In a three-part series tracing 60 years of men’s experiences with ADHD, psychotherapists Duncan E. Stafford and Adam Wilson examine the silent shame of the 1960s to the hyper-aware digital age from the early noughties onwards. Blending social insight with personal voices, they offer a considered perspective on how shifting attitudes and the overlapping influences of class, culture and access to care have reshaped the struggles, strengths and self-understanding of boys and men living with ADHD across the generations.
ADHD has long been misunderstood and, for much of history, invisible. Yet its impact on those who live with it is profound and ongoing. This first part of our series charts the evolving landscape of ADHD for those who were born in 1966 and are now 60 years old. But each of the eras in this series brought its own challenges and breakthroughs, shaped by societal attitudes, available support and cultural change. It’s also important to recognise that these experiences were not evenly distributed; race, class and geography often determined who was punished, who was supported and who was overlooked. Through this journey, readers can gain some insight into how ADHD has been experienced, managed and redefined over time – and how hope and resilience continue to grow.
Now you are 60: Growing up before ADHD had a name
ADD and ADHD were not phrases you would have heard as a boy. Growing up from the mid-1960s to early 1980s Britain, experience varied sharply by class and background. If you were a working-class boy or from an immigrant family, you often faced even harsher control and discipline for your actions as there was less tolerance for difference. Your restlessness was read through the lens of social class or race rather than curiosity or energy.
Whatever your background, your restlessness was usually called something like “carelessness” or “stupidity”, sometimes “cheeky” or just “a handful”. Teachers said you had “ants in your pants” or that you “could do well – if only you tried harder”. Effort was seen as virtue, disobedience as sin. A few teachers went further, branding boys like you “defiant” or even “thick”. Officially, there was a label – “Hyperkinetic Disorder” – but it was buried in the pages of a manual few had opened.* Understanding was absent; patience was scarce. Punishment was ordinary; shame fundamental. The strap, slipper or cane could arrive for nothing more than fidgeting. From a young age, you discovered that misbehaving drew more attention from others than trying hard or doing well ever did.
You might have been clever – bright, curious, imaginative – but your mind ran too quickly for the world around you. Lessons dragged; thoughts collided. You forgot what you meant to say, lost track of books and pencils, then faced humiliation for what was always called “carelessness”. Teachers wrote: “He’s a capable boy but all too often lacks application and effort.” Parents echoed the refrain, exhausted by reports of daydreaming and backchat. The shame of being both “too much” and “not enough” settled deep inside. Being painfully sensitive, you masked to survive, turning humour into armour or self-mockery into protection. You found safety in distraction, hiding your restlessness and shame behind everything from charm to silence.
Friendships were uneven, relationships confusing. You longed to belong but often blundered. You were called “odd”, sometimes worse. Beneath it all was the quiet knowledge that you felt things more sharply than others and thought too fast yet had no words for why. The expectations on you as a male to not show weakness or express how you feel, to just get on with it, added to the complexity and masked burden. When full adulthood arrived – work, bills, more expectation – the routines others tolerated became traps. You thrived in bursts then frequently felt overwhelmed or burned out, astonishing colleagues with ideas and then vanishing into inertia. Each collapse renewed the accusation you’d absorbed as truth: “I’m lazy, unreliable, a failure.”
For many – especially those without access to private diagnosis or the language of psychology – understanding came slowly, if at all.
What therapy can do
Yet even in later life, therapy offers the chance to reframe your history. Years may have passed before understanding caught up – perhaps through a child’s diagnosis or a late-night documentary – but recognition brings both revelation and repair. While therapy is not always accessible, where it is, it can help you unpick the shame, mourn the loss of missed opportunity or potential, meet that younger self with honesty and recognise that healing doesn’t only happen in clinical spaces. At 60, you may finally see you were never stupid – only unseen in an age that refused to look – and celebrate what you have accomplished to be here in the present. Therapy can help to untangle that story and allow you the fullest life now.
In part 2 of this series, we look at what ADHD life is like for men born in 1986. Part 3 will look at men born in 2006.
Reference
* World Health Organization. International Classification of Diseases (ICD) manual, 8th and 9th revisions. Accessed 4 December 2025: www.who.int/standards/classifications/classification-of-diseases
Authors’ note
This piece draws primarily on experiences from white, British, middle-class contexts. ADHD, however, intersects deeply with race, class and gender, shaping who receives understanding and support. We acknowledge those differences and the ongoing need for broader, more inclusive stories.
Click the links if you’d like to visit Duncan’s therapy website or Adam’s therapy listing. Their directory entries for Attention Allies.
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Published 1 January 2026
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