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Choose Your Discomfort is a transformation story, from people-pleasing and disordered eating to living intentionally and joyfully.

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January 7, 2024


It’s January 2024, and I am thirty-four years old.


I no longer believe in setting “New Year’s Resolutions” for a lot of reasons. When I was younger, I often set resolutions I couldn’t come close to achieving. But as I grew up, began to understand myself better, and developed a healthier relationship with myself, I started setting much more realistic and applicable expectations.


Some years, I’ve set intentions. Other years, I’ve simply kept trucking along with whatever was important to me at the time. This year, it’s a bit of both. I know what I want to prioritize in my life—things that fill my cup and help me grow. I also know I want to give less of my time to things that drain my energy or don’t add value to my life. However, there is one very specific thing I’ve resolved to do this year: I’m going to seek an ADHD assessment.


I’m a millennial woman in the TikTok era, and I know I’m not unique in wondering if I might have ADHD. The thought first crossed my mind in 2018 when I became friends with a woman a few years older than me who had recently been diagnosed. As she shared her experiences and described symptoms she’d previously dismissed, I saw myself in her stories. Although I related to her, I didn’t mention it to anyone else. I assumed I was over-identifying or trying to make her situation about me—something I’ve often accused myself of doing.


Then something happened online. As the pandemic unfolded and people began focusing on mental health, more and more stories of neurodivergence started popping up. I could be wrong—maybe this content had always been out there, and the algorithm just got better at delivering it to the right people—but it seemed like everyone was finding out they had ADHD.


For me, it started with a few videos and memes that felt uncomfortably relatable. Gradually, it infiltrated the mental health and self-help content I found most insightful. Soon, I was casually discussing it with friends who shared similar feelings. That led to more videos, more memes, and eventually, books—fictional and educational—featuring neurodivergent characters. Without trying, I even attracted more neurodivergent clients into my coaching programs, many of whom also shared experiences that mirrored my own.


The more I learned, the more certain I became. But with that certainty came fear.


I get overstimulated by noise, especially competing noises, like when two different sources of music are playing at the same time.

I can’t listen to music while I eat.

I procrastinate on important tasks by meticulously completing less urgent ones, like cleaning my house or organizing files.

When I focus on a task, I tend to hyperfocus—forgetting to eat and obsessing over perfection.

I’m constantly a few minutes late for almost everything.I have time blindness and often misjudge how long things will take.

I talk to myself. I tell long-winded stories and get lost in the details. I interrupt and finish other people’s sentences, sometimes with mixed reactions.

I am forgetful, and have to leave things out as visual reminders. Like the reusable container my sister-in-law filled with Christmas leftovers; I washed it, left it on the table, and still forgot to return it for nine weeks—even though I visit every Tuesday.


Every day, memes, reels, and TikToks about ADHD and neurodivergence hit me with something that makes me feel seen, heard, and called out. But so do posts about trauma, anxiety, and other mental health content.


With all of these concepts bouncing around in my brain, I've hesitated to seek a diagnosis for some time. I felt like I had to decide whether I wanted to believe that the way I am is something that can be labeled or diagnosed—or as the accumulation of everything I’ve experienced and how I learned to survive.


If I’m honest, I know both can be true. But they feel different when I hold the weight of them in my hands. That likely has a lot to do with the stigma surrounding these diagnoses—and my own internalized ableism. I’m working on it.


It also comes down to control. I couldn’t control the trauma I experienced at home as a young person. I couldn’t help growing up in a society that taught me my value as a woman was based on my appearance and that I was simultaneously too much and not enough. But now, through years of therapy and personal growth, I’m reclaiming control.


I’ve fought personal battles, grown, set boundaries, improved my communication skills, built a healthy relationship and a small but growing business. But I’m still always running late. I’m hypervigilant. I procrastinate. I forget to eat. I constantly lose my phone. I have trouble wrapping up big projects or getting started on new ones. I regularly worry that people are pretending to like me or just being polite.


At any given moment, my thoughts and feelings swirl in my brain like a game of musical chairs. When the music stops, I’m left standing—fitting, since I have trouble sitting still anyway.


In the moment, these experiences feel normal—not in the air-quote “normal” sense, but in the sense that they are my normal. I’ve accepted myself as an anxious, clumsy, overthinking, highly sensitive, recovering people-pleaser with poor time management. To me, that’s just who I am. And after all the therapy, self-reflection, and affirmations, I’ve learned to to have compassion for even the most challenging parts of myself.


I decided to bring my ADHD questions to my therapist first rather than my doctor because, ultimately the idea of being rejected or invalidated is what has held me back from speaking these concerns out loud up until this point. My doctor has not necessarily given me a reason to think she’d dismiss me, but I don’t feel entirely safe from her judgment. My therapist, on the other hand, has always made me feel validated—even when offering necessary reality checks.


This fear isn’t new. It’s the same fear I’ve had all my life: fear of the reaction more than the thing itself. I’ve always felt the need to explain myself—to justify all of my actions and choices before I'm even questioned on them. I mentally prepare to defend my every decision as if I do not have the right to make them for myself.


I’m afraid of being judged for self-diagnosing. Afraid of being seen as attention-seeking. Afraid I am attention-seeking. Afraid I’m wrong and there’s no explanation for how I feel.


At the same time, I’m afraid I’m right—and I’m not sure what that means.


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Updated: Jan 14

Stories from a Milennial Woman in the Tik Tok Era


It’s January 2025, and it has been one year since I resolved to seek an ADHD diagnosis. I still experience a twinge of shame about having silently diagnosed myself long before the official assessment—a process that was far from quick or simple. I knew better than to ask outright for a diagnosis. Instead, I asked to be assessed—evaluated before I could be validated.


Yet here we are, a full year later—with a diagnosis, a prescription, and a slightly better understanding of my brain and myself, but still a lot of questions. Truthfully, I am feeling better. I feel like I’m more in control, less anxious (most of the time), more productive, and even somewhat organized. But alongside these improvements, I’ve been grappling with immense grief, anger, and unexpected growing pains. Overall, I’d say I’m doing well, though I suspect this is just the beginning.


When I made the resolution to get assessed last year, I had no idea how challenging it would be. It wasn’t just the logistical hurdles of securing an evaluation or a diagnosis—it was also the personal barriers I had to navigate. The emotional ups and downs of each step were compounded by life’s relentlessness, showing no regard for the delicate and unfamiliar terrain I was exploring.


As I often do with big decisions, resolutions, or intense emotions, I turned to writing. Initially, it was a personal journaling practice to help me sort out my thoughts and a half-formed idea for a book documenting the process. What emerged instead is this: a vulnerable exploration of my inner world. I’m not sure where it will lead or what it will become when I eventually run out of things to say.


For now, let me introduce myself. I’m Andrea Troughton, a 35-year-old self-employed personal trainer, independent author, and Brazilian jiu-jitsu athlete. For most of my adult life, I’ve been on a healing journey. It began with caring for my physical body, a step that ultimately shaped my deeply rewarding career. But while this was pivotal, it was only the first step, and my 20s and early 30s were filled with struggles in countless other areas.


Over the last decade, I’ve pursued self-improvement from every angle I could think of: therapy, education, physical activity, mindset work, affirmations, and journaling. I’ve hired coaches, joined mastermind programs, and purchased courses galore. Along the way, I expanded my knowledge as a personal trainer, studying nutrition, intuitive eating, body liberation, trauma and healing, and diverse exercise modalities. I trained in self-defense, kickboxing, and Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Some of these endeavors were transformative and now shape my life or work. Others felt repetitive, unattainable, or simply unhelpful. That’s life, isn’t it? Some things are meant for you; others aren’t, and the only way to find out is to try.


Despite all this growth, certain tasks and habits eluded me. No matter how much sense they made, or how many strategies I tried, I couldn’t make them stick. This is what ultimately led me to seek a diagnosis. This, and the persistent ache in my gut—the one that reared its ugly head every time I failed to follow through on a plan, couldn’t stick to a schedule, struggled to keep my house tidy, or arrived late yet again. The ache that whispered, Why is this so hard for you? Other people succeed with the same information. What’s wrong with you?”


In the pages that follow, I’ll share my ADHD story: my experience with assessment, diagnosis, and treatment, as well as the steps, stages, and spirals I encountered along the way. Because my brain thrives on providing context, you’ll also find stories and situations from other parts of my life that add meaning or nuance to this journey.

Although my personal journey has influenced my work as a coach, nothing I share here is intended as prescriptive advice. I am not an expert on ADHD or a mental health provider. What worked for me may not work for you. If you are struggling or have questions, please seek guidance from a licensed practitioner like a therapist, psychiatrist, or doctor. I share my story not to instruct but to inspire, entertain, and extend a hand if you’re feeling alone.


Content warning: This blog series includes mentions of death, alcoholism, drug use, and the vulnerable reflections of a human being doing her best under less than ideal circumstances.


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Writer's picture: Andrea TroughtonAndrea Troughton

I’m a personal trainer and it took me 6 months to complete a 12 week workout program and I couldn’t be happier. Here’s why…





This summer, I decided to try something different when it came to my workouts. I have been a personal trainer for nearly 10 years, and to be perfectly honest, when it came to planning my own workouts, I was bored. 

I create workout programs for clients often, and while I am more than capable of making a great program, much like many of my clients, sometimes I just don’t want to have to think about what I’m going to do at the gym. 


Outside of working out, I am typically quite active. I do Brazilian jiu jitsu 2 - 3 times per week, kickboxing once per week, and, if I can make enough time in my schedule, weekly yoga. I also walk to work most days of the week, except right now, because I sprained my ankle doing jiu jitsu last week. 


Long before my injury, roughly 6 months ago in fact, I decided to purchase a program from a coach I had been following online. This coach works specifically with jiu jitsu athletes, and after following home for awhile, and consuming some of his free content, I had come to appreciate his approach and decided to sign up.


When I went to start the program, the first thing I appreciated was that, although he had suggestions about how much and how often to train, he acknowledged that it was important to find a training frequency that makes sense with your other activities, and your schedule. 


So while I had chosen to start with a “12-week Program” the program would only be completed in 12 weeks if you did 3 sessions per week, without interruption. 

Fortunately, I am at a place in my relationship with exercise, where I can (FINALLY) look at what is going to be realistic for me, and be ok with that, instead of pushing myself to complete everything perfectly. 


Instead, I focussed on what I could realistically do the most consistently.


I decided that, since I am already so active, I would be better off reducing my frequency to 2 times per week, and looked at what days/times I could realistically fit that into my schedule without sacrificing rest and recovery time. 


At first, I kept my 2-per-week routine going strong, as usually happens during a new workout routine, especially one that I was enjoying as much as this one. As the weeks went on however, inevitably, things would come up.


I got a cold

My body was stiff and sore

I went on a vacation

My schedule changed

I got injured


You know… ordinary, every day, life stuff happened.


But instead of beating myself up when I missed a workout, I just allowed it to happen, and then I moved on.


There were a few weeks where I only managed 1 workout and a few where I didn’t work out at all. There were also a few weeks where I finished 3 workouts, and others where I choose to shorten or modify the workouts. 


And I just kept trucking along. 

I was no worse or better from week to week, I simply gave myself permission to be, and do, or do not.


This gave me the opportunity to actually listen to how my body and mind were feeling and choose my movement accordingly. It also encouraged me to keep moving forward. 


I didn’t have to quit or start again because it wasn’t perfect, I just had to keep doing what I could, when I could, and give myself credit for that. 


So although it has taken me nearly twice as long to complete this program, I am celebrating this win simply because I completed it, and I completed it with self compassion. Oh, and in case you were wondering, I also got stronger, improved my mobility, and was able to perform exercises that had previously been too challenging for me. Progress comes with consistency, and imperfect action is the best way to achieve consistency. Fitness is not a race, it is not about reaching the finish line as fast as possible, it is about being able to keep going.


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