When I was 20, I went to Luxembourg through my college’s study abroad program. While there, a friend from school and I decided to spend spring break in Barcelona. On that trip, I got mugged and then pick-pocketed on the train ride home.

When I called my mom from the French railways—through the US Embassy—for the second time in less than twenty-four hours because I’d been robbed—her first question was: “Did you really get pickpocketed, or are you just too embarrassed that you lost your wallet again?”

Not a great moment for either of us.

Twenty-three years later, I understand my mom’s reaction a bit better.

The only thing worse than having ADHD is living with someone who has ADHD. I kid, though, it’s funny because it’s true.

Neither my mom nor I knew I had ADHD growing up, and I only have a diagnosis now because I advocated for my kiddo to be evaluated at a young age. Turns out he got it from his momma.

I grew up losing everything: backpacks, sweatshirts, shoes, and expensive sporting equipment. Once (this demonstrates how small a town I grew up in), my mom gave me a signed blank check to bring to school so I could put down a deposit on my high school class ring. I took the check off the kitchen table and went to school. That night, the phone rang. My mom answered and thanked the person on the other end over and over.

“Amanda?!?!”

“Yeah?”

“Did you put the deposit down on your ring today?”

“Oh shoot, I forgot – but I took the check. They’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Where’s the check?”

“I don’t know, probably in my car.”

“Actually, it’s not because someone from the church recognized my name and just called. When she went to pick up her kid, she found the check lying in the school’s parking lot.”

“Wow, super lucky she didn’t use it.”

“AMANDA!”

Charming and sickening versions of this story exist for every stage of my life.

I mean, case and point, I can recall these exact conversations more than 20 years later, but just this morning, I lost my phone because I made my bed.

Not that anyone saw, but I’m assuming the visual of me barking at Alexa to keep calling my phone and my twelve-year-old using his good ears to find the buzz was the stuff of bad sitcoms.

After successfully uncovering the phone from under a comforter and quilt, Briggs said, “Am I good or what?”

I told him he was the best, and I meant it.

My ADHD rage quickly morphed into a rush of dopamine. And it felt very real to me that even though some things don’t change, they do.