Around the time of the pandemic, I began to notice something happening in my social circle. A close friend, then in her early 50s, got a diagnosis of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. She described it as a profound relief, releasing her from years of self-blame — about missed deadlines and lost receipts, but also things that were deeper and more complicated, like her sensitivity to injustice.

Something similar happened to a co-worker, and a cousin in his 30s, and an increasing number of people I met covering mental health. It wasn’t always ADHD. For some, the revelation was a diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder: After years of inarticulate unease in social situations, they felt freed by the framework of neurodivergence, and embraced by the community that came along with it.

Sin

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