"Between Chaos & Bedtime" the Podcast

Last summer a friend told me I reminded him of a blue cartoon dog.Honestly, I’ve never been more proud.As a millennial dad, one of the highest possible compliments you can receive is being likened to Bandit Heeler, the dad in the insanely popular show Bluey.If you’ve never seen the show, let me tell you what you’re missing.Bluey follows the everyday lives of a family of four “Heeler” (also the families’ surname) dogs living in Brisbane, Australia. There’s mom (Chilli) and dad (Bandit), their two daughters Bingo (4) and Bluey (6), and a cast of other memorable characters.During each 7 minute episode Bingo and Bluey learn about life—sharing, humility, helping others, acceptance, growing up, and even death.It’s a “kids show”, but any parent who knows will tell you that it’s equally as entertaining for adults. The episodes are clever and funny. The show is never preachy or condescending. It’s relatable without being cliche. When there’s a lesson to be learned, it’s delivered in a fun, engaging way. It’s also emotional and moving. If you’re a parent who has watched the show, it’s very likely that you’ve been brought to tears at least once.Bluey is brilliant because it captures the true essence of childhood—learning and discovery through play.And that’s when the dad, Bandit, is at his best. When it’s playtime he’s in the middle of it. The games are immersive, and the kids lead. They do skits, make-believe, and tell stories. Their curiosity, enthusiasm, and creativity are encouraged. And Bandit—who really is the north star for most millennial fathers—remains calm, and engaged. He’s patient with missteps, expertly handles conflict, and celebrates successes. He’s carefree without being chaotic.His ability to completely surrender to play is enviable.He’s all the things I want to be as a dad, and for one magical afternoon last summer, I fulfilled my dream.It happened at a friend’s pool party.We’d been playing for hours. In and out of the water, chasing the kids, flinging myself off the side of the pool, “fainting” and lifelessly flopping into the water, throwing water balloons. It was fun-filled and accompanied by lots of laughter and giggles. It should be said, when it comes to water-play, I become a kid myself. I LOVE to be in the water. As a child I was always the last one out of the pool or ocean, and not a lot has changed in 40 years.After witnessing my “man-child” act for most of the afternoon my friend remarked, “I feel like I’m watching an episode of Bluey!”Truth is, that version of me—the playful fun-loving version that reminds people of Bandit Heeler—is the version that I wish I could be more often.I understand that not every situation calls for play. As a parent it’s important to create some structure for your kids. Kids do well with structure. And sometimes there are rules to enforce—not everything is sunshine and rainbows. But when it is about growth and enrichment, play is the best way to connect with kids.During a recent conversation with a friend who works with kids who have ADHD, he shared that the kids he’s worked with—those who are struggling to cope with a brain that doesn’t always fit in a neurotypical world—connect best with adults who have ADHD. What he’s heard over and over is that kids with ADHD recognize that adults who also have ADHD remember better what it’s like to be a kid themselves.The term “ADHD Superpower” gets thrown around a lot. But if being able to connect with children and speak through the universal language of play isn’t among the greatest ADHD superpowers, I don’t know what is!I know I’m at my best as a dad when I remember how to play. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, play became a liability. Being fun and goofy revealed too much, and I worked to suppress that side of myself.That mentality has negatively influenced my parenting. Because I lost touch with my playful side, I struggle to be engaged. I’m working so hard to be something I’m not—the serious, determined dad—that I struggle to hear the voice in my head telling me to lighten up.Truth is, I’m working hard to embrace my playfulness and recognizing how it makes me a better person and a better dad. I know that’s the version of me my kids love to have around.And, if it gets me compared to a cartoon dog named Bandit, I must be doing something right.That’s the goal, after all…isn’t it? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit carignanevonpohle.substack.com

“I had no idea you have ADHD!”It’s a common reaction when people learn of my diagnosis.As a child, I didn’t exhibit the usual symptoms.I wasn’t hyperactive.I did well enough in school that I didn’t draw any attention.I was labeled “bright.”That’s probably why it took 36 years to finally arrive at a diagnosis.To be honest, going that long without a diagnosis feels like an achievement.For 36 years, I effectively veiled my symptoms. I compensated for my shortcomings, learned how to act so I didn’t arouse suspicion, and made the rest of it up on the fly.I got really good at masking.For a lot of people with ADHD, masking is an essential part of life. It’s a way to conceal the frenetic, chaotic, and disorganized way our brains work. It disguises impulsive, erratic, or sensory seeking behavior, so we appear in control. It helps us fit in because standing out isn’t encouraged.I started masking early.Even as a child I had a nagging feeling that something was different—my brain was operating on a different wavelength from the people around me. I struggled to fit in with my peers and I didn’t make friends easily. I was insecure and hyper-aware of what people thought of me. My behavior evolved to meet others’ expectations in an attempt to earn their approval.My primary strategy was to make people laugh. If I was the funny guy, people wouldn’t look deeper and see the struggles just underneath the surface. I would crack jokes in class, do bits—anything to distract from the vulnerability concealed inside.Masking became my default.Only after diagnosis—and learning about ADHD—did I being to recognize how much I was hiding behind different masks, each one serving a different purpose, intended for different situations or different people.When I became a dad, I put on a new mask.Before I had kids I was convinced I was going to be great at fatherhood. I’d watch friends with their kids and take mental notes on all the ways I felt they could do better. It was easy to be on the outside looking in. If they made mistakes or stumbled, I was quick to judge. “That won’t be me”, I thought. I was going to be perfect.Well, I haven’t been perfect. But I have worked tirelessly to keep up the act. I regularly have family members commend me on what a great job I’m doing, and how I’m such an engaged, attentive dad. What they don’t realize is, I’m on my best behavior and trying to hold it all together because I don’t want to disappoint anyone.In reality, fatherhood has been a white-knuckle thrill ride and, at times, I’m barely hanging on.When the mask does fall, and my family sees the real struggle that I’ve been hiding underneath, it’s shocking. My frustrations and stress build up to a point where I can’t hold it all together, and I snap. The expressions of those witnessing my meltdown punctuates how effectively I’ve worn a mask. They suddenly realize I’ve been working overtime to appear like everything is great. When the veil comes crashing down, it’s a shocking surprise.Always hiding behind a mask means I’ve lost myself along the way. The constant pressure to fit in, to perform, has eroded my ability to be authentically and unapologetically me.My personality has become a hodgepodge of personas, each intended for specific interactions. They help me get along without revealing the person underneath. But, the more I mask, the more exhausted I become.Removing the mask is scary and it requires vulnerability, which is not something I was raised to cultivate. Pleasing other people was what I was taught. Self-sacrifice for the sake of other’s comfort and welfare.I want to do it differently—for my own sake, and for my kids. I want them to grow up to know that the best they can offer is their most authentic self. That’s the lesson we are learning together. Not perfection, not performance. Just the slow, uncomfortable process of taking the mask off, piece by piece, and learning to trust that what’s underneath is already enough.Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit carignanevonpohle.substack.com

They say, ”Comparison is the thief of joy.”True.It’s also very hard for me to avoid.In recent years, social media has become a steady stream of updates showcasing the accomplishments, achievements, and possessions of my friends and peers.Try as I might, I can’t help but feel envious.And that envy extends to parenting.The parents I follow seem to have more to offer in time and resources. They’re present in a way that I struggle to be. Their kids have opportunities that mine don’t—whether it’s trips or experiences.I’ve just always felt like I’m playing from behind.Maybe it’s my ADHD; maybe it’s just my own deep-seated insecurities. But I can’t shake the feeling that other people are just so much better at parenting than me!People’s lives on social media are a highlight reel that underscores all the ways I don’t measure up. I get distracted easily. I struggle to be present. I get bored with the same game over and over. I’m not like them, so I’m not enough.Unfortunately, the fun-loving, playful, spontaneous, carefree person my wife assumed she would raise her kids with, got lost along the way—a casualty of my envy and constant comparisons.But it’s clear I’ve lost the plot.I forget the only measurement that matters: being the best dad I can be.It’s fun to be a dad, and I often forget how good I can be at fun.Somehow I let life and parenting get too serious. I lost sight of what really matters.I got caught up in comparing myself to others, and lost my joy along the way.The real lesson, the lesson I have to constantly remind myself, is: Comparison is only valuable when you’re comparing your current self to your past self.Are you working to be better today than you were yesterday? That’s the real measure of success. My kids only have one dad, and I need to make sure they get the best version.That’s where I’ll find my joy. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit carignanevonpohle.substack.com

I want to be a dad that doesn’t shout, lose his temper easily, or choose anger as his default emotion.So far, it feels like I’m failing.I’ve struggled with emotional regulation as long as I can remember. One of the few home-movies from my childhood shows a 3 year old me—shouting, with tears streaming down my face—throwing my bike across the driveway because I’d fallen off. I wasn’t physically hurt or in trouble. But getting angry was my default response, and I hadn’t been taught otherwise. When I had a “meltdown” it was either ignored, dismissed, or laughed at.I didn’t know it then, but it’s common for ADHD brains to struggle with emotional dysregulation. As a child I wasn’t trained to identify or understand my “big feelings”. I wasn’t taught to learn my triggers or avoid situations that may cause me to loose my temper.I also didn’t always have the best examples to follow. The number of golf clubs I saw thrown, tennis rackets hurled across the court, toes stubbed that would trigger a tirade and string of expletives. The men I looked up to would erupt when things didn’t go their way—uncles, grandfathers, parents, siblings.I never feared physical retribution and I was never abused. But when tempers flared, I was paying attention.These men rarely acknowledged their outbursts or really worked to change their behavior. And a lot of the women who were around just let it happen. That didn’t make it okay, but that’s the way it was. When it came to emotional regulation, the expectations were low.Now, several decades later, I’m a husband and father with the same “short fuse”, but with a very different set of expectations.Let me give you an example…Last week, my kids were on spring break. They are 6 and 8. Lots energy, lots of enthusiasm, and lots of curiosity. My wife planned an impromptu trip to San Francisco for a little fun and diversion. I grew up close enough to the city that my family went countless times when I was a kid, and it’s a thrill for me to share a place I love so much with my children.When I think back to my childhood I can remember riding along as we navigated the patchwork of city streets, gawking from the backseat as I took in the sights, sounds, and kaleidoscope of characters passing by.I can also remember being acutely aware of the mood of whoever was behind the steering wheel.Usually, the driver’s nerves would become increasingly frayed—the city’s traffic a ceaseless frustration. When they ultimately reached their limit and snapped, the nearest kids were typically the target, shouted down and told to “be quiet back there!”Predictably, another adult in the car would turn and say, “[dad, grandpa, uncle] is having a hard time driving right now, let’s keep it down”.The driver was never held to account. Their behavior was never corrected and they certainly didn’t face consequences. They weren’t told they were overreacting or that their response was excessive.It was the kids who were expected to pipe down.Fast forward to this past week in SF with my own kids in the backseat and suddenly I was the parent driving through the city, frustrated with traffic, and lashing out because they were too loud and I was on my last nerve.But here’s the big difference: Instead of turning to the kids and telling them to quiet down, and stifle their excitement and enthusiasm—because daddy can only access anger in times of stress, and driving in the city makes him want to shout, and that’s an okay way to respond— my wife turned directly to me and said I needed to “get a grip” [not those words exactly, but you get the idea]. She wasn’t going to let the kids be the target of my frustrations and receive a reprimand because of my emotional outburst.She was going to hold me accountable for my actions.It’s a flavor of accountability I rarely witnessed when I was the kid in the backseat, and it got me thinking: when did we make such a significant pivot in what’s expected of a dad as male role model? When did greater emotional literacy become required of us?Instead of my kids feeling like they were responsible or should be blamed for someone else’s dysregulation, it was an opportunity for them to realize that individuals have a responsibility to themselves and those around them. Grownups make mistakes and can get frustrated too, but I had an opportunity to set a new example, and a better example than the one I had to follow. Sure, I’d blown it in that moment, but there would be more opportunities to do it right. As a dad I can offer a better example and demonstrate greater emotional literacy to the next generation.And let me tell you, it is HARD, especially when you’re working with a brain that gets angry before you even realize it’s happening.After we got home from San Francisco I reminded my wife of the moment in the car when I’d lost my temper. I asked her how many times as a kid she’d witnessed men in her life get their behavior corrected, or be held accountable for emotional outbursts? She took a moment, but couldn’t really think of any examples. In her memory, men were allowed to be angry, volatile, and emotional without consequence.In the days that followed I continued to think about that moment in the car, and how my wife held me accountable. When she pointed out my behavior I’d become defensive (I could write a whole book of why I responded that way, but another time) and was reluctant to admit fault. But then I thought back to how I felt as a kid when someone would get angry and raise their voice around me. For me, having ADHD meant that when someone was having “big feelings” I felt it personally. When someone would shout, I would feel to my core. I could put myself in my kids shoes. I knew what it felt like when someone’s “short fuse” got the best of them. I could see the emotion written on their faces. It’s the same emotion I felt as a kid.It’s moments like I had in the car in San Francisco, and countless others, that inspire me to do better. And I’m not the only dad who feels this way. The current generation of dads is more involved and more emotionally available than the generations before.I sometimes still fail to set a good example of emotional regulation, and I’m afraid that failure is reflected in my kids when I witness their own emotional outbursts.But I’m making an effort (with a big dose of help from my wife) to empower them to recognize their feelings and reflect on their outbursts. I want them to understand the emotions and triggers that cause them so they’re better equipped in the future. I want them to grow up to know that emotions are not bad, but getting angry and loud is the not the only way to respond when things don’t go your way.I may not be the first man in my family with a “short fuse” —but I’m trying, every day, to do something about it.Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit carignanevonpohle.substack.com

When I was diagnosed with ADHD in my mid-30’s I was left wondering, “what now?”I looked for answers and resources, hoping to find stories of people’s lives that echoed my own.There were countless books and articles about ADHD written by researches and subject experts, but for me, they didn’t resonate. They were too clinical and academic. Plus, reading was never the way I learned, and the stack of books I hadn’t read was just one more task I was failing to complete.I didn’t want click-bait or social media—the countless videos and reels that perpetuated stereotypes about ADHD.I wanted real stories of late-diagnosed parents trying to figure out life, work, a family, and a brand new understanding of their brain.I wanted to know there were other people living in what felt like perpetual chaos, juggling responsibilities, trying their best everyday to hold it together, but always feeling like they were coming up short.I wanted ADHD in real life.My ADHD only became evident after my first child was born and I realized that fatherhood had re-written every rule I thought I knew about myself and how I’d learned to manage life.For a lot of parents, the same is true.It’s a daily struggle—trying to figure out how to do life in “hard mode” while raising kids.This is my story, but it might seem familiar.I’m a work-from-home husband and father, just trying to make it day by day, sharing the life I live Between Chaos and Bedtime.Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit carignanevonpohle.substack.com

For the first 30 years of my life, I managed to get by.Granted, I was never known for my ambition or drive, but I was bright enough to keep up in school and at work, and made up for most of my shortcomings with creativity, personality, and charismaEven after my first child was born in my early 30’s, I was making it work. Life got harder, but I managed.But what I didn’t realize then was, I’d spent my life devising strategies to manage ADHD and care for my own needs. And it mostly worked. If it was just me, I was okay. Even caring for one infant child proved to be mostly doable.The first real cracks started to show in early 2020. My second child was born in January of that year, and when the Covid-19 pandemic shut the world down, I—like so many—was forced to completely change the way I lived and worked.It was a major transition.No longer was I going to an office every day, providing me with structure and accountability. Up to that point I hadn’t even realized how essential that was to my ability to function.No longer was my free time filled with trips to the beach, or spontaneous adventures.Suddenly, my entire life was under one roof. Wife, kids, work, recreation. My office was a spare room at my house where I sat alone for hours each day. No diverting trips to the water cooler. No quick chats with colleagues in the hall. I was isolated. It was like Groundhog Day: the same monotony on an endless loop.I also struggled with the shame and guilt of being home, but not really being there. I could hear my wife on the other side of the door, doing her best to manage a newborn and a toddler, knowing that if I stepped out of my cocoon, I would get distracted and derailed from my work.My life, and my mood, became harder to manage.Months passed and slowly the world began to open back up. In-person work returned, but the rules were strict. My employer limited how many people could be there at one time. If you were in-person, social distancing was required. It was back to the office, but certainly not back to normal.I remember sitting there one day, alone in the office, eating by myself, thinking, “I could be doing this at home, and at least then I could take a break with my wife and kids and pitch in to help.”It was all the challenges of “remote work” without any of the advantages, and it went on for months.The following spring my wife and I moved our life from Southern to Northern CaliforniaIt was a move we’d talked about for years, and I was optimistic that it would improve our lives by being closer to grandparents and other extended family.I hoped it would offer more hands-on help with my kids as my wife and I struggled to manage life with full-time work and a baby and toddler at home.It also meant that my time working for my employer in Southern California came to an end and—without any jobs lined up and a wife who was working night shifts—I transitioned into a full-time stay-at-home dad.I went from days structured around clearly defined expectations and specific job-related tasks, to managing the lives of an 18-month-old, and a 3-year-old.Suddenly, I had to become the person defining expectations and creating structure for others.I was way outside my depth.I’d always been able to do fun. I could play games, and move on to the next activity at the drop of a hat. I could do chaos without consequence. But staying on top of things; feeding everyone; maintaining order; laundry; chores. Our household was in a constant state of disorder and stress.When my wife would come home after a long day at work, she would be faced with incomplete chores, chaos, and dysregulation. The kids were alive and fed, but it wasn’t a welcoming environment.It became clear I was the wrong person for the job. I didn’t possess the skills to maintain order and stay on top of things. I was struggling to handle the basics, and everyone around me was suffering as a result.I became discouraged. I started to focus on all the ways I wasn’t contributing as a good partner to my wife and a good dad to my kids. I was anxious, over-analyzing every aspect of life where I didn’t measure up. I was hyper-aware of my shortcomings. I was depressed, thinking about all the ways I was letting people down.I spiraled.I knew I needed help. I knew I needed support. I needed to talk to someone. I just didn’t know who, or where to even begin. I was struggling to clearly articulate why I felt so “off”.After months of spinning my wheels, I started meeting with a counselor. It only took a few sessions for them to diagnose me with generalized anxiety disorder and depression.I can’t say I was too surprised—I certainly wasn’t the first man in my family to struggle with those type of symptoms.Finally, I had something I could point to and say, “Here’s the root of my struggles”.Unfortunately, the roots of my struggle went much deeper.The depression and anxiety were there. No denying it. But that didn’t explain everything.It didn’t explain my inability to focus, or the decision paralysis that often prevented me from starting projects and tasks, or the overwhelm of trying to manage two small humans, show up as a good dad, and be a good partner to my wife.There was more to it than anxiety and depression…I just didn’t know what, and I needed more answers.I found a new counselor. She made more of an effort to connect with me, and understand my concerns and struggles. I felt validated. She listened when I told her about the challenges I had with anxiety and depression, and how they were paired with issues related to focus, productivity, and dysregulation.It felt like I was finally getting somewhere.Then, I had my “lightbulb” moment.I was aimlessly scrolling through Twitter one day and came across a tweet that said: “ADHD is feeling like you’re always behind, afraid of being seen as lazy, and overworking to compensate until you burn out in a blaze of glory.”I was struck. That was me! It so accurately described my experience!I scrolled to the next tweet and had the same “AH HA!” moment. Then the next, and the next.I could have written each tweet myself. They described experiences I’d had my entire life. Experiences that I’d assumed were unique to me—just the typical things everyone goes through.“I think I have ADHD”, I said out loud to no-one.I shared what I’d discovered with my wife. She agreed—sounded like me. The tweets finally articulated what I had been trying to explain to her.During my next counseling session, I shared my revelation.The counselor listened and agreed too—it sounded like I had ADHD. It felt liberating. Suddenly, I’d found an answer! I wasn’t just lazy, unfocused, underachieving. I was trying to function in a world that wasn’t designed for a brain like mine.And a diagnosis would finally provide me with something concrete to point to and say, “This is what is going on with my brain! This is why my life feels like chaos.” It would provide a direction for seeking the right kind of help.My counselor continued to listen, then said, “Why would you want to get a diagnosis for ADHD? All that will do is get you a prescription for medication.”Here I was, 35, feeling like my life was unraveling, but on the verge of a major breakthrough, and instead of my experience and concerns being validated, my counselor was dismissing my desire for answers as just a way to get ADHD drugs.I couldn’t have been more discouraged.It took me some time to rally from that disappointment.But I needed to keep going, despite what my counselor said. Even if I found out that I didn’t have ADHD, at least confirming one way other the other would be a result. I could check that off the list and keep looking. Either way, it felt like the best first step on the path to understanding and charting a way forward.Unsure of where to even begin, I reached out to my primary care provider. I shared an account of my struggles and how, based on doing my own research (no, that does not mean just watching TikTok’s), I thought I might have ADHD. They agreed and referred me to psychiatry to start the evaluation process.It didn’t take me long to learn that ADHD is most commonly diagnosed during childhood. The diagnostic process looks at developmental challenges demonstrated by school-age children and uses those behaviors to identify whether or not someone has ADHD.As such, a large portion of the evaluation focused on my elementary school years and required me to remember specific interactions with teachers and peers.My brain struggles to remember what happened to me yesterday. So, being asked at 35 to remember specific instances from my time in second grade was difficult to say the least. I tried my best to recall past experiences and moments that would illuminate the struggles and obstacles I had faced in school.It was a nearly impossible task.Part of my “problem” was that I wasn’t a problem. I did well in school as a kid. It was easy for me. My behavior didn’t raise any alarms. I was labeled “bright” with lots of potential—something I’ve since learned is a hallmark of many people with ADHD.I wasn’t chronically disruptive. I wasn’t always “bouncing off the walls.” The only thing I got “in trouble” for was distracting others when I would finish my work early.The further I got in the assessment process, the more I worried that my diagnosis was going to be overlooked.I wasn’t trying to get an ADHD diagnosis, but I worried that because I wasn’t a “problem child” I might slip through the cracks.The other complicating factor in the evaluation process was that my parents were required to complete a questionnaire.When they were asked to identify instances and anecdotes from my childhood that might point to something “out of the ordinary”, I worried that their own experiences were “out of the ordinary” enough that they wouldn’t see my struggles as actual struggles because they’d experienced the same struggles themselves and just thought, “eh, everyone goes through this!”I worried their hindsight might not be 20/20, and they would miss the telltale signs from my childhood that were clearly there.I gently, guided, their responses.After several weeks I had collected all the required responses and submitted the information.It was time to wait. Several weeks later, a message arrived in my inbox.I scanned the letter from the psychiatrist, looking for the answer I had assumed was coming.I had ADHD.There it was. I felt a sense of relief. Finally I had something I could point to and say, “This is it!”But just as quickly as I received my ADHD diagnosis, I found myself wondering, “now what?”And that’s the question that I’ve spent the last 4 years trying to answer.It’s been 4 years of experimenting with the best way to manage my ADHD so I can achieve the future I want, do the kind of work I want to do, and be a present husband and father.If you’ve made it this far, you’re probably trying to answer a lot of the same questions.I’ve thought a lot about what it would have been like if I’d been diagnosed with ADHD earlier in life. What decisions would I have made differently? How would I have changed the way I approached school—especially college? Would my career trajectory have been more…intentional?There are a lot of “what ifs”, and it’s easy to look back and think about what might have been. But if you’re always looking behind you, you won’t be able to see what’s ahead.I know change doesn’t come overnight (which is really annoying for an ADHD brain). I stumble a lot, and have days where it feels like it’s too much—like the life I want is beyond my grasp.But, I’m not the only husband and father struggling to be the best me while also living with ADHD.That’s probably why you’re reading this.You might be in the same place, so stick around, and drop your comments about your own experience below. I’d love to hear from you. And, be sure subscribe so you can hear more stories of all the life that happens Between Chaos & Bedtime.Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit carignanevonpohle.substack.com