40 Years On... A Mind That Never Switched Off.

Part 2…

Understanding the Boy I Used to Be!

For many years, I couldn't explain why I was the way I was.

I simply thought everyone else's mind worked like mine.

Looking back now, there is one childhood memory that makes much more sense.

My Nanna taught me what we called "bird catching."

We'd set up a small bird cage in the backyard with seed and water inside. The door was held open with a chopstick tied to a length of fishing line.

My job was to quietly walk onto the porch, sit perfectly still with the line in my hand and wait.

If a bird hopped into the cage, I had to react instantly by pulling the line.

Don't worry—I never kept any birds. If I ever caught one, it was let go straight away.

Although, to be honest, I don't actually remember catching one.

What I remember is how it felt.

I can't say for sure, but I reckon I sat there for an hour at a time, completely absorbed in the task.

I was told to stay quiet.

Stay alert.

Wait patiently.

And not miss the opportunity.

Somehow, those instructions allowed the little boy who couldn't sit still to do exactly that.

There was a challenge.

A purpose.

A target.

Looking back, it reminds me of a goalkeeper who might not touch the ball all game but still has to remain switched on for the one save that matters.

I guess that's why so many people enjoy fishing.

Most of fishing isn't actually catching fish.

It's sitting.

Waiting.

Watching.

Being still.

Yet beneath that calmness is a quiet excitement, knowing that at any moment everything could change.

That's how "bird catching" felt.

It was one of the first times I learned that stillness didn't have to mean boredom.

Stillness could have purpose.

As an adult, I understand those childhood moments very differently.

The people around me were doing the very best they could with a little boy whose mind and body never seemed to slow down.

But back then, all I knew was that I felt different.

Criticism seemed to hit me harder than it hit my friends.

Rejection, in whatever form it came, felt overwhelming.

When anxiety eventually entered my life, I didn't even know what it was.

The word wasn't part of my vocabulary yet.

I just knew I felt things deeply.

I wasn't officially diagnosed with ADHD until I was 38 years old.

To be honest, I didn't want to believe it.

I thought ADHD was just another label people used to explain behaviour.

Besides, the loud, impulsive little boy I remembered seemed nothing like the quiet, measured adult I had become.

It felt like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

My wife, Kylie, had been gently suggesting for some time that I should see a psychiatrist and have an assessment.

She believed that understanding how my mind worked might help me continue to grow, make sense of my past and move into the future with greater confidence.

For many, many months, I brushed it off.

If I'm honest, I felt a little insulted.

Eventually, I took the plunge and booked an appointment.

Then I discovered I'd actually been diagnosed—and later questioned and reassessed—as a child.

I had no idea.

The understanding and treatment of ADHD in the late 1980s were very different from today.

I grew up without medication, without strategies and without even knowing there was a name for the way my mind worked.

Looking back, I hadn't really become quieter as an adult.

I had simply turned inward.

The thoughts, emotions and impulses that once came spilling out as a child had gradually been pushed deep inside my mind, body and spirit.

I thought I had learned to control them.

In reality, they were simply surfacing in different ways.

It wasn't until I became open to learning, and accepted Kylie's unwavering love, patience and encouragement, that something began to shift.

Instead of feeling labelled...

I felt understood.

It wasn't about finding excuses for my past.

It was about finally making sense of it.

That understanding brought an enormous sense of relief.

It felt like an epiphany.

For the first time, I could look back on my childhood with compassion instead of confusion.

Looking back now, I can see that being neurodivergent explains some of my childhood.

But it doesn't define it.

It helps me understand the endless energy... the impulsiveness...the intense hyperfocus... and the constant need to find something to pour myself into.

It helps me understand why I struggled to sit still without a purpose, yet could remain completely absorbed when there was a challenge, a target or something meaningful to focus on.

But more than anything...

It helps me understand that little boy who was never trying to be difficult.

He had a good heart.

He was simply trying to find his place in the world.

It took me another three decades to truly begin to understand him.

Not to excuse his behaviour.

Not to blame the adults around him.

Simply to understand him.

Looking back now, I don't feel sorry for that little boy.

I smile at him.

I understand him.

I see his curiosity.

I see his imagination.

I see his endless energy.

Most of all...

I see a little boy who desperately wanted to belong.

And perhaps that's why coaching children means so much to me today.

Every week, I meet children who remind me of that little boy.

Some are full of energy.

Some are shy and fearful of speaking their minds.

Some seem distracted.

Some act before they think.

Some are entering their teenage years and trying to work out where they belong.

Some simply don't fit the mould.

I've learned that behaviour is often communication.

Behind the child everyone labels as "too much" may simply be a child waiting for someone to understand them.

Sometimes, a child's potential is unlocked the moment they realise someone truly sees them.

And sometimes, all it takes is one person who believes in them...so they can begin to believe in themselves.