Learning To See Myself Clearly

The story behind my late ADHD diagnosis and the lens I spent 45 years looking through.

At 45 years old, I was diagnosed with ADHD. Most people would probably expect me to say that diagnosis changed my life. The truth is, it didn’t change my life. It explained it. For the first time, decades of confusion, frustration, self doubt, overwhelm, and questions finally started making sense. Suddenly, I wasn’t looking at a lifetime of failures. I was looking at a lifetime of moments I finally understood. And that realization has been one of the most freeing experiences of my life. Because for most of my life, I thought something was wrong with me. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way anyone else could necessarily see. But in the quiet moments. The moments when I couldn’t understand why simple tasks felt impossible. Why I could run a successful business but struggle to answer an email. Why I could photograph a wedding with hundreds of moving parts but forget where I put my keys. Why I could be incredibly productive one day and completely overwhelmed the next. Why my mind never seemed to stop. Why no matter how much I accomplished, I still felt like I was somehow falling behind. For years, I thought those things were character flaws. Now I know they weren’t.

Looking Back

When I look back over my life now, I see things differently. I see a woman who was working twice as hard as she needed to because she didn’t understand how her brain worked. I see someone who spent years believing she was lazy when she was actually overwhelmed. Someone who thought she was disorganized when her brain was simply processing information differently. Someone who constantly felt like she was too much and not enough at the exact same time. The hardest part wasn’t the symptoms themselves. It was the shame that came with them. Every unfinished project felt like proof that I couldn’t follow through. Every forgotten task felt like proof that I wasn’t responsible enough. Every mistake felt bigger than it should have. And because I didn’t understand why these things kept happening, I blamed myself. Over and over again. What I know now is that I wasn’t failing. I was navigating life without the instructions I never knew I needed.

When Your Name Is The Business

There is another piece of this story that I don’t think many people understood. Jina LaFary Photography isn’t a business name I created. It’s my actual name. My business isn’t something separate from me. It is me. My name is on the sign. My name is on the website. My name is attached to every image I create. Because of that, I struggled to separate business from personal. When a client booked me, I didn’t just feel chosen as a photographer. I felt chosen as a person. When someone loved their images, I didn’t just feel successful. I felt worthy. And when someone didn’t book, didn’t return, chose another photographer, or quietly disappeared, I didn’t process it as a business decision. I processed it as rejection. I spent years asking questions that had nothing to do with photography. What did I do wrong? Why didn’t they like me? Was I too much? Did I disappoint them? Was I not good enough? The logical side of me knew there were countless reasons people make decisions. Budgets change. Needs change. Life changes. But my brain didn’t always allow logic to win. Everything felt personal. Every success. Every disappointment. Every review. Every cancellation. Every inquiry that never responded. I carried all of it. And looking back now, I realize how exhausting that was.

The Gift Hidden Inside The Chaos

For years, I only focused on what ADHD made difficult. What I failed to recognize was what it made possible. One of the biggest misconceptions about ADHD is that it’s an attention deficit. For me, it has never felt like a lack of attention. It feels like too much attention. Imagine standing in a room where every conversation, every sound, every idea, every possibility, every problem, and every opportunity is happening at the same volume. That’s what my brain often feels like. Most people have a filing cabinet. My brain has hundreds of tabs open at the same time. And somehow they all feel important. It can be exhausting. But it can also be a gift. Because when I’m photographing someone, I’m not just seeing what’s in front of me. I’m seeing the light. The emotion. The tiny details. The nervous smile before someone relaxes. The way a mother instinctively reaches for her child. The way a husband looks at his wife when she isn’t paying attention. The moments between the moments. I’ve spent my entire career noticing things. Feeling things. Seeing things that other people overlook. And for the first time, I’m beginning to realize that the very brain that caused me so much frustration may also be the same brain that helped shape me into the photographer I am today.

The Relationships I Wish I Had Seen Differently

This is the part that’s hardest to write. Photography can be a lonely profession. For years, I talked about community over competition. And I genuinely believed in it. At least I wanted to. But if I’m being completely honest, there was a battle happening inside me that nobody saw. I constantly compared myself to other photographers. Not just their work. Their success. Their social media. Their confidence. Their businesses. Their friendships. Their lives. I would look at someone else’s highlight reel and compare it to my behind the scenes reality. And somehow, I always came up short. I convinced myself that if I could just become as good as they were, I would finally get the same results. If I could just reach their level, I would finally feel successful. If I could just figure out whatever secret they seemed to know, everything would fall into place. The problem was that every time I reached a goal, my brain simply moved the finish line. There was always someone doing more. Someone doing better. Someone who appeared to have everything figured out. And while other people saw colleagues and friends, I often saw proof that I wasn’t enough.

The truth is, there were times I didn’t just compare myself to other photographers. I removed myself from them. I unfriended people. Muted people. Stopped following their work. Created distance wherever I could. Not because they had done anything wrong. Not because I wanted them to fail. But because every time I saw another photographer succeeding, my brain somehow turned their success into evidence of my own failure. Instead of being happy for them, I questioned myself. Instead of celebrating them, I compared myself to them. Instead of seeing another creative building a beautiful business, I saw another reminder of everything I thought I wasn’t. Looking back now, I realize how unfair that was. Most of those people weren’t competing with me. They were simply living their lives. The battle was happening entirely inside my own head. Some of them were probably fighting battles of their own, while I was busy assuming they had everything figured out.

That is heartbreaking to admit. Because some of those people weren’t competitors at all. Some of them were friends. Some of them genuinely cared about me. In fact, two of the people closest to me are photographers. Two of my best friends. Women who have seen me at my best and my worst. Women who have celebrated my victories, encouraged me through my struggles, answered my questions, listened to my frustrations, and never once given me a reason to doubt where I stood with them. They have consistently cheered me on. They have believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. They have supported me through seasons when I was barely holding things together. And yet somehow, I still managed to feel small. Not because of anything they did. But because I couldn’t see myself the way they saw me. What makes me emotional now is realizing that while I was busy comparing myself to them, they were simply being my friends. Real friends. The kind of friends people spend a lifetime hoping to find. And as much as I struggled with feeling inadequate, I fought like hell to keep those friendships. Because even at my lowest moments, even when my brain was telling me stories that weren’t true, losing them would have hurt far worse than any insecurity I carried about myself. Today, I look at those friendships differently. Not through the lens of comparison. But through the lens of gratitude. Because they stayed. Through all of it. And that’s a gift I don’t take lightly.

The Diagnosis Didn’t Fix Everything

One of the biggest surprises of this journey has been realizing that understanding and healing are not the same thing. Understanding happened quickly. Healing is taking longer. The diagnosis didn’t magically fix my life. It didn’t suddenly make me organized. It didn’t eliminate insecurity. It didn’t erase years of habits and thought patterns. What it did do was give me answers. Today, I can recognize when comparison is happening. I can recognize when rejection sensitivity is showing up. I can recognize when my brain is telling me a story that may not actually be true. The challenge now is learning how to respond differently. And that’s where I am today. Learning. Growing. Figuring it out one day at a time. I don’t have this all figured out. Not even close. But even the small amount I’ve learned has made a dramatic difference. Because for the first time, I understand why. And there is incredible freedom in understanding why.

A Community I Didn’t Always Know How To Receive

There is one more thing I need to say. For years, I thought I was walking this journey alone. Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t. There have been clients who trusted me with their most important memories. There have been fellow photographers who answered questions, shared advice, encouraged me, and welcomed me into conversations when they didn’t have to. There have been friends who listened when I was struggling. There have been people who saw potential in me long before I could see it in myself. There have been people who rooted for me, supported me, referred clients to me, celebrated my successes, and reminded me that I belonged. The truth is, I didn’t always know how to receive that. When you spend years feeling inadequate, it’s hard to believe people genuinely see something good in you. When you’ve spent decades questioning your own worth, encouragement can feel confusing. Compliments can feel uncomfortable. Support can feel suspicious. Not because the people offering it weren’t sincere. But because somewhere deep down, you’ve convinced yourself that they’re seeing something that isn’t really there.

Today, when I look around at the relationships I’ve built, the community I’ve been blessed to be part of, the friendships that have stood the test of time, the photographers who shared this journey with me, and the clients who continue to trust me year after year, I see something completely different. I don’t see people who were judging me. I don’t see people waiting for me to fail. I don’t see competitors standing in my way. I see people. People who cared. People who believed in me. People who showed up. And for that, I am incredibly grateful. Because one of the greatest lessons this journey has taught me is that we were never meant to do life alone. Sometimes the hardest part isn’t finding people who care. Sometimes the hardest part is learning to believe that they do.

To My Clients, Friends, and Fellow Creatives

If you’ve been part of my journey over the last fifteen years, thank you. Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for supporting my business. Thank you for allowing me to tell your stories while I was still learning how to understand my own. And to the friends, photographers, and business owners who crossed paths with me along the way, there is something I’d like you to know.

If I ever pulled away when you were trying to get closer… If I ever doubted your intentions… If I ever convinced myself that you didn’t like me when you actually did… If I ever unfriended you, muted you, blocked you, or created distance because I didn’t know how to process my own insecurities… I am truly sorry. Not because I was a bad person. And not because you were. But because I was viewing the world through a lens of fear, comparison, self doubt, and a lifetime of not understanding myself.

At 45 years old, I don’t have all the answers. I’m still learning. I’m still stumbling. I’m still discovering things about myself every week. But for the first time in my life, I am doing it from a place of understanding instead of shame. And that has made all the difference. For years, I used my camera to help other people see the beauty, strength, and stories they couldn’t always see in themselves. I just never realized I was the person who needed that same kindness too. For decades, I thought I was broken. Now I know something different. I was never broken. I simply had a brain that saw the world differently. And for the first time, I’m learning how to see it that way too.

Jina ❤️

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Learning To See Myself Clearly

Learning To See Myself Clearly

Learning To See Myself Clearly

The story behind my late ADHD diagnosis and the lens I spent 45 years looking through.

Looking Back

When Your Name Is The Business

The Gift Hidden Inside The Chaos

The Relationships I Wish I Had Seen Differently

The Diagnosis Didn’t Fix Everything

A Community I Didn’t Always Know How To Receive

To My Clients, Friends, and Fellow Creatives

Jina ❤️

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