The words started slipping first. Then the keys, the appointments, the thread of a conversation you were sure you had been following. If your parents had dementia, you already know the arc by heart, and lately you have started bracing for it in yourself.
What no one stops to ask is whether your brain has actually worked this way far longer than you think.
Dr. Lucy McBride, MD, is a Harvard-trained primary care physician in Washington, DC, with 25 years of clinical experience. She writes the newsletter Are You Okay? and hosts the Beyond the Prescription podcast. Her book, Beyond the Prescription: A Doctor’s Guide to Taking Charge of Your Health (Simon & Schuster), with a foreword by Mary Claire Haver, MD, publishes August 11, 2026 and is available for pre-order now.
Inside this guest post, Lucy breaks down why ADHD in women so often stays hidden until their 60s, and the one question that can finally bring the whole picture into view.
A patient I’ve known for years came to see me because she was afraid she was getting Alzheimer’s.
In her 60s, this woman (I’ll call her Diane) had just lost her mother to the disease after 10 years of steady decline. Diane knew the arc of dementia intimately. It began with repeating the same questions over and again, and led to the slow, cruel erasure of the woman who raised her. Now, she was sure she was next.
She had already done the responsible things. She had taken herself to a neurologist, who ordered a brain MRI. It was normal. She was told she was probably just stressed, which she didn’t argue with.
She had also seen her gynecologist, who reasonably chalked the fog up to menopause and bumped up the dose of her estrogen patch. Diane had been on hormone therapy for six years already. It had mopped up her night sweats and hot flashes, but she remembered being surprised, years earlier, that her brain had never felt any calmer on it like some of her friends reported. The new, higher dose also didn’t seem to help.
So here she was, bracing to hear me say that this was the start of what had taken her mother.
The question no one had asked
I asked her something no one had asked yet. What was her focus like as a child?
She laughed. “Oh, I was a hot mess.”
She described a childhood and adolescence of chronic procrastination, of an overwhelm she could never quite explain. She told me she “wanted to want” to get her assignments done on time, but something wouldn’t click.
She couldn’t start until a deadline was bearing down and her anxiety had climbed to a fever pitch, and only then would the panic do what her own will couldn’t. In her twenties, she was diagnosed with anxiety and put on medication. It helped, in a way. It made her less anxious about turning things in late. It did nothing for the lateness itself.
Every decade had a different name for it
As we talked, the pattern assembled itself in front of both of us. Every decade of Diane’s life had come with a plausible explanation for the same cluster of symptoms. Anxiety in her twenties and thirties. Perimenopause in her forties and fifties. Grief and stress now.
Each explanation was true enough to be believed, but none of them was the whole truth.
The constant underneath all of it, the procrastination, the overwhelm, the brain that wouldn’t sequence, was ADHD, and it had been there since she was a girl. It had simply never been named, because it kept hiding behind whatever else was plausibly going on.
Why menopause is such a good disguise
Menopause was an especially good cover. Estrogen supports dopamine, and ADHD is, at its core, a dopamine story.
So when estrogen declines, the hormonal scaffolding that had been quietly propping up a struggling attention system comes down, and what looks like a brand-new problem is often an old one finally stepping into view.
