What I’m noticing, both in the coaching room and in my personal conversations, is how often the language of ADHD and Neurodivergence is being brought up.

I’ve noticed many people leading with “I have ADHD” or “Bear with me, this is my ADHD brain. Some of my clients come into the coaching conversation saying things like,

“I have ADHD,” or

“I think I might be Neurodivergent,” or

“Can you work with me in a way that makes sense for how my brain works?”

And I notice something else, too.

When I’m coaching clients who identify as ADHD or Neurodivergent, I often see familiar patterns in their nervous systems—patterns that are very similar to what I see in my clients who come to me for post-traumatic growth or grief work.

The experiences they share are not the same, but their nervous system responses often are.

There’s a distinct eye movement, fidgeting, pacing in conversation, distraction, speaking from the edges of their ‘window of presence’, and vigilance (Read about recognizing signs of Hyper vigilance here).

Listening and witnessing this has changed something for me, not just in my professional capacity, but also, people in my inner circle began sharing things with me they hadn’t always shared out loud. Not theories or labels, but the lived experience of their days. The exhaustion, burnout, and the relief when they felt they could be authentic or drop the mask of pretending. The effort it took for them to keep up, the descriptions of tightness and pressure in their chest, the looping thoughts of anxiety. Like many people who have been impacted by trauma, it’s as if their nervous systems never quite seemed to stand down, even when their life looked “fine” from the outside.

I found myself listening familiarly, slowing down, and staying present. Letting there be space, I wasn’t trying to help; I was just there with them, offering an embodied presence as a gift of co-regulation. And I noticed how much the same trauma-informed skills I use in my coaching work mattered in those moments. Not as tools, but as a way of being with the people I care about.

When a Late Diagnosis Feels Like a Shock

People also shared something more specific — that their late diagnosis felt surprisingly painful. Not relieving. Not clarifying. But destabilizing.

For them, it landed like a judgment. Like an identity imposed rather than cultivated. It threatened something ancient and very human: the part of us that understands belonging is often shaped by sameness, by likeness, by fitting in just enough to stay connected. The very real fear of rejection, worry about being able to meet others’ expectations, our own, and their sharing this pain has opened my eyes to how they have struggled and tried to adapt, and the feelings of pressure and desire to fit in.

There was a profound loneliness in what they described. A sense of being set apart at the very moment they were trying to understand themselves more fully. Some spoke about how pathologizing the diagnosis felt, even when it explained so much. Others named the grief of seeing their entire life through an assigned lens they never asked for.

The Cultural Pushback

Alongside this, many were also navigating a cultural response that felt dismissive or polarizing. Eye-rolling. Minimizing. The suggestion that they should “try harder” or “stop making excuses”. A sense that even naming their experience was somehow indulgent or less than.

Holding all of this at once — the relief, the grief, the questioning, the loneliness, and the pushback is a lot for any nervous system.

When belonging has felt conditional, the nervous system learns to scan for rejection. What if, in this context, vigilance makes sense?

Many neurodivergent people describe years of holding it together at work, at school, or in relationships by masking, suppressing natural behaviors, forcing focus or eye contact, mirroring expectations, or hiding sensory needs to avoid judgment or exclusion.

Seen through a trauma-informed lens, this isn’t about inauthenticity. It’s about protection. It’s the nervous system doing what it knows how to do to secure safety, acceptance, and belonging.

Over time, that constant self-monitoring carries a cost. Exhaustion. Anxiety. Burnout. A profound tiredness that doesn’t always have words.

The Nervous System Load of Always Being “On.”

Many ADHD and Neurodivergent nervous systems live closer to high alert as a baseline, struggling for a felt sense of safety and connection; they may move between activation and shutdown. (Fight/Flight or Freeze) 

In Coaching, this often shows up quietly:

“I’m so tired, and I don’t know why.”

“I crash after things go well.”

“I care deeply, but I can’t seem to make myself do the things that matter to me.”

When we look only at mindset or motivation, these experiences can feel confusing or shame-inducing. The infamous line “I should” is often a tell…I should be able to keep up, I should fit in better, I should be able to do more, I shouldn’t be this tired, I shouldn’t feel this push-pull tension all the time.”

When we look through a trauma-informed lens of compassion and appreciative inquiry, we see something different: prolonged effort, adaptation, and resilience all at once.

Trauma-Informed Coaching as a Safer Container than Performative Coaching

Trauma-informed Coaching in this context means treating every adaptation. Overworking, perfectionism, shutdown, people-pleasing, and hyper-independence are not pathologies to fix, but intelligent responses from the ever-adaptive nervous system.

It prioritizes safety by slowing the pace, tracking signs of overwhelm, respecting choice and consent, and staying within scope. 

Instead of pushing for insight and action, it pairs with a reflection on capacity and nervous-system awareness: co-regulation, permission for sensory needs, sustainability, ecological needs, and an allowing invitation to rest without falling behind.

Designing Coaching Spaces Where Belonging Is Assumed

For neurodivergent clients, safety is communicated through presence and flexibility. Pacing, format, written summaries, movement, cameras off when needed, and explicit language that says you are safe in the here and now, you are secure in this conversation, and you can build the capacity to cultivate safety in your daily lives.

The question I keep returning to in my work is this:

What is the nervous system capacity, and how do I support its cultivation so that clients and those I love and care for can move toward what matters most to them?

That’s the ground I want Coaching to grow from.