ADHD, Addiction, and the Culture I Didn't See Coming

Nov 14, 2025

Once upon a time—okay, several times—I ran a creative agency that was part sandbox, part pressure cooker, and part beautiful chaos. We had a team full of neurodivergent minds—ADHD, anxiety, autism, you name it. Not because we were trying to be inclusive. Just because the work we did—the speed, the unpredictability, the need for left-field thinking—attracted us.

We didn’t have the language back then. We weren’t diagnosing each other. But we knew something was different. People paced to think. Others locked in and disappeared for days. You could walk in at noon and find someone knee-deep in a creative flow state that started the night before.

It worked.

For a while, it worked brilliantly.

We were lightning.

We built a culture around weirdness and hyperfocus and friction and breakthroughs. People didn’t just work there—they lived it. We shared everything: deadlines, wins, failures, grief, layoffs, birthdays, beers.

And yeah, that’s where things start to get blurry.

The Tribe That Drank Together

We celebrated hard. We blew off steam even harder. Late nights turned into pub nights. Pub nights turned into rituals. I thought I was fostering connection. I’d buy another round thinking, "They crushed it this week. They earned this."

What I didn’t realize was—we weren’t just building bonds. We were building patterns.

And some of those patterns had teeth.

I started noticing little things. Empty beer cans weren’t weird. But empty fifths of whiskey in the recycling bin? A little weirder. Sometimes the bottles weren’t even hidden. They were just... there. Tuesday night, someone was working late. Alone. Drinking at their desk.

Some were staying because they didn’t want to go home. Others were staying because this place was their home. It was the fraternity they never had. Work as escape, as therapy, as coping.

And I missed it.

The Cost of Not Knowing

We had people with ADHD and trauma histories and undiagnosed everything. And I didn’t know enough to notice the difference between "blowing off steam" and slowly burning out.

It wasn’t just alcohol. There was weed. Shrooms. Coke. Molly. I found that out way later.

But what I did see—eventually—were the effects. People withdrawing. People showing up foggy. People who were incredible suddenly becoming inconsistent. Or just... gone.

I used to think it was just the nature of agency life. High churn. High speed. Not everyone can hang. But that’s a cop-out. Some of them could have stayed if we’d seen the signs earlier. If we’d had language around ADHD and addiction. If I’d made different calls about what "culture" really meant.

The Personal Lens Gets Sharper

Years later, life made it personal. I became the father of a kid who went through serious trauma and addiction. Living with that kind of proximity changes how you see things.

In the beginning, you think it’s about willpower. Or motivation. Or discipline. By the end, you know better. You start spotting patterns in people’s behavior—the stuff you ignored before. The excuses you made. The jokes you let pass.

You learn to see it.

And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

What I’d Do Differently Now

One of my old creatives said something to me recently that stuck: "People need disease, stress, long nights… it shapes us." It sounds brutal, but there’s truth in it. Resilience doesn’t show up in perfect conditions—it’s born in the mess. The chaos. The missed deadlines. The late-night scrambles and the triumphs that come after.

But resilience and recklessness are not the same thing all the time.

Building the calluses of hard work, trial by fire—that’s one thing. Embracing recklessness and racing with it? That’s dangerous.

Some people do it consciously—ride or die mentality, full throttle no matter the cost. Others do it unconsciously. They don’t know why they push past healthy limits. Or worse, they’re completely unaware it’s even happening. And in a culture that rewards "going the extra mile" no matter the cost, that kind of behavior can look like dedication instead of distress.

If I could go back, I’d still build a place where ND minds thrive. But I’d build in more structure. More options. More pause buttons.

Not every celebration needs to end at the bar. Not every stress cycle needs to be solved with another drink.

I’d normalize breaks that don’t involve substances. I’d make space for people to talk—really talk—about how they’re doing. And I’d probably stop glamorizing the grind as the price of greatness.

I used to think we had to earn our fun by suffering together. Now I think we should just build places that don’t make people suffer in the first place.

This Isn’t a Redemption Arc

I don’t think I failed as a leader. I just didn’t know what I didn’t know. But I’m writing this because I know a lot of people are still building companies like the one I built. And some of those companies are walking the same edge.

If you’re leading a team with a lot of neurodivergent folks, pay attention. The same traits that drive brilliance—hyperfocus, restlessness, emotional intensity—can also drive burnout and addiction when they’re not supported.

That’s not about being soft. It’s about being smart.

Creative teams will always have chaos. But it doesn’t have to come with collateral damage.

And if you’re reading this and thinking, "Damn, this feels familiar"—yeah. That’s why I wrote it.

You’re not alone. Just don’t wait until it gets personal to start seeing it.

If you're looking for support, here are a few places that can help:

Alcoholics Anonymous: https://www.aa.org
Narcotics Anonymous: https://na.org
Al-Anon Family Groups (for families and friends of people with addiction): https://al-anon.org

You're not alone. Someone’s been where you are. Someone’s there now. And someone can help.