I was 37 when I finally learned that I have ADHD.
Thirty-seven years of wondering why I felt things so intensely, why I couldn’t just “let things go” like other people seemed to, why even small noises could sometimes feel like my head might explode.
Looking back now, I can see all the signs that were there. And one of the clearest? My relationship with heavy music.
From the time I was a tween, I leaned into the loud stuff. Metal, punk rock, emo, anything that felt raw, unapologetic, and real. I’d close my bedroom door, crank up the volume, and lose myself in it. When I was angry, hurt, or couldn’t sleep, it was my safe place. Somehow, the louder it got, the calmer I became.
Back then, I didn’t have a label for what was happening. I just knew that when I listened to my music, I felt at home. The lyrics seemed to see me. The rhythm understood me. And after I’d cried my way through a song or two, I’d come out the other side lighter, as if the chaos inside had been translated into sound and released. I’d face the day with a clean slate, ready to start again.
The night that changed everything
There’s one night I’ll never forget. I was 15, in a boarding school dorm shared with twelve other girls. We were separated by dividing walls that didn’t quite reach the ceiling, so close, yet still worlds apart.
That night, I lay in the dark, silently crying into my pillow. A boy I liked didn’t like me back. Ridiculous, maybe, but it felt like the end of the world. That’s ADHD for you, the emotions don’t come in halves, they arrive like a tidal wave.
I had my headphones in, listening to one of my favourite songs, trying not to make a sound. I didn’t know how to ask for help. I didn’t even know what kind of help I needed. I just wanted to disappear into the music.
And then, mid-crescendo, someone jumped down over the dividing wall and landed on my bed. It was Helen. She said nothing. She just pulled me into a hug and held me while I sobbed. Later, she told me she’d heard the music and just knew. She’d felt it in the rise and fall of the song, the desperation, the grief, and somehow recognised it. Her brain worked like mine. She didn’t need words.
That moment was the start of one of the most beautiful friendships of my life. I often thought of her as my platonic soulmate. She saved me, time after time, simply by understanding what the music meant.
Music as medicine
I didn’t realise it back then, but that music was doing something powerful for my brain. Decades later, after my ADHD diagnosis, I started reading up on it. There’s still limited research specifically on heavy metal and neurodivergent people, but what does exist makes perfect sense to me.
Music, it turns out, isn’t just sound. It’s rhythm. And rhythm is structure. Structure is soothing to a dysregulated ADHD brain that struggles to stay on a linear path.
One study found that listening to extreme music, like heavy metal, can actually help fans regulate anger and calm their physiological state, rather than increase aggression. Other research into ADHD shows that preferred music helps improve focus, reduce overwhelm, and stabilise emotions.
For people like me, that’s not a coincidence. It’s self-medication through sound.
When grief hit, I went home to heavy metal
Three weeks ago, my dad died suddenly. There’s no preparing for that kind of loss. I’ve spent the days since doing all the normal things, taking the kids to their clubs, chatting with friends, shopping for clothes because my girls seem to grow three inches a month. On the surface, life goes on. But inside, I’ve been hanging on by a thread. Every noise feels amplified. Every small inconvenience feels unbearable. It’s like my senses have been stripped raw.
So I did what I’ve always done. I went home, shut myself in a room, lit a roaring fire, poured a glass of red wine, and put Bullet for My Valentine on repeat.
It’s funny, really. When I’m in that level of sensory overload, the idea of more noise should be intolerable. Yet somehow, those pounding drums and screaming vocals brought instant relief. I could breathe again.
Maybe it’s because their chaos matched mine. Maybe it’s because the music gave my pain somewhere to go. Or maybe it’s that deep, predictable structure, the rhythm that my ADHD brain has always clung to when everything else feels unpredictable. Whatever it is, it works. It always has.
Full circle
Looking back now, I see a thread that runs through my whole life.
As a teenager, heavy music held me through heartbreaks that felt like the end of the world. As an adult, it holds me through grief that really is.
What I once thought was just a quirky taste in music was actually something much more profound. My brain, my beautiful, complicated, neurodivergent brain, had found a way to self-medicate, to regulate itself. To process emotions too big to fit inside.
I still love an eclectic mix. Classical pieces like Nimrod and anything by Clint Mansell can make me weep in a completely different way. Country singers like Luke Combs and The Chicks remind me of simpler, joyful things.
But when life cracks open, when I’m in pain or chaos, it’s still heavy metal that steadies me.
A love letter to the misunderstood noise
I know metal isn’t for everyone. To some, it sounds aggressive or chaotic. But for those of us whose minds feel like a constant roar of competing frequencies, it can be peace.
There’s predictability in the rhythm. There’s catharsis in the sound. There’s validation in the lyrics that scream what we can’t always say.
So if you’re neurodivergent, if your world sometimes feels too loud, too bright, too much, and you find calm in music that others think is noise, know this:
You’re not broken.
You’re regulating.
Lean into your heavy metal when you need it. It’s not chaos. It’s your nervous system finding its rhythm, its home.