Imposter Syndrome and ADHD: A Personal and Clinical Reflection

In 1974, I was five years old, and even in kindergarten it was becoming clear that something was “wrong” with me. When the teacher told the class to line up, the other kids popped up and hurried to the door. I, on the other hand, was still immersed in whatever had captured my attention. I heard the words, but as the old saying goes, they went “in one ear and out the other.”

“C’mon, Marc! GET IN LINE!!!”

Both my kindergarten and first-grade teachers screamed often, their voices full of frustration, ignorance, and their own dysregulation. It was a near-daily ritual — me caught in my own world, them exploding with impatience. For me, it was traumatic. I can still feel the sting of their yelling, the heat of the other children’s eyes on me.

What’s most important to say is this: I wasn’t misbehaving on purpose. I wasn’t ignoring anyone. I was so hyper-focused in my zone of creativity that I genuinely didn’t register the request or the movement around me. My short-term memory simply didn’t hold the instruction long enough to act on it. But a five- or six-year-old doesn’t know how to explain that. A child just feels the anger directed at them.

Repeated experiences like these leave a mark. They deepen the groove of shame. And shame, layered over time, becomes fertile ground for imposter syndrome. When you’re young and constantly told through tone, glare, or shouted words that something is wrong with you, you begin to believe it — even if what’s really happening is that the adults around you don’t understand.

Hearing Everything, Remembering Nothing

Ironically, my hearing was sharper than most. In second grade I was tested twice and scored “off the charts.” Decades later, even after an ear infection, three doctors told me, “You have Olympic-level hearing. We’re jealous!” And yet, what good is perfect hearing if the instructions never really “stick”?

This is one of the paradoxes of ADHD. The issue isn’t sensory input — it’s how the brain filters, holds, and acts on what it hears.

Early Labels and Early Luck

Back in the 1970s, ADHD wasn’t an official diagnosis yet. My records carried harsher labels: Minimal Brain Damage Disorder in 1974, later renamed Minimal Brain Dysfunction. Words like “damage” and “dysfunction” settle heavy on a child’s shoulders. They blur into other words kids hear whispered or shouted: “stupid,” “slow.”

Still, I was lucky. My school had strong special education services, and my ADHD was recognized early. That gave me time to learn compensation strategies throughout my school years. Many aren’t so fortunate. Even now, countless people don’t receive an ADHD diagnosis until adulthood—sometimes only when their own child is being assessed. I see this in my practice all the time.

The Seeds of Imposter Syndrome

When ADHD goes unnamed or misunderstood, kids quickly develop a sense that their mind just works differently. And indeed it does — this difference is part of what we now mean by the word neurodivergent. But without that framework, “different” often gets interpreted as “deficient.” For some, this awareness becomes a quiet shame. They start to cover up their struggles, especially in school.

For me, those grooves of shame were carved early. Dysregulated kindergarten and first-grade teachers who screamed and yelled left me feeling exposed and defective on a daily basis. What I now understand as inattentiveness or hyperfocus was interpreted then as stubbornness or disrespect. Every outburst deepened the sense that I was the problem. This is how trauma works in ADHD: it doesn’t just highlight the struggle, it magnifies it, pressing shame deeper into the identity of a child.

So kids like me become experts in pretending:

• Pretending to pay attention.

• Pretending to follow along.

• Pretending they don’t need help.

  
  

Sometimes they participate just enough to look engaged, nod at just the right times, or flash a smile to mask the fact that they’re completely lost. Over time, this performance becomes second nature.

The cost? A persistent fear of being “found out.” A nagging sense of being a fraud. This is where ADHD and Imposter Syndrome intertwine.

Faking It, Feeling Empty

This front can last for years. Students fake their way through classes by charming teachers, mirroring expressions, and attributing any real success to luck. In relationships, they may nod and pretend to listen while missing half the details. Socially, they might bluff their way through conversations and walk away unsure of what just happened.

The tragedy is that these masks rob people of their true sense of achievement. Even genuine accomplishments get dismissed: “I must have gotten lucky.” Confidence never takes root, because deep down the person believes they are deceiving everyone—except themselves.

The Way Through: Owning ADHD, Reclaiming Self

Facing imposter syndrome as an ADHDer requires courage. It begins with dropping the mask and acknowledging ADHD for what it is — not a flaw to hide, but a reality to navigate.

• Stop hiding. Naming ADHD openly, both to oneself and trusted others, loosens shame’s grip.

• See the strengths. ADHD often comes with creativity, energy, and resilience. Recognizing these as gifts reframes the story.

• Keep receipts of success. Journaling achievements and collecting positive feedback can help ground self-perception in reality.

• Practice openness. Sharing the experience of feeling like an imposter allows others to say, “me too.” This shared vulnerability dissolves isolation.

  
  

An ADHDer’s willingness to receive support is itself a gift — it invites connection, models honesty, and makes space for others to admit their own struggles.

From Pretending to Belonging

The shift comes when people realize they no longer need to fake it. They are not frauds. Their story may include struggle, but it also includes strength, persistence, and creativity.

Imposter syndrome whispers: “You don’t deserve to be here.”

ADHD replies: “I’ll find my own way of being here.”

And with compassion, honesty, and recognition of true achievement, that way can be more authentic — and more powerful — than any performance ever could be.

Closing Reflection

If any of this resonates with you, know that you are not alone. Many people with ADHD carry the weight of imposter syndrome, even in the midst of genuine talent and accomplishment. The masks we learn to wear as children can be hard to set down, but there is freedom in acknowledging both the struggles and the strengths that ADHD brings.

You deserve to take credit for what you’ve built, what you’ve overcome, and what you bring into the world. The truth is, most of us are improvising more than we admit. The difference is whether we let that improvisation make us feel fraudulent, or whether we can see it as resilience, creativity, and adaptability.

Sometimes the most courageous step is simply to say: “This is me. And I belong here.”