ADHD Relationships: Overthinking Our Way to Love
Why I Wore Orange for My Wedding
I was so confident going into my second marriage that I wrote an article that got me into the Huffington Post about why I wore orange for my wedding, honoring a relationship where my quirks felt seen and appreciated—not just tolerated. But their coming out as trans stirred up a bunch of unprocessed trauma and they literally became a different person. We’re still good friends and now they tell me that what really happened was that I created a safe space to allow them to be their full self and process all of the stuff that they had been suppressing over the years.
I guess when I look back on it, that’s actually a common theme my past relationships: seeing the best in others and seeing their potential opens up possibilities that maybe weren’t there before. Sometimes that leads to healing, sometimes to avoidance. I’ve learned that mirroring someone’s intense emotions doesn’t always create healthy relationships, and can often be draining over time.
Sharing From the Heart
Now that it’s been a few years since we split, and I’ve been taking a pause from dating for a while, I feel like it’s as good a time as ever to step back and reflect on what I’ve learned through three distinct stages of dating and two very different marriages—with a few surprisingly consistent themes throughout. Interestingly, I’ve come to notice that my connections & relationships have been about a month, six months or ten years, and very little in between. So one theme for sure is that I know fairly early on if something is NOT working for me, but now I’m working on how what really makes them sustainable and not draining.
This will likely be one of the most vulnerable posts I’ve written, but I feel like if my insights can be helpful for others, it’s important to share. It’s tricky to approach my lessons learned, without getting into oversharing mode – and I especially want to honor the other people involved.
My Late Bloomer Years
When my middle school crush bullied me in high school, my rejection sensitivity kicked into high gear and I was afraid to even let on that I might be interested in anyone, which made it rather difficult for anyone to approach me. I was always confident in my friendships, but not in romantic relationships, partly due to my acne and other adolescent insecurities, and partly due to not wanting to make myself vulnerable.
Crushes as a “Safe Container”
I started shifting away from the reality of letting myself be known, to the unrealized potential that allowed me to maintain hope in possibility at a safe distance. My ADHD brain started to focus on emotionally “safe” crushes—long-distance, unavailable, or symbolic. This gave me an outlet for hyper fixations and dopamine hits, without the risks of true openness. I’ve come to realize that these crushes were more about me than them — they were emotional placeholders, protection from tough times and symbols of possibility to allow me to explore or take time to turn inward and stay in my own head.
My longest high school crush lived far away and honestly never gave a hint of reciprocated interest. My next few came from a spark of attraction in their eyes that never came to fruition, where I put myself in proximity but was probably weird or cryptic around them. Post divorce, they served a safe container to put my hopes into when I was clearly unready for something more real. Nowadays it serves more as a symbol of possibility to remind myself what I’m looking for exists, even if in small glimmers for now.
Functional Delulu
One thing I’ve come to accept is that it doesn’t always matter whether a connection is fully real or mostly imagined—if it serves a purpose, it’s still valid. Sometimes that purpose is a placeholder. Sometimes it’s a mirror, or a spark, or a quiet reminder of what’s possible. These days, I’m less concerned with proving what’s real and more interested in honoring what’s meaningful. I can hold space for both the function and the fantasy—without needing to collapse them into one.
That said, I’ve noticed a pattern: when I’ve genuinely felt ready—not just curious or lonely, but emotionally available and grounded—something meaningful has shown up. Even my kid’s dad reentered my life unexpectedly in college, years after his brief cameo as my first boyfriend in high school. The timing wasn’t forced; it just aligned. So while my crushes have often served as emotional scaffolding, when I’ve truly been open to connection—not just projection—real relationships have had a way of arriving.
Marrying the Responsible Adult
Years ago I watched a documentary called ADHD and Loving It, and they talked about how a lot of people with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder made the mistake of choosing a partner who was like a disappointed school teacher, and that’s exactly what I did. I thought I needed to marry a “responsible adult” if I wanted to have kids, but then I found myself a single parent of an infant anyway, so that didn’t work out for me all that well.
Having a non-ADHD spouse as an adult ADHD partner was exhausting in that I felt that I had to prove myself through working hard at my day job so that I could sustain us financially, in order to “earn” the household support that he provided. It ended up in a dynamic where he simultaneously judged me, while also putting me on a pedestal in some ways. And while the “honeymoon phase” lasted remarkably long, partly because I tend to bring out the best in others, when his depression would creep back in, I felt like I wasn’t “enough” to make him happy. (Spoiler alert, that part was never about me).
Dating as Exploration
When I first dipped into internet dating, I was a single mom of a toddler, and honestly, it felt like exactly what I needed at the time. Dating in real life involved decoding a whole lot of subtlety—are they interested? Am I? How do I show it without seeming too much? At that point in my life, I was confident in my friendships, but not in how to navigate romantic interest. I didn’t know how to flirt. (I mean, I still don’t, not really.)
So dating apps were kind of perfect. Unlike ambiguous IRL interactions, romantic intent was implied unless you clarified otherwise. That meant I could skip the dance of decoding nonverbal cues and just be myself—text-awkward, overthinking self and all.
It also helped me to let things go and not put huge weight on every single mutual attraction. I remember a good friend at the time, gave me the advice to go into it with “high hopes but no expectations,” and that definitely shifted my ability to enjoy the journey without getting immediately caught up in the potential destination.
Neurodivergent Flirting
Symptoms of ADHD made “real life” dating challenging in ways I didn’t even have language for back then. Between delayed processing, emotional regulation struggles, and classic overanalyzing text messages (“Was that emoji flirty or just polite?!”), dating felt like mental puzzle I was constantly solving.
And my neurodivergent flirt game was, shall we say – nonexistant? I remember one guy I met at a trivia night—who was clearly interested because he’d been watching me all night. He asked what I was doing after—but instead of seizing the moment, I overexplained myself into oblivion and walked away wondering why I couldn’t just say, “Not much, how about you?” Funny enough, he shortly showed up on my dating app. Turns out he’d just aged into my preferred range—and didn’t want kids. Since I had a very small one at the time, it felt less like a missed opportunity and more like a possibly relatable anecdote.
Verbal Processing & Early Lessons
One of the things I had to learn early on—especially as a verbal processor—is that not everything I think needs to be said out loud. During that first wave of dating, I got the ick with almost everyone, so when I finally met someone I didn’t, I blurted out that he was the first person I’d felt fully attracted to. In my mind, it was just a passing observation—curiosity, not commitment. But to him, it clearly carried a lot more weight. And let’s be real – who says that shit out loud? Me apparently! Of course, the spark faded pretty quickly once I got to know him anyway.
That experience taught me something important: it’s not about masking or withholding—it’s about discerning what someone has the capacity to hear without misinterpreting it. Sometimes people assign meaning to words that were never meant to hold that much charge. Which is why, honestly, I’ve found it helpful to process my thoughts in writing or with trusted friends before sharing them in early dating dynamics. Not because I’m hiding, but because I’ve learned how easily overthinking can be mistaken for over-feeling.
Energy Check
I found helpful lessons in each of my shorter term relationships. My first “rebound” that I stayed in too long, taught me that while it’s not alway productive to share every single thought with a partner, if I’m having constant thoughts about them that you can’t share, that’s not a good sign (especially for someone with a core value of respectful honesty). I also learned that you can have effective communication, mutual respect, and emotional intelligence, but not be sustainable if it somehow drains your energy.
Sometimes the most lasting insight comes from someone who was barely a blip on your timeline. I once dated someone whose neurodivergence didn’t ultimately align with mine, but in the beginning, he showed up in really practical, supportive ways that felt like a lifeline to my overwhelmed ADHD-mom self. When I worried I wasn’t giving enough in return, he gently reminded me: we often underestimate our own contributions while overestimating others’. That moment reshaped how I viewed my value in relationships—not in tasks or output, but in the less visible strengths I bring: patience, adaptability, emotional depth, and the ability to help people feel more fully themselves.
Over time, I started tracking how I actually felt—not just on a date, but at the end of the day. Did I feel like myself around them? Did I feel more grounded or more scrambled? It helped me understand that emotional regulation isn’t just about calming down—it’s about not contorting yourself to fit someone else’s vibe. My flexibility, my adaptability, my “I can make this work” energy—that’s part of my character, not something to work around. I just had to learn not to hand it over so freely, and to protect my own energy.
Dating With Confidence
By the time my last marriage ended, we’d spent so many years as friends that the emotional split had already happened long before the formal one. So when I started dating again, it wasn’t exactly a fresh heartbreak—it felt more like stepping back into myself after a long, quiet unraveling.
My first marriage had pulled the rug out from under me—it left me questioning everything I thought I knew about love, partnership, and even myself. But my second marriage was different. It reminded me of my worth, reflected back the depth I bring to a relationship, and helped rebuild the parts of me that had been worn down. So when I stepped back into dating afterward, I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I moved forward with a whole lot more clarity—and confidence.
Part of me wanted to take a full pause, but another part learned that I was at a kind of hormonal peak I didn’t expect to last forever. So I gave myself permission to explore, with a different lens this time. My historical “type” hadn’t exactly panned out, so I widened the scope—experimented with going in with an open mind and no expectations. I got curious about what actually worked for me, instead of defaulting to what felt familiar. I wanted resonance over drama, and real connection over projection.
What I didn’t expect was how clearly this phase would show me where I still over-functioned—how quickly I filled in emotional gaps, ignored yellow flags, or translated mixed signals into potential. The apps didn’t help; most of the decent algorithms on old school apps were now bought out, and the algorithms have prioritized constant use over actual connection now. Still, I learned a lot—even from the less-than-great experiences.
Red Flags & Emotional Capacity
There was one guy who turned out to be a walking case study in covert narcissism. He mirrored me intensely, asked constant questions that seemed deep but were really data-mining, and then got angry when I didn’t engage with the argument he tried to fabricate. His parting line before I blocked him for mocking my anxiety? “I can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.” I had to laugh. The only person I needed saving from was him—and I did a damn good job of that myself.
This was also the phase when I began to recognize the subtle difference between ease and easy. I had mistaken charm and attentiveness for compatibility before, only to realize I’d been pulled into dynamics driven more by love bombing than actual emotional availability. I was so hungry for ease that I missed how “easy” sometimes just means “strategic.” I also realized that passion is not the same as drama, and that depth and complexity can coexist with healthy communication and boundaries.
Not Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl
Somewhere in this season, I also started noticing a pattern I hadn’t named before: a kind of manic pixie dream girl effect. I was being admired, sometimes idealized—but not always known. And being intriguing isn’t the same as being truly seen. I’ve come to realize that I no longer want to be someone’s fantasy, but an embodied reality.
And here’s the thing: if you think I’m out of your league, I probably am—but not for the reasons you think. It’s not about status or sparkle. It’s about self-concept. What I’ve learned is that no amount of belief in someone else can compensate for someone not believing in themselves. At best, they continue to think they’re not “worthy.” At worst, they resent me for seeing a version of them they’re unwilling—or unable—to become.
Reexamining My Type
Right as I was about to give up on the apps, someone showed up who, on paper, looked like everything I’d been searching for. We had parallel neurodivergent lives, shared humor, meaningful conversation—the kind of connection that felt both rare and deeply familiar. The chemistry was intense. But when a wave of depression hit, he shut down instead of reaching out or communicating a need for space. I could feel myself sliding into old habits—overextending, offering extra grace, trying to hold the weight of the relationship through sheer emotional labor. This time, I caught it. I stepped back. I reminded myself: my energy doesn’t belong in a dynamic where I’m constantly making up the difference. Flexibility, patience, compassion—those aren’t gifts to be extracted. They’re mutual terms of engagement.
That experience became a turning point—not because it ended in heartbreak, but because it forced me to reexamine what I’d long defined as “my type.” We had all the surface-level markers of compatibility, but underneath, he presently lacked the sense of purpose, support, and community that make true partnership sustainable. I realized I don’t just want alignment—I want emotional capacity. I want someone whose resilience isn’t outsourced. Shared interests are sweet, but they’re not the foundation. A synced sense of humor won’t carry you through when what you really need is someone who can meet discomfort with presence.
Cleaning the “Mirror”
This whole phase was like a mirror—not just for others, but for myself. It reminded me that the ability to adapt isn’t a mandate to stay, and that real connection doesn’t require contortion. I also learned that you can be securely attached and still respond anxiously to avoidant behavior—it doesn’t mean you’re broken, it means your nervous system is responding to inconsistency. What shifted for me wasn’t my capacity to care—it was my willingness to notice when that care wasn’t being matched, and to step back before I started overextending out of habit.
Pause Isn’t Passive—It’s Powerful
After that last round of dating, I knew it was time to pause—not because I was giving up, but because I wanted to show up for myself more fully. It was a conscious effort, not a collapse. I needed space to integrate what I’d learned during my “data collection phase,” to step back from all the noise and get clear on what actually supports my personal growth.
If I ever do get back on the apps, it’ll be with boundaries: no notifications, not on my phone and limited time. Because let’s be honest, executive function doesn’t thrive in swipe culture, and dopamine hits only last so long. I’ll also be revisiting the online dating chapter in the book, Thank You, More Please, which frames dating in a way that honors energy and self-respect over urgency.
But for now, my focus is on connection in real life—building community, deepening friendships, and saying yes to the kinds of daily life experiences that make me feel alive. That might look like lingering after an event instead of rushing home, or following the nudge to message someone I appreciated. It’s not about chasing romance; it’s about following little things that feel like alignment.
Living Without Resentment
Lately, I’ve been focusing on building non-transactional relationships—ones where care isn’t a currency and generosity doesn’t come with a tab. That means doing things because I want to, not because I’m hoping they’ll earn me closeness, consistency, or commitment in return. If someone can’t offer what I truly need, that’s not a cue to overextend—it’s a signal to pause, reassess, and protect my peace. Resentment, I’ve learned, is often just a breadcrumb trail back to self-abandonment.
This pause has also helped me reclaim my daily tasks and attention. I’m less scattered, less consumed by anxious thoughts, and more attuned to my body’s wisdom—what feels energizing, what feels draining, and where I might be contorting to fit someone else’s shape. That’s where real emotional clarity begins: not in reacting, but in listening.
The apps aren’t what they used to be. The platforms that once helped me make meaningful connections have shifted—now optimized for engagement, not compatibility. And I’ve shifted too. I’m not looking for someone to complete me. I’m looking for someone whose presence complements a life I already love.
So I’m not dragging anyone toward connection anymore. I’m no longer the tugboat. I’m the lighthouse. Steady. Lit up. Available to those who can steer toward me. Because the best way to attract the right person isn’t to hunt—it’s to live in alignment with the kind of love I’m seeking.
What I Know Now (Even If I Don’t Know What’s Next)
If there’s one thing I’ve learned through all of this, it’s that ADHD people don’t date in a straight line. It’s more like a spiral—with loops of hope, emotional rollercoasters, and the occasional detour through the land of overthinking. But every connection, even the confusing ones, helped me clarify what I want—and what I refuse to carry anymore.
The idea of “meant to be” used to carry heavy weight—a long-term projection wrapped in permanence, compatibility, and some imagined future we were supposed to build together. But over time, that concept has softened and shifted. Now, “meant to be” feels more like a moment of alignment, a purpose in connection, even if it’s brief. Maybe someone’s presence was meant to teach me something, to reflect something back, or to open a door I hadn’t seen before. It doesn’t have to last forever to have meaning. I’ve stopped measuring the value of connection by how long it stays, and started paying attention to what it offers—and what it changes—while it’s here.
Emotional Capacity > Compatibility on Paper
Looking ahead, I’m less interested in proving I’d do a great job as someone’s partner, and more focused on noticing how a new partner shows up in the present moment—not just how they talk about connection, but how the partner feels when we’re actually in it together. That includes how they navigate their own mental health, how we handle emotional outbursts, and how we address issues as they arise—not just on special occasions, but in the rhythm of everyday daily life.
I’ve spent a long time treating my emotional adaptability as a relationship asset—and it is. But it’s not the only one. The best things I bring to an intimate relationship aren’t just my flexibility or ability to manage negative thoughts or big feelings. They’re also my clarity, my capacity to reflect, and my refusal to contort myself for comfort.
From Tugboat to Lighthouse: Living the Love I Want
I used to think needing support meant I wasn’t ready. But what I’ve found is that everyone needs help sometimes—it’s the ability to ask, receive, and reciprocate that makes the difference. That’s why I’m paying attention now to the important details: who listens with presence, who respects boundaries, who shows curiosity over control.
So maybe that’s what this whole season has been about—not manifesting someone into my life, but finally stepping fully into my own. I’ve moved from being a tugboat pulling connections along to a lighthouse just doing her thing, lit up and visible for whoever’s aligned enough to steer this way. I’m not chasing potential or proving I’m a good investment. I’m living in alignment with the kind of love I want—steady, honest, energizing. If that draws someone in? Great. If not? I still get to live a life that feels like mine. And honestly? That’s the real happily ever after.
📸 Photos by Kara Cooper Photography
