By the time we arrive in McCall, Idaho, a small, quiet lake town that feels like the epitome of relaxation, which is exactly what we need, even if it is not what we naturally are, I know this vacation will not look like rest in the traditional sense. It will look like neurodivergent family life.
There are fourteen of us: my wife, our two children, my parents, my brothers, their wives, nieces and one nephew. Many of us live with ADHD, diagnosed or clearly recognizable. The patterns show up everywhere: fast thinking, emotional reactivity, difficulty following plans, and ideas that arrive faster than they can be completed.
As an ADHD coach, and as someone living with it, I have come to understand that the real tension is not attention itself. It is switching between internal states. One is a state of activation. It is fast and loud. It tracks risks, urgency, pressure, expectations, unfinished tasks, and imagined consequences. The other is a state of presence. It lives in the immediate: sensory experience, connection, fun, warmth, now.
The challenge is not to silence activation or force presence. It is learning to notice the state you are in, make room for it, and shift when you can without judgment.
At the lake, this becomes visible.
We try kayaking. At first, it is simple: get in, paddle, enjoy the lake. Almost immediately, each of us is having a different experience. Someone wants to race. Someone wants to drift. Someone narrates the whole thing out loud. Someone else forgets the plan entirely and commits to a new one.
From the outside, it looks like a family activity. From the inside, it is fourteen nervous systems trying to find the same rhythm on the same water.
One part of me is still in activation: what’s next, what’s overdue, what did I forget, what did I miss. But another part has shifted into presence. It is in the splash, the noise, the fun, the cold lake water.
Both states are still running, but for a moment, presence is louder. I am here now.
Meals, conversations, and planning bring out the harder parts. It is not that we do not care about the plan. It is that the plan has to compete with every other input in the room: hunger, noise, timing, someone complaining about the texture of their towel, someone remembering the thing we were supposed to do.
A simple question like “What time are we leaving?” can turn into three people answering different versions of the question. One person is solving for logistics. One is reacting to the pressure underneath it. One is already explaining why the original plan may not work.
This is where ADHD can feel less funny and more exposed. The gap between what we meant, what we said, and what happened creates tension. A missed detail can feel like carelessness, even when it is overload, time-blindness, or a nervous system tracking too many inputs.
It became clear to me that expecting everything to go right was the wrong measure of success. The real work was learning to recognize which state was running the show. Was I in activation: urgency, pressure, defensiveness, imagined failure? Or could I shift, even briefly, into presence, clarity, and connection?
That shift does not always happen quickly. But when it does, we can clarify, soften, and say what we need. We can come back without making the drift mean failure.
On the final night, we sit around a fire and try to be still. It lasts four minutes.
McCall does not quiet the state of activation. But it offers opportunities to switch.
Not to shut anything down. Not to fix anything. But to shift, briefly, into presence.
Maybe this is what rest looks like for ADHD minds: not silence, but learning to shift states until presence becomes possible, even briefly.
Ian Wahlert is a certified ADHD coach with a decade of experience helping over 1,000 adults manage ADHD. He is a recognized speaker providing coaching both locally and worldwide. Email [email protected] to submit your questions and get answers in future columns. This content is for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for professional medical or mental health advice.
