At a conference I attended recently, a speaker shared a story about his wife receiving an email during COVID.
No warning conversation.
No supervisor sitting across from her, even virtually.
No familiar voice on the phone.
No pause where someone could say, “I know this is awful. I’m sorry.”
Just a message sitting in an inbox.
A subject line.
A few paragraphs.
A decision that changed her life delivered with the same warmth as a shipping notification.
By the time she reached the end, she knew she no longer had a job.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Not because layoffs are ever easy.
They aren’t.
But because something painful becomes even heavier when it’s handled like a transaction.
I spend a lot of my day putting out fires.
Not actual fires, obviously. Though some days, a small office fire might at least be honest about what it is.
Payroll questions. Benefits issues. Missing information. Confusing emails. Last-minute changes.
A form that wasn’t filled out.
A deduction that needs checked.
A timesheet that doesn’t look right.
A message that should have been clearer three people ago.
One thing stacks on top of another until the whole day starts to feel like alarm bells.
Something is always blinking.
Something is always waiting.
Someone always needs an answer.
So I move fast.
I answer the email.
I fix the mistake.
I explain the thing.
I go back and check the thing I thought was already handled.
Then I move on to the next thing before I’ve even had time to breathe.
And somewhere in all of that…
I start to forget there’s a person on the other side.
Payroll isn’t just numbers.
It’s someone wondering if they can pay their bills.
Benefits aren’t just deductions.
They’re someone trying to feel secure.
Communication isn’t just information.
It’s whether someone feels respected… or invisible.
I know all of that.
And still… when things pile up, I forget.
Because when everything feels urgent, I can get so focused on solving the issue that I forget to slow down for the person affected by it.
Not because I don’t care.
Because I do.
I just don’t always leave myself enough room to show it well.
I wish that only showed up at work.
It doesn’t.
I want my kids to experience me as patient.
Present.
Someone they can count on.
That’s the version of myself I picture when I think about being a good dad.
But that’s not always the version they get.
Sometimes they get the version of me that’s already drained before the night even starts.
The version that’s overstimulated.
Short on patience.
Quick to react.
The version that loves them deeply, but doesn’t always sound as gentle as I wish it did in the moment.
And that part hurts to admit.
Sometimes I get so focused on fixing what’s in front of me that I forget there’s a person attached to it.
At work.
At home.
Everywhere.
My kids aren’t problems to solve.
They’re little humans trying to feel safe.
Trying to be heard.
Trying to figure things out.
And honestly, so am I.
I remember my dad being fun.
That’s what stuck.
Laughing. Being around him. Just enjoying time together.
He had a temper sometimes. Especially during Husker games.
But even then, I always knew there was kindness underneath it.
I knew he loved me.
That’s what stayed.
And that’s what I hope stays for my kids too.
Not the moments where I get it wrong.
But the moments where they feel it.
The love.
The effort.
The fact that I’m trying.
My brain doesn’t slow down easily.
It’s always running. Always jumping ahead. Always processing what’s next.
And after a while, that catches up to me.
When I’m overwhelmed, everything gets harder.
Patience gets shorter.
Reactions get quicker.
The people I love most get the version of me with the least left.
That sentence sucks.
But it’s true.
That conference didn’t really teach me something new.
It reminded me of something I already knew…
and keep forgetting.
People don’t just experience what you do.
They experience how you do it.
At work.
At home.
With your kids.
With yourself.
I used to think caring was enough.
But I’m learning that caring can get buried under stress, exhaustion, and a brain that never really shuts off.
I can care deeply and still respond poorly.
I can love people and still not leave myself enough room to show it well.
So maybe the work isn’t learning how to care more.
Maybe it’s learning how to carry it better.
Because I do care.
Sometimes more than I know what to do with.
DadHD Brain 
Leave a comment