A Story I am Still Becoming
- laefbowling
- Mar 29
- 14 min read
Updated: 6 days ago
It began in stillness.
That morning, I entered a deep meditative state using the techniques I’d learned from the Monroe Institute. My intention was simple: self-discovery. As I moved through the focus levels, my breath slowed and the noise of the world faded. In that space—quiet, deep, and charged with something ancient—I received a series of messages. They came with a clarity I didn’t question:
Stay firm in who you are.
Know who you are.
Understand who you are.
Be who you are.
And finally—
Everything happens in the time it is meant to. You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.
I surfaced from the meditation feeling aligned and grounded, guided by the insight—and, I’ll admit, helped along by a small dose of a legal indica strain I often use for focus and clarity. The day began as many Saturdays do: a checklist of life’s small rituals. I repotted a plant that had long outgrown its container. Tended to the vegetable garden. Cleaned up the house. Buzzed from one task to the next, feeling unusually clearheaded and purposeful.
And then—ding.
A notification. One of many, but this one caught my eye. It was a short quiz attached to an article:
“How to Know if You’re Neurodivergent.”
Curious, I opened it.
Eight characteristics. Eight traits commonly seen in ADHD neurodivergent individuals.
I read them once. Then again. And then a third time.
And I saw myself—fully, undeniably—in every single one.
It wasn’t a maybe. It wasn’t a stretch. It was a revelation—the kind that doesn’t shout but settles in your bones and rewrites every page of the book you thought you were living.
A Story I am Still Becoming
From Graduation to Command: A Journey of Adaptation and Self Discovery
From Chaos to Clarity: Understanding My Early Years
“For years, I wore masks I didn’t know I’d put on. They weren’t disguises—they were survival instincts.”
From a young age, instability was the only constant. My earliest memories are stitched together with confusion, fear, and the kind of adaptability you don’t choose—you inherit through necessity. My biological father made his exit in violence when I was just three years old, nearly killing my mother in a moment that changed everything. After that, she did what she could—bouncing from marriage to marriage, man to man, trying to create a life, maybe even chase a little happiness. But often, her search came at the expense of safety—especially mine and my brother’s emotional and mental well-being.
Some semblance of stability arrived when I was about eleven. My mother met the man who would become my adopted father, and for a fleeting stretch of time, it almost looked like a real family. A nuclear dream. A house with matching forks. Laughter that didn’t have sharp edges.
But the damage had already been done. Before that chapter, I’d already been passed from person to person—sometimes family, sometimes not. I learned quickly that being likable was safer than being honest. That performing “normal” was more important than being understood. And so I adapted. Shape-shifted. Masked.
I was labeled a “daydreamer,” but really, I was surviving through imagination. I could spend hours in elaborate fantasy worlds built entirely in my head—narratives, characters, whole civilizations spun from the chaos around me. I had friends no one could see and a universe inside me so vibrant it almost made the outside tolerable.
School was… confusing. I was smart—sometimes too smart. Teachers called me gifted one minute, disruptive the next. I could ace a test I forgot to study for, but completely miss the assignment that came after. One teacher said I was “a genius when he wants to be.” Another said I had “no follow-through.” No one considered that both might be true at once.
As I got older, the labels shifted but the confusion stayed. Disorganized. Overwhelmed. Lazy. Emotional. I started using humor to deflect. Perfectionism to protect. Overcompensation as currency. I developed a strange kind of competency in chaos—enough to keep moving, to keep people from looking too closely. But under it all, something never quite fit.
It would take decades—and one unexpected quiz on a Saturday morning—for me to finally name what had always been there.
Anchored By Duty: Balancing Command and Cognitive Diversity
Transitioning from a tumultuous childhood marked by instability and the need for constant adaptation, I sought a path that would provide structure and purpose. Enlisting in the military just days after high school graduation, I embarked on a journey that would challenge my resilience and shape my identity in unforeseen ways. This transition from a life of unpredictability to one of regimented discipline was both daunting and transformative, setting the stage for profound personal growth and self-discovery.
Three days after donning my high school cap and gown on June 4, I embarked on a transformative journey by enlisting in the U.S. Army on June 7. The whirlwind transition from civilian life to the disciplined world of Basic Combat Training was both abrupt and immersive. Following this foundational training, I advanced to specialized instruction as a 92Y Unit Supply Specialist—a role centered on the meticulous management of Army supplies and equipment.
Anticipating an assignment within a supply unit, I was taken aback when, upon arrival at Fort Hood, Texas, I was selected to serve as the driver for the Command Sergeant Major (CSM) of the 4th Infantry Division. This position demanded an intimate understanding of the CSM’s routines, preferences, and operational requirements. Over six weeks, I underwent rigorous training under the guidance of the current driver, mastering the nuances of the CSM’s schedule, his field protocols, and the art of ensuring his daily operations proceeded without a hitch.
At just 18, the weight of this responsibility was immense. The role extended beyond driving; it encompassed orchestrating the CSM’s daily life to such a degree that inconveniences became virtually nonexistent for him. The positive reinforcement and trust I received were novel experiences, filling a void I hadn’t fully acknowledged. This validation became a double-edged sword. Eager to maintain approval and driven by a deep-seated desire to be valued, I found myself prioritizing the needs of others over my own well-being. This inclination towards people-pleasing led to an extension of my tenure as the CSM’s driver for an additional six months—a testament to my performance, yet also a reflection of my struggle to assert personal boundaries.
This chapter of my military service was a profound lesson in the complexities of self-worth and the importance of balancing dedication to duty with self-respect. It underscored the necessity of recognizing one’s intrinsic value, independent of external validation—a realization that would shape my personal and professional ethos in the years to follow.
When the diagnosis finally came, it wasn’t a thunderclap – it was a quiet truth sinking in. In that moment of recognition, I felt as though I’d been handed a new lens for all my memories. Suddenly, every chapter of my life could be re-read and understood in a different light. With this newfound clarity, I began to revisit those chapters – from my early days in uniform, through the trials of addiction and recovery, to my winding career in caregiving and leadership.
Each page revealed how my neurodivergent mind was there all along, quietly shaping the story in ways I hadn’t seen before.
In the military, I had always thought it was sheer willpower that got me through the relentless drills and strict order of things. I threw myself into training with a single-minded intensity that, at the time, I assumed everyone else had too. Whether I was breaking down and reassembling my rifle for the hundredth time or mapping out a strategic exercise, I could disappear into the task at hand – hyper focused and oblivious to everything else. In those moments, the chaos in my mind quieted; I felt laser-sharp and useful. Now I recognize that this intensity was one of my ADHD traits – the gift of hyperfocus – kicking in when it mattered most.
Back then, that deep focus helped me excel in high-pressure scenarios, from the parade ground to real-life crises. I was adapting on the fly to a world of structure and discipline that wasn’t natural to me, bending and molding myself to fit the role of “good soldier.” Adaptability became second nature; I learned how to switch tasks at a moment’s notice and to appear calm even when my thoughts were racing inside. In hindsight, I see how people-pleasing was woven into that experience as well. I was determined to exceed expectations, to be the soldier who never let his squad down – perhaps in part so no one would suspect how hard I was white-knuckling it through the daily routine. I didn’t know it then, but I was already exhibiting the very patterns – intense focus, quick adaptability, and a drive to not disappoint – that would come to define my survival in the years ahead.
Leaving the service brought a different kind of battle. Without the regimented life I’d known, I was suddenly alone with a mind that didn’t slow down. The structure that had propped me up was gone, and I began to spiral, looking for other ways to quiet the noise. I fell into one of the darkest chapters of my life: substance use. At first, having a few drinks felt like relief – a momentary dulling of an ever-racing brain. But a few drinks easily became many, and before long I was chasing oblivion just to get a break from myself. My impulsivity – another hallmark of ADHD, which I would later come to understand – led me down some dangerous roads. I remember nights that bled into mornings, a blur of risk and regret, pushing the limits of my health and my luck.
Through that haze, one thing remained consistent: even in self-destruction, I was still trying to please everyone around me. I hid the extent of my problem, cracking jokes and showing up to work with a smile to avoid worrying those I cared about. I became a master of façade, the people-pleaser in me ensuring that outwardly I seemed “fine,” while inside I was falling apart. It took reaching the brink – a terrifying wake-up call on a night I almost didn’t survive – to realize I needed help. Enter recovery: a humbling, grueling path that slowly taught me a new kind of focus and resilience. In the meeting rooms of AA, I discovered the power of routine and spiritual surrender. I channeled the same all-or-nothing fervor that once fueled my benders into staying sober one day at a time. And piece by piece, I rebuilt myself. Looking back now, I understand that my hard-won adaptability – forged in the military – helped me navigate the unfamiliar world of sobriety. I learned to adjust to life without my old crutch, finding new coping mechanisms and leaning on community and faith. Through recovery, I experienced the first glimmers of a spiritual perspective: I began to sense the faint presence of an intuition I’d long ignored – a quiet inner voice guiding me toward healing, even when I didn’t fully recognize it.
Newly sober and hungry for a fresh start, I found myself working in hospitality – an industry that, in hindsight, was a natural fit for someone wired like me. On the floor of a busy restaurant, I thrived amid the clatter of dishes, the shouted orders, the revolving door of conversations. The very high-energy chaos that might overwhelm others felt like fuel to me. On a packed Saturday night, I could be juggling six tables at once – tracking which customer needed a refill, which steak was mid-rare – while also noticing that the couple by the window seemed to be celebrating something (and sneaking them a complimentary dessert). I lived for those fast-paced shifts that left me buzzing, not drained.
Only later did I realize I was leveraging some core neurodivergent strengths in that environment: multitasking and reading the room (a kind of social pattern recognition). Without knowing it, I was training my brain to find patterns in the bustle – anticipating needs, spotting subtle cues of discomfort or impatience before a word was even said. And of course, I was still chasing approval in my own way. If my customers left smiling and my boss was pleased, I could collapse into bed feeling I’d done well. Yet there were nights I’d lie awake after an exhausting double shift, my mind replaying interactions on an endless loop, second-guessing every tiny decision – the people-pleaser and perfectionist in me unable to let go. Those traits, once purely coping mechanisms, were slowly becoming assets, but I hadn’t figured that out just yet.
A few years into hospitality, I felt a tug for work that was more meaningful. The empathy I’d always carried – that deep concern for others’ well-being – began steering my career choices. I enrolled in nursing school, unsure if my frenetic brain could handle the academic grind. It wasn’t easy; I remember studying for exams with music blasting in my headphones because silence made my mind wander, whereas a bit of background noise oddly kept me grounded. (That’s another ADHD quirk I only understood later.) Still, when it came to the hands-on clinical training, I was in my element. Nursing brought me into high-stakes environments where I truly shined.
In the emergency department, for example, when multiple patients rolled in at once, I’d feel a familiar clarity descend. That hyperfocus I first tasted in the military kicked in full force: the world outside the trauma bay would fade, and all that mattered was the here and now – getting an IV line started, monitoring vitals, responding to the doctor’s orders, comforting a frightened family member – all at the same time. I could sense the rhythms in the chaos, almost like reading an invisible pattern of who needed what and when. I’ll never forget one night shift when we were short-staffed, and I was practically flying between patients. Later, a colleague joked that I had a “superpower,” being everywhere at once. I laughed it off then, but that comment stuck with me. It was the first time I considered that the very qualities I had been ashamed of could actually be perceived as superhuman in the right context.
As a nurse, my people-pleasing tendency took on a new form: I became the patient advocate who would stay late to make sure a discharge plan was understood, or the one who brought an extra blanket and a warm smile to a shivering patient. I couldn’t bear to see someone in pain or afraid without doing something to help. Yes, it sometimes meant I overextended myself, but it also made me damn good at my job and built deep trust with my patients. Over time, hospital life taught me that my adaptability – the ability to switch from calm to crisis mode in a heartbeat – and my knack for catching patterns (like spotting a subtle sign of sepsis before the lab results confirmed it) were not just quirks. They were life-saving skills.
My journey didn’t stop at the bedside. Ever curious (and perhaps a bit restless), I moved into case management and eventually into a senior leadership role in healthcare strategy. Trading scrubs for a blazer was a culture shock – I went from bustling patient rooms to polished boardrooms, from solving immediate crises to contemplating long-term systemic changes. At first, I felt like an imposter in those executive meetings. How was I – with my scribbled notebooks and habit of brainstorming ideas out loud – going to fit into the buttoned-up world of strategic plans and spreadsheets? But soon enough, I found my footing, and here too my neurodivergent traits found a home.
Pattern recognition became my secret weapon in strategy sessions. While others saw disjointed data points – readmission rates, patient satisfaction scores, budget lines – my mind instinctively drew connections between them, like a mental map lighting up. I started suggesting solutions that seemed to come out of left field but proved effective. I realized that the same “out-of-the-box” thinking which once made me feel out of place was now exactly what was needed to spark innovation. I began to embrace the way my brain leaps between ideas, because in those leaps, genuine breakthroughs were born.
And adaptability? In a field as ever-changing as healthcare, being able to pivot quickly proved invaluable. When a new regulation or a public health crisis hit, I could help my team adjust course almost instinctively. I stayed cool and focused amid upheaval – just as I did in the ER, though now I was coordinating task forces rather than triage.
Even my old people-pleasing inclination evolved into a form of servant leadership. I genuinely cared about my team’s well-being, sometimes to a fault. I would mentor new nurses who felt overwhelmed or speak up in meetings when I sensed the frontline staff’s perspective was being overlooked. In doing so, I often found I was bridging gaps and building trust. I had spent so long feeling like the odd one out that it felt almost healing to become the person who helped others feel they belonged.
Throughout all these professional transformations, an even deeper shift was happening within me. In recent years, I experienced a spiritual awakening that gently opened my eyes to parts of myself I had long neglected. It started subtly – a pull to sit in stillness during early morning hours, a nudge to journal down the thoughts that raced through my mind, the curiosity to explore practices like mindful breathing, prayer, and even energy healing.
At first, sitting with my thoughts felt almost impossible; my busy mind rebelled against the very idea of stillness. But I kept at it – a few minutes each day – until those minutes grew longer and something began to change. Slowly, I learned to find a calm center amid my mental whirlwinds. In the quiet of dawn, I started to hear the whispers of that softer voice within – an intuition – that had been there all along, waiting for me to listen.
The more I listened to my inner voice, the more guidance it offered. Sometimes it was a gut feeling about a decision at work; other times a sense of peace that washed over me in the middle of a hectic day. It felt as if all the disparate threads of my life were finally weaving together into a cohesive pattern. The disciplined veteran, the survivor of addiction, the compassionate nurse, the innovative strategist – they were not separate personas at all, but all facets of me. Through my spiritual practices, I came to see that my neurodivergence was not a flaw or an accident; it was part of my design, perhaps even a gift. I vividly recall one morning, as the sun was just peeking over the horizon, sitting in meditation with a deep sense of presence. An unexpected wave of gratitude welled up and I found myself in tears – not of sadness, but of relief and appreciation.
For the first time, I felt truly grateful for my mind in all its wild, untamed glory. I forgave myself for all the years I had cursed my distractions and peculiarities. I realized those “weaknesses” I’d long despised were actually the very things that had made me strong. They had propelled me through every storm and into each new chapter, even when I didn’t understand their purpose.
Now, as I write this, I feel a profound sense of integration. This is the reframe: I am neurodivergent – not broken, not “too much,” but exactly who I was meant to be.
The traits that once baffled or frustrated me have revealed their hidden gifts. Adaptability kept me alive and open to growth through every upheaval. Hyperfocus fueled my moments of excellence, allowing me to pour my heart into everything from emergency procedures to strategic plans.
My urge to people-please, once born of fear, evolved into genuine empathy and a leadership style grounded in compassion. And that knack for pattern recognition, which at times felt like an overactive imagination, turned out to be the wellspring of innovation that has set me apart. I’ve learned that what makes me different is also what makes me valuable. Re-reading the pages of my story with this compassionate lens, I can see I was never failing at being “normal” – I was busy forging a path of my own. I think back to those earlier versions of myself – the young recruit trembling inside, the man in recovery finding his footing, the nurse pushing through exhaustion, the manager with the big ideas – and I want to reach out and embrace each one of them. I want to tell them, “You are not broken. You never were. The world just isn’t ready for your kind of brilliance yet. But keep going – you’ll see, the story gets better.”
In reframing my narrative, I have not only made peace with my past but also found a guiding light for my future. I know there will be more challenges ahead – my brain will still zig when others zag, and I’ll have days when I feel overwhelmed or out-of-sync. Even so, I face the road ahead with understanding and even a bit of awe. I carry with me the certainty that every twist in my path has served a purpose, and that my neurodivergent mind has been a faithful companion all along – not an enemy to fight, but an ally to cherish. With this knowledge, I feel equipped – even, in a way, blessed – to continue writing my story with pride and authenticity, embracing whatever unexpected turns come next. And if my journey offers anything to someone walking a similar road, I hope it’s the understanding that sometimes the thing that sets you apart – the very trait you once viewed as a flaw – can become the thing that guides you home.
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