I'm Avoiding the Thing That Matters and the Shame Is Eating Me Alive
Why acknowledging I'm stuck is the only step I can take right now
I need to tell you something I’ve been avoiding.
I haven’t written a newsletter article in weeks. Not because I don’t have ideas. Not because I don’t care about helping designers navigate ADHD and AI tools.
But because somewhere along the way, my brain decided it was done caring about this specific thing, and now the gap between “I should write” and actually opening a doc feels fucking insurmountable.
Classic ADHD wall. You know the one.
The task becomes emotionally loaded.
Your brain treats it like a threat.
You avoid it.
The avoidance creates more shame.
The shame makes the wall higher.
Repeat until you’re here, staring at a blank page, wondering if you’ll ever be able to do the thing that mattered to you just a few weeks ago.
And every day I don’t write, the wall gets higher.
Here’s what actually happened:
My hyperfixation shifted.
I’m painting now. Every day. For hours. It’s just for me. No pressure. No audience. No “this needs to help someone” or “this needs to perform well” or “this needs to be consistent.” Just paint and canvas and the kind of flow state that feels like my brain finally gets to rest.
And the newsletter? The thing I built to help people? The work that actually matters?
My brain has moved on. And I’m sitting here terrified that I’ve let you down.
This is the ADHD-specific terror that nobody talks about enough:
What if the thing you built your business on, the thing you told people you’d show up for, was just a hyperfixation? And now it’s gone?
Not “I’m tired and need rest” burnout. Not “I need a vacation” burnout.
But “my brain has moved on and I have no control over when or if it comes back” burnout.
I’ve experienced this pattern my whole life.
The intense focus on something. The conviction that this is the thing. The building, the momentum, the public commitment. And then one day the fire just isn’t there anymore.
And you’re left holding the thing you built, wondering if you’re a fraud for starting something you couldn’t maintain.
Here’s what the resistance actually feels like right now:
I know intellectually that once I start writing, I’ll probably be fine.
I’ve done this a thousand times.
But the gap between knowing that and actually doing it has become so massive that avoidance is the only thing that feels manageable.
I’m not stuck on what to write. I’m stuck on starting to write.
The topics feel stale. The voice feels performative. Opening the doc feels like staring at evidence of my own failure to be consistent.
So I paint instead. Because painting doesn’t judge me for not showing up yesterday.
Here’s what I need you to hear:
If you’re in this place right now, if you started something that mattered and then your brain moved on and now you’re drowning in shame about it, this is happening to me too.
Right now.
Not “here’s how I overcame it.”
Not “5 tips to reignite your passion.”
Not some bullshit productivity hack that assumes you can just decide to care about something your brain has moved on from.
Just: I’m in it.
You might be in it.
And acknowledging that it’s happening is the first step to moving through it.
I still care about helping designers with ADHD navigate this landscape. That part hasn’t changed.
But caring intellectually and being able to access the motivation to write are two different things. And my ADHD brain doesn’t give a fuck about the difference.
The dopamine is all going to painting right now. The newsletter gets none. And I can’t just decide my way out of that.
Here’s what I’m learning in real time:
The wall gets higher when you avoid it. But writing this, admitting where I am, being honest about the struggle, this is me climbing it.
Not by writing the article I “should” write. Not by forcing myself to show up as the expert who has it figured out.
But by showing up as the person who’s in it with you. Who’s struggling with the same patterns. Who’s trying to figure out how to do work that matters when the brain chemistry isn’t cooperating.
Acknowledging it doesn’t fix it. But it does make the wall smaller.
Small enough that maybe I can see over it. Small enough that maybe I can take one step.
I don’t know if this is the beginning of me writing regularly again. I don’t know if the hyperfixation will cycle back or if I’ll have to build a different relationship with this work.
But I know this: the work still matters even when the dopamine isn’t there.
You still matter. Your struggles still matter. The thing you started and can’t seem to maintain still matters.
And sometimes the way through isn’t pushing harder. It’s admitting you’re stuck and seeing if anyone else is stuck with you.
If you’re in this place right now, if your brain has moved on from the thing you built, if the wall feels insurmountable, if you’re avoiding the thing that used to light you up, I see you.
This is happening to me too.
And we’re going to move through it. Not by fixing ourselves. Not by forcing consistency. But by being honest about what this actually feels like and taking the smallest possible step.
For me, today, that step was writing this.
What’s yours?
Jon Wiggens is a Visual Product Lead with 25+ years in game UI/UX who sometimes writes about ADHD and design when his brain cooperates. He’s currently painting a lot and trying not to feel guilty about it.