How ADHD TikTok Triggered My Id Disaster
After a lifetime of feeling like a blue crayon in a red box, I was finally diagnosed with autism and ADHD at 28. For most of my life, I’d tried to squish myself into neurotypical spaces, explaining away my quirks, masking where I could, and turning up charm or humor where I couldn’t. I wasn’t the quiet weirdo — I leaned into being the class clown, the loud one, the one who made everyone laugh. If I couldn’t blend in, I’d perform.
I used to think autism meant headbanging or stimming in obvious ways. I didn’t see myself in the stereotypes, and I definitely didn’t think it explained my chaos. But then came TikTok.
It started innocently enough. Like many people, I downloaded the app during the pandemic to see what the fuss was about. The algorithm didn’t take long. Almost instantly, my For You page was filled with chaotic, rainbow-haired women my age talking about ADHD and autism. Women who looked like me. Women who were me.
I didn’t even have to search. They just appeared — video after video of people with the same explosive personality traits, the same sensory issues, the same thought patterns. The same trauma responses. The same jokes. The same blue hair.
At first, it was comforting. “That’s me!” I’d laugh. “Oh my God — that’s so me!” But then the laughter started to sting.
[Read: “I’m ‘The ADHD Doctor’ on TikTok. Here’s How the App Has Changed Me.”]
One video hit particularly hard. A woman — split-dyed blue and black hair, like mine — left her house to grab blueberries. The timestamp showed it had been over an hour when she came back through the door with five full shopping bags, arms overflowing. Her husband called out, “Did you get the blueberries?” And her face froze in horror. She hadn’t. She’d forgotten the one thing she went out for. I laughed out loud… then felt punched in the gut. Because I had done that exact thing — only with orange juice.
Once the algorithm clocked my reaction, it doubled down. Every time I opened the app, I saw someone like me: brushing their teeth and suddenly realizing the toilet roll needed changed… which led to changing the bin… which led to discovering their toothbrush in the kitchen beside the bin they forgot to empty. These bizarre, tangled thought spirals I thought were unique to me were suddenly just… everywhere.
As my friends discovered the app, my inbox started to fill with more versions of myself — daily scenarios acted out by strangers who looked like me, always with the same message: “This is so you.” People even said it in person: “You know that girl — the one who’s basically you on the Internet,” when they were talking about an AuDHD video.
And that’s when it hit me. I wasn’t special. I was one of thousands. Millions, even.
Weirdness as Identity, Stolen by TikTok
All my life, I’d felt weird, different. I had clung to that as a form of identity. Even when it hurt, even when I felt alone, I had accepted my quirks as mine. But TikTok held up a mirror I hadn’t requested — and in that mirror, I saw not one reflection, but hundreds. Thousands. My traits, once mine alone, were playing out on screens all over the world. It felt like I’d been cloned and scattered across the Internet.
That realization spiraled into a strange grief. I was relieved to have answers for my lifelong struggles, yes. But at the same time, I was grieving the person I thought I was. I had worn my difference like armor — if I couldn’t blend in, I’d be the loudest, weirdest one in the room. I didn’t realize how much of my identity hinged on feeling like the only one.
Seeing “me” reflected back so often, in so many strangers, made me feel exposed. Invisible, even. Was I just ADHD sprinkled with some autism — another neurodivergent stereotype of blue hair and mandalas? Had anything about me ever been unique?
I Don’t Need to Be One-of-a-Kind
For weeks, I found myself torn. I kept scrolling through these videos that made me laugh, cry, and feel understood. But they also made me feel hollow. Like my sense of self had dissolved. I started snapping the app shut, unable to face the steady stream of doppelgängers.
And then one night, I looked at my son — this messy, brilliant little boy who shares many of my quirks — and something shifted.
If I can see myself everywhere… maybe that means I was never alone.
Maybe there’s comfort in that.
Maybe I’m not a diluted version of a stereotype, but a real, whole person who happens to be neurodivergent — like so many others. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe it’s a blessing. Maybe I can see the humor in this — the light in myself by seeing it in others like me.
Because if I can find myself in all of these strangers, then maybe he will, too.
Maybe he’ll grow up seeing himself everywhere and never feel the kind of loneliness I felt as a child.
Maybe the weird won’t feel weird at all. That’s all I can hope for.
These days, I still fall into the TikTok rabbit holes. I still see my reflection in strangers. But now I feel a little more grounded. A little more grateful. I’m learning to let go of the need to be “one of a kind,” and embracing the strange, beautiful truth that we are never as alone as we think.
I may not be the only blue crayon in the box — but I’m still here, coloring outside the lines.
AuDHD in Women: Next Steps
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