ADHD or Trauma – What’s Driving Your Attention?

Written by Param Singh Sahni, Humanistic Therapist & Coach

Param Singh Sahni is a BACP-registered Humanistic Therapist, Trustee at the Metanoia Institute, and founder of The Work. He works privately supporting people with their mental health needs and specializes in emotional resilience, grief, identity, and trauma-informed care rooted in compassion and social justice.

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The earliest “atmosphere” a child breathes is not the air outside but the emotional climate within the home. Long before words, the nervous system absorbs stress, silence, and subtle cues of safety or danger. This unseen environment shapes how attention develops, how sensitivity is carried, and how trauma or ADHD-like patterns may later emerge. What begins as survival can echo through a lifetime, until it is understood, named, and healed.

The early atmosphere

Imagine your mother has just been married into a new family. She has left behind the only home she has ever known, a life of wealth, comfort, and constant care. Overnight, she moves from being cherished and attended to, surrounded by the warmth of her parents and siblings, to a joint household where the rhythms are unfamiliar, the faces are expectant, and her voice feels smaller.

She feels isolated. She feels unseen. The safety of her past is replaced with scrutiny, duty, and quiet loneliness. And into this environment, a child is born.

What does that child feel? Even before words, the child’s body knows. They sense the tightness in their mother’s embrace, the hesitancy in her laughter, the weight she carries in silence. For a highly sensitive child, these subtle cues are not background noise; they are the atmosphere.

When a parent feels unsafe, unsettled, or unsupported, the child’s nervous system begins to mirror that reality. It learns to live in a state of watchfulness. This is how sensitivity, parental stress, and early emotional environments can plant the seeds of attention deficit and distraction later in life.

When no one comes to understand ADHD or trauma

A baby lies in his cot, crying. The room is quiet but charged. In the next room, a caregiver, loving but emotionally unavailable, sits with their own mental health struggle, staring at a wall that won’t answer back. Minutes pass. The baby cries and cries. No one comes.

For the infant, there is no clock, only now and not-now. So “wait five minutes” lands as wait an eternity. The thing they’re asking for isn’t here, and in that moment, the nervous system concludes, it isn’t coming.

This is how parental stress and emotional distance begin to wire hypervigilance. Attention fragments. The mind keeps one ear open for footsteps that may never arrive. Later, this can look like ADH(D) like symptoms and chronic distraction, not as a personal failing, but as an adaptation to uncertainty.

ADH is a preferred usage as I do not believe it is a disorder, but rather an adaptation or coping strategy.

Sensitive nervous system

The patterns that start in the cot don’t vanish; they mature with us. A sensitive nervous system is biologically tuned to notice more tiny pauses before answers, shifts in tone, the words behind a smile, and micro facial expressions. Sensory processing sensitivity isn’t a disorder; it’s a trait. In a safe home, it becomes empathy and depth. In a stressed home, it becomes vigilant.

When the atmosphere is unpredictable, the body prioritises survival over study. Stress chemistry keeps the system braced, fight-or-flight flickers on and off like a faulty light. Over time, this drains the brain’s executive functions (working memory, planning, sustained attention). Focus doesn’t fail because the child doesn’t care; it falters because the nervous system is busy scanning for change.

So many adults I meet describe themselves as “scattered”. What looks like a lack of discipline is often the imprint of childhood trauma, the body still tracking micro-threats while you try to read, work, or listen. The work of healing is not to force attention, but to restore felt safety so attention can land.

Parental stress & focus

Children absorb the emotional climate of their home. If a parent feels unsupported or isolated, the child often learns to anticipate the next shift in mood or energy. That constant anticipation spends the very fuel we need for learning, curiosity, and play.

For Sikh’s and people of the global majority, this can be amplified by cultural expectations, migration stress, epigenetics and experiences of racism or marginalisation. In many communities, mental health conversations are still taboo; seeking help may be seen as a weakness. Schools and services are not always culturally safe. The result is a double burden. The physiological imprint of stress and the pressure of being “othered”. It’s no surprise attention feels fragile.

Recognition & representation

In my clinical work, I see the same pattern again and again. Black and brown clients, and culturally diverse families, are more likely to be assessed for “mental health problems” than for neurodivergence. Anxiety, depression, “behavioural issues,” even “complex trauma” often become the headline, while ADHD or autism goes unrecognised underneath. This isn’t because neurodivergence isn’t there; it’s because prejudice, bias, and a narrow diagnostic lens still exist in our systems.

There’s a name for part of this, diagnostic overshadowing when one label eclipses other truths. Add cultural masking, language differences, and a lack of culturally safe assessors, and many people simply don’t get seen. Over time, this shapes behaviour. Some stop attending appointments, others stop asking, many begin to believe they aren’t “allowed” to be neurodivergent.

It’s not either/or. Trauma and neurodivergence can co-exist. A sensitive nervous system can be both overwhelmed by stress and wired for difference. When we only treat the stress, we miss the wiring. When we only chase a diagnosis, we can miss the body’s story.

Name your request

Say plainly, “I’m seeking an adult neurodiversity-informed assessment for ADHD/autism.” Specific language orients clinicians and reduces drift toward generic “mental health” labels.

Assessor fit matters

Ask for someone experienced with South Asian, Black, or culturally diverse adults. Context reduces bias, misreads, and overshadowing.

Bring lived evidence

Share concrete examples, time-blindness, organisation struggles, sensory overload, masking, shutdowns/meltdowns, hyperfocus, school/work patterns, rejection sensitivity.

Use both/and thinking

Name trauma history and suspected neurodivergence. This avoids either/or framing and invites a fuller case formulation.

Seek another opinion

If you feel unseen, you’re allowed to ask for a different assessor. Advocacy is care for your future.

Pull-quote, “You are allowed to be neurodivergent.”

Time awareness (Maté)

I once heard Dr. Gabor Maté explain that children don’t naturally have a concept of time. They live in what he calls the myth of eternity. Tell a child, “Wait five minutes for food,” and they don’t hear “five minutes,” they hear there is no food. Time is abstract. There is only now or not now.

When parents are stressed or unpredictable, this timelessness becomes charged with anxiety. Without the anchor of “it will be soon,” waiting feels endless. The nervous system doesn’t settle because safety or comfort feels uncertain. Over the years, timeless waiting and hypervigilance train the brain to keep scanning the origin of that restless, easily distracted attention so many of us recognise in adulthood.

Co-regulation & rewiring

In a trusted therapeutic relationship with a psychotherapist or counsellor, the work begins with nervous system regulation. Before insight or strategy, your body learns safety by sitting with a regulated other. Pace of breath, tone of voice, grounded presence through co-regulation (and mirror-system mechanisms), your nervous system starts to mirror calm. We borrow the regulation first, then learn to generate it ourselves.

Neuroscience offers a simple truth, neurons that fire together, wire together. Repeated experiences of attuned safety lay down new neural pathways for presence, pacing, and focus. Over time, those pathways weaken the old tracks carved in childhood hypervigilance, fragmented attention, and creative, distractive coping strategies that once kept you safe. We honour those adaptations, and then we rewire: from scanning to settling, from distraction to grounded attention.

Box breathing

Use equal counts (e.g., 4-4-4-4) to stabilise breath and signal safety. Extend the exhale to 6-8 if your body likes it. This helps activate the parasympathetic and downshift from fight/flight/freeze/fawn. If holds feel edgy, skip them and keep a longer, gentle exhale.

Somatic noticing

Track sensations, temperature, and muscle tone, name them simply. This builds interoception, the skill of reading your body’s “now” and returning to baseline sooner.

Grounding & orienting

Feel feet and chair, soften jaw and neck, let your eyes land and widen. This tells the system the environment is safe enough to settle, so attention can “land”. Be mindful of tongue placement in the mouth and notice when it is not resting naturally.

Body-led pacing

Notice early red flags (racing pulse, shallow breath). Pause, lengthen the exhale, resume when ease returns. Pacing protects executive function and reduces crashes.

Micro-recovery rituals

Between tasks, take 30-60 seconds to reset. One slow exhale, a shoulder roll, a sip of water, a window gaze. Small resets compound across the day.

Why the vagus matters

The vagus nerve is my favourite because it proves there’s a literal pathway from head to heart, the journey so many call the longest. As the body’s main parasympathetic highway, it runs from the brainstem through the neck into the chest and abdomen, helping to slow the heart, soften breath, and signal you’re safe.

Crucially, most vagal fibres carry messages from the body to the brain. Listening to the body breath, posture, soft eyes, warm voice isn’t woo; it’s wiring. Each time we lengthen the exhale, hum or chant, or settle into co-regulated presence with a therapist, we’re nudging vagal tone toward calm. Repetition lays new pathways for focus and emotional regulation, while the old tracks of hypervigilance begin to loosen.

Breathwork: The deep end

Some of my most powerful experiences of healing have come through Breathwork fast, connected breathing that floods the body with sensation and shifts awareness. In a supported setting, this can open trance-like states where images, memories, and meanings surface. Many describe symbolic visions that feel transpersonal messages from the subconscious (and, for some, the spiritual) that point them toward the next step in healing.

From a body-brain perspective, intense breathwork changes blood gases and autonomic arousal; tingling, heat, emotional release, tears, or laughter are common. From a soul perspective, it can feel like meeting something larger, an inner teacher, ancestral wisdom, or the ineffable. Some experiences are esoteric and difficult to articulate, yet they carry a clarity that reorganises us from the inside out.

For many Sikh’s and members of the global majority, healing is also collective remembrance. It asks us to acknowledge how colonisation and displacement, including the curtailing of Sikh power under British rule and cultural/material appropriation by imperial institutions such as the British Crown and East India Company, have shaped our nervous systems and family stories. The therapy room can be a place of peace and healing, where simple practices of attention, breath, somatic noticing, and truthful speech help restore sacredness and relearn safety.

Safety note: Intense breathwork should be facilitated by a trained practitioner and isn’t suitable for everyone (e.g., cardiac conditions, uncontrolled hypertension, epilepsy, pregnancy, glaucoma, recent surgery, acute psychosis). If in doubt, choose gentler practices or consult a clinician.

With horses, not on

When I speak about equine therapy, I don’t mean riding. Riding can so easily become about dominance and power. The work I value is ground-based, being with horses, on their terms, in their space, learning from the herd and its sensitivity.

Horses are prey animals with exquisitely tuned nervous systems; they read the world through body language, pressure, distance, breath, and intent. Stand beside a horse while you’re anxious and you’ll often see it, the horse tenses too, steps away, or grows restless, arrive grounded and curious, and you’ll notice softening, approach, and breath syncing. Many people experience horses as living mirrors reflecting what we carry and inviting us to regulate, not perform.

Practically, a session might look like grooming, leading, boundary work, or simply standing in quiet presence while you track breath, posture, and emote. In the herd field, a powerful question often arises, "Where do I belong, and how do I signal it with my body?" That inquiry finding place without pushing, feeling without performing, is the opposite of domination. It’s relational learning.

Sensitivity & neurodiversity

Working with horses makes deep sense for emotionally sensitive people. Herds live by subtle cues, breath, distance, orientation, and tiny shifts in muscle tone. That language rewards the very skills sensitive folks already carry, noticing, pacing, and responding without words. Instead of being “too much,” sensitivity becomes exactly what the relationship needs.

It’s also profoundly supportive for the neurodivergent community (ADHD, autism, and more). Horses meet you where you are. Communication is clear and non-verbal; feedback is immediate and embodied. If I rush, the horse drifts; if I regulate, the horse softens. For autistic clients, side-by-side walking or quiet grooming can feel safer than direct eye contact, a parallel process that still builds connection. For ADH*, the rhythm of brushing, leading, and breath can anchor attention without shaming or forcing it.

Horses also help with interoception (reading internal signals). The herd mirrors what I carry. Shallow breath, tight shoulders, darting eyes, and invites me to experiment with small changes until we co-regulate. Over time, people report better emotional pacing, clearer boundaries, and a renewed sense of belonging not for performing, but for being.

Most of all, equine work restores agency. We don’t climb on top; we relate alongside. We ask; the horse answers. We listen, the herd teaches. For sensitive and neurodivergent nervous systems that have learned to mask. This is healing, connection without coercion, clarity without criticism, and focus that grows out of safety rather than willpower.

Projections with horses

One of the most powerful parts of equine work is noticing our projections. A horse steps away, turns its head, or ignores us, and a whole story arrives. I’m being rejected. I’ve been abandoned. I did something wrong. For many of us, that story isn’t new; it echoes old attachment wounds and the atmosphere we grew up in.

Observe

Name only what happened. The horse moved three steps away, its ears flicked, a fly landed. Facts first, story later.

Own

Notice your inner response; a spike of anxiety, heat in the chest, the thought “they don’t want me.” Owning one’s personal state reduces the urge to control.

Offer

Adjust pressure and posture; soften knees, turn slightly sideways, slow the exhale, drop your gaze. Give the horse a choice to re-approach.

Open

Ask what else could be true. Is the horse checking the herd, the wind, my pace? Curiosity creates room for rupture and repair; often, the horse returns when pressure drops.

This is why I prefer being with rather than riding. On the ground, in the herd’s presence, I learn to track my body, feel my emotions, honour my history, and relate without making the horse carry my past. When projection arises (and it will), we treat it as material for healing, not as proof of rejection.

Final reflection

Being sensitive is not a weakness; it’s a finely tuned instrument. If your childhood taught you to use that sensitivity for survival, it may take time to rewire it for peace. With nervous system regulation, culturally safe support, and compassionate self-awareness, scattered attention can become grounded presence, and hypervigilance can soften into deep attunement.

Therapy can feel intimidating. Some doors open only with commitment; breath by breath, session by session, in the steady company of a regulated other. The work isn’t only science; it is art and, at times, spiritual. What was concealed becomes speakable. What was scattered begins to gather.

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Param Singh Sahni, Humanistic Therapist & Coach

Param Singh Sahni is a BACP-registered Humanistic Therapist and Trustee at the Metanoia Institute. He is the founder of The Work, a platform dedicated to supporting the mental health of men of colour through vulnerability, connection, and culturally sensitive care. With nearly a decade of experience, he has supported people through life’s challenges related to addiction, behavioural patterns, and relational difficulties. He also works privately with individuals navigating grief, identity, emotional regulation, and life transitions. His approach is rooted in compassion, justice, and creating spaces where people feel seen, heard, and supported.