I keep running into the same uncomfortable question: what is the difference between understanding ADHD and “making excuses”?
This question shows up in small, ordinary conversations both in real life and online—about children who struggle in social settings, about partners who don’t seem to carry their share of responsibility, and even in how I explain myself and my own struggles to function as a mom in a busy, noisy world.
The more I’ve encountered these conversations and questioned whether I’m excusing behavior (in both myself and my kids) because of ADHD, the more I’ve started to wonder if I’m asking the wrong question entirely. It isn’t really about ADHD. It’s about what we believe understanding is supposed to do—whether it lets us off the hook, or helps us respond more clearly and effectively.
For me, that question is personal. Learning about ADHD in both myself and my kids has changed how I see behavior that once felt confusing or frustrating. It hasn’t been about excusing those behaviors, but about understanding what drives them well enough to respond differently—and more usefully—next time.
ADHD is not an excuse for my kids
My son’s ADHD diagnosis began with a quiet realization: he was struggling in ways I couldn’t explain. I didn’t expect him to be exactly like his sisters, but I knew the general rhythm of childhood milestones—and he wasn’t just a little behind. In some areas, he wasn’t even close. That uncertainty sent me searching for answers, which eventually led to a formal ADHD diagnosis from his pediatrician two years later.
Before that diagnosis, moments of conflict were some of the hardest in my parenting journey. When he reacted strongly in social situations, I often felt embarrassed and ashamed, caught between defending him and not fully understanding what had just happened and worrying that I was a terrible mom. I knew something was getting in his way—but I didn’t have the language for it, either for myself or for others.
After his diagnosis, that began to change. The more I learned about ADHD, the more I could see the patterns behind his reactions—impulsivity, difficulty with executive function, emotional dysregulation. Instead of scrambling to smooth things over, I could step back, understand what had happened, and respond more thoughtfully. I could also explain those moments to others with more clarity and less mom guilt.
That shift didn’t remove responsibility. If anything, it clarified it. My son’s ADHD helps explain why he struggles in certain situations, but it doesn’t excuse the impact of his behavior. When something goes wrong, we still address it. He still needs to make things right. But now, those moments aren’t just about correction—they’re about identifying what skills are missing and helping him build them.
In that sense, his reactions are not endpoints. They’re signals. They tell me where he needs more support, more practice, or different tools—and they give us a path forward, rather than leaving us stuck in confusion or shame.
In her book Quirky Catholic Kids, author and mom Ginny Kochis shares her experience in realizing that “sometimes a diagnosis becomes a crutch.” She’s also had to learn to view her child’s diagnosis “as a reason for behaviors, not as an excuse.” Although their ADHD may help us better understand our kids’ inflexibility or extreme reactions, they are still responsible for their actions.
ADHD is not an excuse for me
When I pursued my own ADHD diagnosis, it was part of the same search for understanding—just turned inward.
As moms, we’re used to putting our needs last. In many ways, that’s part of the job. But over time, it can also mean parenting from a place of depletion—running on empty while trying to meet everyone else’s needs. As I’ve learned to better support my kids, I’ve also had to learn how to recognize and respond to my own needs.
ADHD has given me a clearer picture of why certain things feel so disproportionately difficult. Tasks like cleaning the bathroom weren’t just things I “didn’t feel like doing”—they were points of real friction, where motivation, focus, and overwhelm all collided. Understanding that didn’t magically make the task enjoyable, but it did make it manageable.
Instead of getting stuck in guilt or avoidance, I can now work with my brain instead of against it—building small systems that make things easier to start and finish. Sometimes that looks as simple as putting on an audiobook and giving my mind something to engage with while I work.
That shift—from self-judgment to self-understanding—has been just as important for me as it has been for my kids. It doesn’t lower the bar for what needs to get done, but it does change how I get there.
I’ve seen this same balance modeled by Penn Holderness, whose honesty about the impact of his ADHD stands out to me. He’s open about the mistakes he’s made, often with humor—but he doesn’t stop there. He also talks about the tools and strategies he uses to do better next time. The goal isn’t perfection; it’s growth.
ADHD is not an excuse for my spouse
I’ve also seen this tension play out in a different, more uncomfortable space: conversations about marriage. In several online support groups, I’ve watched women ask for help navigating the mental load in their relationships. People offer practical suggestions—ways to share responsibilities, systems to try—and then the response comes: “He can’t do that because he has ADHD.”
That’s the moment that gives me pause. ADHD can absolutely make certain tasks harder—planning ahead, managing time, following through. But “harder” is not the same as “impossible.” And when the conversation stops there, something important gets lost. What I’m seeing in these moments isn’t just neurodiversity—it’s a pattern where one partner carries the weight of the household while the other is never expected to grow into it.
This dynamic has been discussed by Rebecca Lindenbach and Dr. Keith Lindenbach on the Bare Marriage podcast. When addressing mental load, they note a common pushback: that it’s unreasonable to expect spouses—often husbands—with ADHD to take ownership of it. But that assumption starts to fall apart under closer scrutiny. Many women with ADHD (like myself and Rebecca) are already managing homes, careers, and children. The capacity for growth is there—it just may look different, and require different tools.
That’s why, to me, understanding ADHD should expand expectations, not erase them.
Part of that, I think, is a willingness to pursue real understanding. For my family, that meant seeking formal diagnoses—not because a label fixes everything, but because it opens the door to better tools, clearer language, and real accountability. Self-suspecting can be a starting point, but staying there indefinitely can also become a way to avoid the harder work of growth.
I’ve seen how painful it can be when that growth doesn’t happen. A close friend of mine spent years carrying the full weight of her home and children while her husband, who believed he might be neurodivergent, remained disengaged. Whether or not a diagnosis would have confirmed that, the outcome was the same: she was left unsupported, and their relationship suffered (and eventually ended).
Neurodiversity can explain why something is difficult. It can even reshape how responsibilities need to be shared. But it doesn’t remove the responsibility to show up for the people who depend on you. The goal isn’t perfection. It’s participation.
Final Thoughts
Living with ADHD—both personally and as a parent—has changed how I see behavior, but it hasn’t changed how I see responsibility.
Understanding my son has helped me see his struggles more clearly, and respond to them with more skill and less shame. Understanding my own ADHD has helped me stop fighting against my brain and start building systems that actually work for it. And looking at relationships and conversations around mental load has forced me to ask harder questions about where understanding ends and avoidance begins.
In every case, ADHD explains—but it doesn’t erase.
If anything, real understanding makes responsibility more specific, not less. It helps us see what support is needed, what skills need to be built, and what patterns need to change. But it still leaves us with the same task: showing up for ourselves and for each other.
Because understanding someone’s brain is not the end of accountability—it’s the beginning of doing it better.
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