From our May 2025 Newsletter
ADHD, Auditory Processing and the Cost of Coping
At the ADHD World Congress this week, it wasn’t the lectures that left me drained as you would expect. It was the breaks. It was the effort of trying to tune into one conversation while filtering out hundreds of others, the clatter of coffee cups, the background music, the movement and mingling. My brain doesn’t seem to know what to do with all that unfiltered sound, so the effort of staying present takes a toll.
I’ve realised that it’s not the learning that exhausts me, but the processing. In the lectures, I was determined to stay regulated, even when people nearby were crinkling sweet wrappers or whispering. I wanted to turn and glare (I didn’t, and I wouldn’t), but my brain was already shouting: “Focus! Filter! Be polite! Don’t react!”
This isn’t unique to me. It’s the lived experience of so many neurodivergent people, especially those with ADHD and auditory processing difficulties. And it’s something children face every single day.
What might that look like in school?
Imagine sitting in a school hall, trying to eat while 200 other children are laughing, shouting, clattering cutlery, scraping chairs. You’re immediately expected to transition calmly back to class, listen attentively, regulate emotions, and complete a task.
If a child manages that, we call them resilient. But at what cost?
If they don’t manage it, we might call them disruptive.
What we often miss is that the real effort is invisible. It’s the energy spent filtering out sensory input and holding in frustration. It is work to mask discomfort and stay regulated in a world that keeps getting louder.
And when do they recover? Often, they don’t. Or can’t.
Restraint collapse is real.
You may have heard of the term restraint collapse – the emotional unravelling that happens when a child (or adult) finally reaches a safe space. For many families, this looks like a child coming home from school and melting down. It’s not poor behaviour. It’s the pressure valve releasing. It’s recovery.
And for adults, it might look like not being able to show up today because yesterday took everything. Not lazy. Not unreliable. Just human, and depleted.
So what can we do?
Start by noticing. Be the adult who sees a child struggling after break. Be the colleague who recognises that someone might be quiet because they’re overloaded, not disengaged. Be the person who says, “Let’s step outside,” “Let’s switch off the music,” or simply, “I get it.”
And above all, remember this: the better someone appears to be coping, the more likely they’re doing so at a cost. Let’s stop expecting children (or adults) to pay that price just to appear “okay.”
