Finding My Place in ADHD for Smart Ass Women
When I first picked up ADHD for Smart Ass Women: How to Fall in Love with Your… by Daisy Mae, I was hopeful. As a book lover and a woman navigating the complexities of ADHD in a world that often overlooks nuanced experiences, I thought I might find solidarity in these pages. After diving into her blend of personal anecdotes and self-help, I found myself reflecting more deeply than I’d anticipated—especially on the points she makes regarding privilege and the limitations of her insights.
From the outset, Mae presents herself as someone who has navigated the waters of ADHD with a quirky confidence that made me expect an irreverent narrative. Instead, what I found felt more like a guide tailored for a specific "Lean In" demographic: successful women, perhaps a few decades older than me, who might be grappling with their first insights into ADHD. Her tone attempts to resonate with a younger audience, but the disconnect is palpable. Anecdotes about calling customer service to sync your smartwatch felt outdated and didn’t connect with my reality as someone who cringes at the thought of picking up the phone to talk to a stranger.
The writing, while engaging, often meanders into self-promotion—here’s my podcast, my Facebook groups—blurring the line between sharing helpful resources and pushing a brand. Sure, anecdotes can be powerful, especially for readers seeking affirmation in their experiences. However, many of her suggestions—like throwing money at inconvenience (nanny, house cleaner)—pushed me into a space of frustration. Not all of us can casually toss cash at our problems. It felt tone-deaf to present such solutions without acknowledging the myriad financial realities many women face, especially those with ADHD.
Moreover, while Mae tries to present ADHD as a "superpower," it often veers into toxic positivity. Validating experiences is important, yes, but I expected a more candid exploration of the struggles: how sometimes, ADHD isn’t just quirky—it can be debilitating. The "ADHD tax," where simple tasks become extravagant hurdles, feels brushed aside in favor of an upbeat narrative. Did she use AI to cherry-pick standard recommendations without delving into the specificity that makes ADHD unique? I started to wonder whether her resources were being faithfully interpreted or diluted in the process, especially when basic concepts like "revenge bedtime procrastination" missed more academically rigorous analyses.
The section on medication also left me conflicted. While Mae acknowledges that medication is not a panacea, she presents her own biases compellingly, almost distorting the broader conversation on treatment options. Her anecdotes seemed to gloss over the frustrations many of us experience in seeking help, further alienating those who struggle for recognition and effective treatment.
Yet, despite my critiques, there are nuggets of wisdom resonating with those experiencing ADHD for the first time. If you’re a woman at the beginning of this journey, you may find solace in her anecdotes. Her discussions on rejection-sensitive dysphoria (RSD) and coexisting conditions can introduce vital concepts to those who might not have encountered such information before.
In conclusion, I can’t wholeheartedly recommend this book for everyone. If you’re a high-achieving woman beginning to explore ADHD, it may offer comforting stories and suggestions. But for someone like me—who’s contrasted her own experiences with ADHD within a broader lens—the connection felt lacking. ADHD for Smart Ass Women shines in its affirming potential, but it simultaneously reminded me of the importance of inclusivity and specificity in addressing such a multifaceted condition. Perhaps it’s best suited for those looking for relatable anecdotes rather than a deep dive into what living with ADHD truly entails.
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