BY: IRAM GHAFOOR
“Just say that you don’t like being with us.”
My sister told me this after another episode of the frequent arguments we had been having since our relatives arrived 3 weeks ago.
Though having a house full of guests is quite normal in Pakistan, it was overwhelming for me. I hadn’t had a moment to myself. I needed space. I needed time alone for at least 2 days to wind down.
But it wasn’t happening. There were constant outings my elder sister expected me to join. If I stayed home, I had to make dinner, manage chaos, and answer her calls every half hour. If I tried to retreat to my room, someone would knock, “Come on, just join for a little while,” or worse, “Why are you always like this?”
I felt like I was going mad.
That evening, after another argument that ended with my sister canceling her dinner plan with guests because I refused to join, I quickly rushed to my room and closed the door. I stared at the ceiling, questioning my whole existence. Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe everyone is right, and I need to work on myself to fit in.
I picked up my phone to text my therapist. My heart was racing as I typed, “Regina, I’m having constant fights with my sister. Am I wrong? Am I actually toxic?”
I stared at the ceiling, questioning my whole existence. Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe everyone is right, and I need to work on myself to fit in.
***
Since I was a child, I constantly heard things like, “You’re lazy,” “You take too long to finish anything,” “You sleep too much.” And over time, I started to believe it.
As I grew older, I began to internalize everything I was told. I started calling myself lazy, toxic, always tired and sleepy. I started to bury my feelings, shut down my emotions, and did everything I could to fit in so I wouldn’t be judged.
I didn’t know I had ADHD; I just assumed I was stressed because I was a student, working, and juggling home responsibilities.
By the time I was 24, I constantly felt overwhelmed and easily irritated. Anytime I tried to explain how I was feeling to my family or close relatives, I was told, “There’s nothing wrong with you, you’ve just made it a habit to say that.”
Maybe I was making it all up. Everyone around me — my sisters, cousins, aunts — seemed to be functioning perfectly. So why couldn’t I?
I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. My body constantly ached, and my brain was mostly foggy. No matter how much I rested or how well I ate, I was always tired, lost in thought. Couldn’t work. Couldn’t even feel the wind on my face. Couldn’t even cry. My body stopped reacting to anything as I went numb.
Eventually, I woke up every morning thinking about how to end my life. I tried opening up to people close to my heart, but everyone acted like there was nothing wrong. That I was imagining everything.
But there was this one friend, Shaima — who wasn’t even a close friend at that time — who listened and understood. She pushed me toward therapy and even recommended a therapist. That’s how I met Regina and how I finally got diagnosed with ADHD.
The moment Regina told me I had ADHD, I felt this strange mix of relief and hope. Like, finally, now people would stop misunderstanding me.
But I was wrong.
***
After diagnosis, I tried explaining myself clearly enough to my family. I told them, “I prefer being alone because it brings back my energy,” and “I can’t function around lots of people because my brain works differently.” I hoped they’d stop calling me lazy or isolated. That they’d finally see there was more going on beneath the surface.
But instead of understanding, I got comments like:
“You’re just lazy. Discipline yourself.”
“You’re making up problems. Stay positive”
“You don’t want to hang out with us.”
And even, “See a doctor because you’ve become a psycho.”
Perhaps I should have expected these responses. Explaining ADHD in Pakistan is like speaking another language. Pakistan doesn’t really do “mental health,” let alone neurodivergence. We spend just 0.4% of our total health budget on mental health, and there’s only one psychiatrist for every half a million people. In a country with so little awareness around mental health, my family’s response wasn’t surprising. Like many in Pakistan — and the U.S. and U.K. — my family didn’t see ADHD as something real. Honestly, they didn’t have a language to understand it.
But therapy gave me something I’d never had: a mirror I could look into without shame. Regina reminded me again and again that I wasn’t imagining things. That I wasn’t avoiding life, I was just trying to live it with a brain that works differently. She helped me reframe how I thought and spoke about myself.
“You haven’t fully accepted your ADHD yet,” she told me. “You’re still trying to push through it like it’s the flu. You have to respect who you are and what you’re dealing with.”
She wasn’t wrong. But learning to fully accept my ADHD and that my brain worked differently was a struggle. I still pushed myself to fit in, to do more, to “be normal.”
But that evening, after the fight with my sister, the weight became unbearable. I felt like I was going to collapse.
***
When I texted Regina, I anxiously held my phone, waiting for her response.
Finally, it dinged: “You’re NOT the problem. You’re different — neurodiverse. And you deserve full respect for that.”
I read it 3 times. Why do I keep fighting that? I wondered. Why do I keep trying to fit in just to keep everyone happy?
“Boundaries and downtime are very important for you,” she continued, “and you have to define them.”
I knew that. I knew I needed space, but I didn’t know how to do that.
I asked Regina, “You know our families in Pakistan don’t understand any of this. How do I set boundaries? ”
And then she said something that finally helped it all snap into place: “You don’t need others’ understanding to do what’s right for you.”
Her words echoed in my head that night. I realized that I had been expecting my family to understand me. I believed I couldn’t be at peace unless they were content with my choices and decisions. But what I really needed was to understand myself and prioritize my own needs, instead of waiting for them to validate what I wanted.
The next day, the same situation happened with my sister again. And the day after that. And again. Every time, I remembered that line:
I don’t need others to understand me. I don’t need them to accept me for who I am.
I don’t need others to understand me. I don’t need them to accept me for who I am.
***
Slowly, I began to accept myself without guilt, without questioning what was “wrong” with me 100 times a day.
Nothing changed overnight. But after consistent therapy, I started knowing myself better. I stopped thinking 10 times before resting or sleeping at odd times because I was scared of being judged. I stopped explaining every “no.” I stopped apologizing or feeling guilty for needing space, or simply for being myself. I stopped trying to work like everyone else.
And most importantly, I stopped chasing my family’s understanding.
I realized they might never understand me, and that was okay.
As someone living in Pakistan, that was not easy. With the help of therapy, I began to unlearn the cultural pressure to always put my family first, even at the expense of my own well-being. I came to understand that prioritizing my needs wasn’t selfish.
I started to advocate for what I needed. And now, when someone comments, “You’re always sleepy,” I don’t bother defending myself.
I say, “Yes, I can sleep for 12 hours straight — and I love it.”
I say, “Yes, I prefer being alone, and I enjoy it. Just because you enjoy socializing doesn’t mean I have to do the same.”
Today? I’m a happier person. I wake up energized. I take care of myself. I give myself days off. I rest when my mind is overwhelmed. I don’t wait for others to validate my experience. I love myself.
Living with neurodivergence in a culture that doesn’t recognize it is hard, but not impossible. Some days are still hard. I forget things. I freeze. I spiral. But I’ve learned how to bring myself back. I’ve learned I don’t need everyone to get it. I just need to get me.
BIO: Iram Ghafoor is a writer, trainer, speaker, and content marketer. When she’s not writing, she designs smart content strategies for businesses to become more visible on Google.
