaningful, supportive, and grounded in thoughtful understanding. A space for reflection shaped by both lived experience and research. A gentle corner to explore the nuances of ADHD, wellbeing, and what it means to live with a brain that may not follow convention but is no less worthy of care, creativity, and beauty.
Each post here will offer one (or sometimes two!) monthly reflections on themes related to ADHD — especially in the areas of wellbeing, self-kindness, personal growth, and building sustainable rhythms that support presence, rest, and reflection. Some posts will draw from research, others from lived experiences, and all will be rooted in the belief that every brain is uniquely wired and deserves care that honors that individuality. Just because something works for someone doesn’t mean it works for everyone. You deserve tools, rhythms, and perspectives that actually fit. Some posts (like this very first one) may be longer and heavier, while others will be short and light.
And if we haven’t met yet — well, hello 👋! I’m OT/Coach Mary, a fellow ADHDer, Licensed Occupational Therapist, and Certified ADHD Coach. I’m also Asian-Canadian-American, Christian by faith, and someone who deeply values kindness, authenticity, creativity, curiosity, connection, intentionality, and the beauty of God's creation. Life is often messy and uncertain, and I’m walking through it too — not from the other side, but alongside with you, sharing what I can, as I go.
Hesed ADHD was designed out of my own journey of growth — a continuous process of learning how my brain works, healing from deeply ingrained shame-based thought patterns, and building rhythms that support my wellbeing instead of leading to burnout. I wanted to create a space where ADHDers, especially those navigating cultural, societal, or faith-based barriers, could come as they are, feel seen and supported, and be empowered to thrive. To walk together through the complexities of life with a brain that works differently, but no less beautifully.
This blog is for anyone navigating ADHD, wanting to release the weight of long-held shame, untangle deeply rooted beliefs that are no longer helpful, or simply searching for a gentle way forward. This first post, like the journey it reflects, is not perfect. But it’s a beginning, and that’s more than enough (a reminder to myself!).
A Gentle Note Before We Continue
The following touches on themes of grief and loss. If these topics feel tender or too close right now, I invite you to pause or return when and if you’re ready.
“Grief is the price we pay for love."
— Attributed to Dr. Colin Murray Parkes
And, in my own attempt at a haiku:
devastating grief
no stranger—we meet again
night, swift as a thief
— An imperfect haiku by yours truly
An Update and Reflection — Amidst Fragments of ADHD, Grief and New Rhythms
Earlier this year, Hesed ADHD entered a quiet season as I stepped back to grieve the loss of someone very dear to me. Though I had long known this loss would come, it still arrived more suddenly and profoundly than I could have imagined. The weeks and months that followed called for space and new rhythms — to grieve, to be present with family, and to tend to what felt too sacred to rush.
As someone with ADHD, my grief certainly did not unfold neatly. Some days felt unbearably loud, with memories crashing in and tears rising from the ache of wanting to hear their voice again. Other days, I felt strangely untouched by the loss, as though it never happened. It was as if my brain couldn’t hold the weight, and I continued through life busy and distracted. The emotional intensity surprised me at times, more than I expected, even for my usually highly sensitive ADHD self. I found myself trying to make sense of a new reality without someone who had been such a core part of my life, while wondering if I was grieving “correctly.” But there is no right way to grieve. Especially not with a brain like mine — one that processes time, memory, and emotion in nonlinear, layered, and often chaotic ways.
Grief can unravel our sense of time, identity, and purpose. And for those of us with ADHD, that disorientation can feel even sharper. I found myself questioning everything — what this year was meant to hold, what it could possibly look like without the person who helped shape so much of my life and being.
I've come to realize what has supported me most during this time was the foundation I've been building over the years in learning to understand and honor how I work. That understanding gave me something I once struggled to offer myself — permission. Permission to slow down, to feel, to not always have to be "productive", and to receive care. It’s still hard to take a pause (I know this too well), and with time, I am also realizing that healing doesn't just mean bouncing back, but moving forward in ways that are sustainable and true to how I'm wired. Though I'm not on the other side of grief (and perhaps there isn't one), I'm learning to walk through it by making space for something new to grow alongside the sorrow. New rhythms.
With new rhythms in mind, I’ve recently redesigned Hesed ADHD's structure as a kind of experiment (a necessity for "recovering perfectionists" like myself) — integrating client feedback about the desire for more clarity and built-in structure, while also protecting the rhythms and space I need to sustain this work I care so deeply about. It's still a work in progress — like this blog, like me. Your feedback is always welcome. It may not be the perfect fit for everyone, but my hope is that it offers inspiration, encouragement, or simply a sense of gentle care.
This post is a beginning — a reflection, an update, and an invitation to explore what grief can look like with ADHD... and more importantly, how we might uncover the rhythms, supports, and permission within to help us move forward with more kindness and care to ourselves.
Other Forms of Grief
While this post began as a reflection on personal loss, I want to acknowledge that grief wears many facades. Many of the ADHDers I work with experience a form of grief after receiving their diagnosis, especially in adulthood. It often arrives with a wave of realization of how misunderstood they’ve been, the lost time, the strained relationships, the mislabels and missed chances, the deep ache of “If only I had known.” A quiet, piercing grief that can be just as impactful as any external loss.
Life transitions, too, carry their own grief. Leaving a job. Moving cities. Becoming a parent. Shifting roles. Each change invites both hope and sorrow, opening space for something new while asking us to release something familiar. And yet, in a world that rewards speed, strength, and silver linings, it can be hard to sit honestly with loss. And even harder still to make space for ourselves to process it, especially when the demands of life and culture keep urging us forward. It can feel difficult to honor our losses without guilt or shame.
When Grief Meets ADHD
ADHD doesn’t just impact attention, it affects everything: how we process emotions, our perception of time, our ability to regulate and adapt, our experience in meaning-making.
According to clinical psychologist Dr. Thomas Brown, ADHDers often experience "flooding" — a complete emotional overwhelm that takes over the mind like a wave, displacing all other thought and making it difficult to focus or think clearly (Brown via ADDitude Magazine, 2025). Psychiatrist Dr. William Dodson describes a similar phenomenon and calls this "emotional hyperarousal," which makes it difficult to shift between emotional states or regulate the internal intensity of experience or to return to baseline (Dodson via ADDitude Magazine, 2024).
Grief with ADHD can look like:
Being overcome with emotion, then suddenly detached
Forgetting important dates and memories, and afterwards feeling guilty and the gnawing fear that you might lose them in memory too
Hyperfocusing on memories or details while unintentionally ignoring self-care
Emotional overwhelm disrupting daily routines
Confusion around what we feel and why
Grief is not linear. Neither is ADHD. Together, they require a gentler kind of care.
Holding Space for Each Other
If someone you care about is grieving and has ADHD, consider asking, “How is today for you?” instead of “How are you?” Offer small acts of presence, only if you are able. A meal, a quiet visit, maybe even offering to be a body-double so they can get their day going. Not to fix, but to be a companion and to simply be present.
And if you are grieving, whether from loss, transition, reflection, a diagnosis — please know that your grief is valid. Your emotions are allowed. You don’t have to get over it. You don’t have to rush. Finding permission within to seek safe, affirming support can make a meaningful difference.
Grief may not be something we move on from. But we can learn to carry it with tenderness. Sometimes lightly, sometimes with effort. And in that carrying, may we find space for both sorrow and joy. Both memory and hope.
Moving Forward and What's Next
I don’t have a complete ending for this post, because I’m still in it. But I am continuing. Slowly. With more clarity and care than before.
Like I mentioned earlier, this blog will grow gently over time. I hope it becomes a space that supports your journey — whether you’re exploring ADHD, navigating change, making sense of burnout, rebuilding after loss, or simply seeking a new way forward.
And if you’re looking for structured support to begin making sense of and in processing your ADHD, I offer a 1-1 service called Building Foundations for Adult ADHD (check out my service options here). It’s designed for those who are ready to take a courageous step toward exploring their unique ADHD experience and begin taking meaningful steps forward, with someone walking alongside them.
Wherever you are right now — in grief, transition, growth, or uncertainty — I see you. Your feelings matter. Your process matters. There is no wrong place to begin.
Thank you for reading this first post. It’s an honor to share this space with you.
P.S. This post was written with care (and way too many rewrites) — and, quite honestly, with a little trembling. It’s imperfectly written by a recovering perfectionist. But I hope it offered something validating, something useful, and something gently encouraging.
