Not Good Enough: Impostor Syndrome, ADHD, and Learning to Show Up Anyway

Have you ever felt like you’re not really good enough?

Not talented enough?

Not consistent enough?

Not serious enough to call yourself an artist?

Like you’re just playing at it — a bit of a fraudster?

Well, you’re not alone. I’ve been there — more times than I can count.

In fact, I stayed there for a long time… a very long time.And if I’m being honest? I still find myself with one foot in that camp most days.

What I didn’t realise until much later in life was how deeply this inner voice — the one always whispering “you’re not good enough” — was not only a result of childhood trauma but also tied into my undiagnosed ADHD.

It’s estimated that by the age of 12, a child with ADHD has received around 20,000 more negative messages than their neurotypical peers. That’s a staggering figure. And when those messages pile up — even subtle ones — they slowly begin to shape your self-perception.

By the time I got to college, those messages were loud in my head. I signed up for an Art & Design course because I loved drawing — I always had. But once I saw other people’s work, something inside me shrank. I looked around and thought, “I’m not as good as them.” I didn’t realise at the time that I wasn’t just dealing with low confidence — I was already tangled up in Impostor Syndrome.

And alongside that, there was something else: Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD). If you’re not familiar, RSD is something many people with ADHD and Autism experience. It’s an intense emotional sensitivity — especially around criticism, rejection, or even just the perception of rejection. For me, it didn’t always come from others. It often came from me — harsh self-comparisons, self-judgement, assuming I was falling short even when no one had said anything at all.

And that’s how the story settled in: I wasn’t good enough. And because I wasn’t good enough, what was the point in even trying?

So, for years… too many years… I didn’t.

Certainly not in the way I would have liked.

I stopped making the art I wanted to make. I dabbled. I played it safe. I kept it hidden.I told myself it was just a hobby — nothing more.Because if I failed, at least it wouldn’t really matter.

But deep down, it did matter.

Because the part of me that longed to create never truly went away.

It took a long time — over 40 years, in fact.

Years of healing.

Of journaling .

Of sitting quietly with myself and gently peeling back the layers.

Through counselling and self-reflection, I started to hear a new voice beneath all the noise — one that was softer. Kinder. One that didn’t expect perfection, but welcomed curiosity.

And slowly, cautiously, I picked up my pencils again.I began to share a few pieces on social media. First with friends… then with a wider audience.

To my surprise, the response was beautiful. People loved what I created. A few even asked me to draw their pets. Their joy at seeing the final portraits — that lit something in me.

But then… the voices returned.

Not the kind from other people. The kind in my head.The impostor voice. The RSD (Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria) voice.

They told me if I were really any good, this would be taking off more. That I’d be getting more commissions. More attention. More… something.

Then — just as quickly — they flipped the script: “What if you do get more commissions? You’re not good enough to keep up.” “You’ll fall behind. Let people down. Be found out.”

It was relentless.

The self-doubt.

The overwhelm.

The what ifs.

Until about six months ago… I stopped.

I stopped showing up to my studio. I stopped creating. I stopped promoting my website, my business… myself.

Until now.

Because at some point — quietly, gently — something shifted.

I realised I couldn’t keep creating from a place of fear and self-doubt. I couldn’t keep chasing what I thought everyone else wanted. So I decided to return to my values.

To strip it all back.

To go right back to basics — where it all began.

Back to that childhood wonder.

That spark.

That feeling of making just because.

I knew I had to take the pressure off if I was ever going to find joy again. So I made a deal with myself:

Make art.

Any art.

Good, bad, or downright ugly — just make it.

That’s when I discovered junk journalling. A space where scribbles and smudges are welcome. Where torn paper and tangled thoughts belong. Where I can play, explore, and experiment without judgment or criticism. A place without pressure or perfection. Just me, my materials, and a little freedom.

I almost didn't upload this photo because my perfectionism started screaming at me 'NOOOOO !! to vulnerable, not good enough' - and that is exactly why it belongs right here.

And something remarkable happened: Once I gave myself permission to play, I began to learn. And when I started learning, I felt more confident. And that confidence gave me even more permission to play.

The cycle — finally — became a nourishing one.

I can’t quite pinpoint the exact reason for this shift. It’s probably a mix of many things.

Grief, for one. As I shared in a previous post, I’ve lost people recently. And I’m watching people I love face diagnoses that are hard to even comprehend.

Maybe it’s an age thing. Something about turning 50 makes you realise: it’s now or never.

Or maybe it was something someone said. Something I watched. Something I read.

Whatever it was, it nudged me back into my journal — this time, more deeply than ever before. Pages filled with truths I’d avoided.

With pain, yes — but also with clarity.

There were a lot of realisations.

Some long overdue forgiveness.

Some honest conversations with the little girl I used to be.

And above all, there was healing.

And now I’m rebuilding — not just my website, but my trust in myself. I’m choosing to show up with honesty, even when that inner critic still occasionally pipes up. Because I’ve learned that it’s okay to stumble. It’s okay to not know. It’s okay to start over.

And it’s okay to say:

I am an artist.

Even if I’m still growing.

Especially because I’m still growing.

Thanks for being here — for witnessing this part of my story.

Maybe something in it reflects a little of yours, too.

Wherever you are on your journey, may you find the courage to begin again — in your own way, and in your own time.

We’re all a work in progress.

And maybe, that’s the most beautiful part.

If this resonated with you, I’d love for you to go give it a little love — leave a comment, and maybe subscribe on my homepage so you won’t miss when the next blog drops! Oh and you could also tell your friends too.