My name is Kartini Clarke. I’m a fourth year law student, a former political candidate, and a union organizer. I am also neurodivergent. Diagnosed with ADHD at 19, I now realize how long I was navigating the world differently without even knowing it. Growing up, my experience in the education system was shaped as much by my undiagnosed ADHD as by the lack of understanding about neurodiversity in schools. This is my story of resilience, frustration, and ultimately, the drive to advocate for change.
Early Signs: The Gifted, Challenging Child
Looking back, I see how ADHD and neurodiversity showed up in my life even as a young child. When I was six, my teacher tried to push me toward chapter books, but I wanted to linger over the “pretty” picture books instead. I was reading far ahead of my age level by seven, and by that age, I’d also become fascinated with politics. I would follow adult conversations, eager to jump in, often being told, “The adults are talking.” The bane of being a gifted kid, I suppose.
I am sure my family had questions, but no one suggested a formal evaluation. Stigma and circumstances kept me from being assessed, leaving me to face growing difficulties without any clarity on what I was dealing with.
“Stigma and circumstances kept me from being assessed, leaving me to face growing difficulties without any clarity.”
Living with Undiagnosed ADHD: The Hidden Struggles
Even as my passion and talent propelled me forward, my undiagnosed ADHD was a constant hurdle. Insomnia was my first red flag—by the end of primary school, getting a full night’s sleep felt impossible. My mind wouldn’t shut off, and my energy levels were drained before I even reached the classroom. Soon, anxiety crept in and began manifesting physically as pain in my shoulders, tension that would stay with me throughout the day.
High school only intensified the challenges. There were new social conventions, increased responsibilities, and an expectation to plan for the future. But instead of motivating me, it felt overwhelming. Depression settled in like a dark cloud, following me everywhere. My interests were seen as unusual, and I seemed to stand out in ways that felt isolating. All I wanted was to achieve good grades and prove myself, yet I was often criticized for my “flaws.”
In class, teachers saw me as a “distraction.” I was called impulsive, messy, and slow to complete tasks. Yet, this was partly because of my perfectionism—anything less than perfect didn’t feel acceptable. I hated feeling like a constant disappointment. It baffled everyone around me because my intelligence had been clear from a young age. Why couldn’t I just “get it together”?
“In class, teachers saw me as a ‘distraction,’ but I was simply overwhelmed, battling a perfectionism no one seemed to understand.”
Challenges in the Classroom: Misunderstood and Unsupported
Throughout school, support was scarce. I tried hard to balance academics and mental health, but many teachers simply didn’t understand. Once, when I received an extension for an assignment, my teacher commented, “You always write really well, but this extension feels unfair to your classmates.” I was desperate to explain that without it, I would have failed, but the judgment lingered.
Noise was another obstacle. Overstimulated by the bustling classroom, I often requested quiet spaces for exams, only to face accusations of “planning to cheat.” When Bluetooth headphones became a thing, they were a godsend. I could finally block out the noise with white noise, sneaking my headphones on when teachers refused to let me work outside the classroom.
“The noise in classrooms was overwhelming, but requests for quiet spaces were often met with skepticism.”
Losing the Joy of Learning
Despite it all, I loved learning. But I remember the moment that love started to fade. I was called into a senior management meeting, where the dean told me a teacher had complained about my “enthusiasm” in class. Apparently, I was contributing a bit “too much,” though neither the teacher nor the class was named. I was advised to “tone it down” and participate less.
Humiliated, I tried to explain why this was upsetting, but I felt so cornered that I ended up sharing something personal to deflect the discomfort. I didn’t tell them the truth: that class discussions were how I processed and understood what we were learning. Instead, I withdrew. The excitement for learning was gone. I’d retreat to the common room, finding it harder and harder to show up for class. Year 13 was especially hard—I was jaded and just wanted to leave. The spark had been dulled.
“The excitement for learning was gone. Year 13 was especially hard—I was jaded and just wanted to leave.”
Finding Support: One Teacher Who Understood
There was one class and one teacher I still showed up for: Level 3 Maths with Mr. Welch. I didn’t need maths for my future plans, but I enjoyed it, and Mr. Welch’s presence was a rare comfort. He seemed to understand that I was “different.” Not only was he an excellent maths teacher, but he was also one of the few teachers who offered genuine support.
Mr. Welch taught me progressive muscle relaxation techniques during lunch breaks, recognizing my struggles with anxiety. He would talk to me honestly—not just about maths but about my behavior and the social missteps I sometimes made. Recently arrived from the UK, he brought an approach that was both empathetic and straightforward. There was no judgment, only understanding, and practical guidance.
“He didn’t judge me; he offered empathy and practical guidance, showing me how powerful teacher support could be.”
University: A New World of Support
When I reached university, I was amazed by the difference in support. Unlike high school, university staff actually made accommodations without the constant judgment I’d grown used to. The university funded my ADHD diagnosis, provided smaller exam rooms, extra time, and flexibility to study from home or on campus. The support was everything I’d missed in high school, and it made a world of difference.
I couldn’t help but feel a sense of frustration, though. How much more could I have achieved in high school if I’d received this level of support? University showed me that I was capable all along. The difference was the understanding and resources available to me.
Advocating for Change in Aotearoa’s Education System
Experiencing the impact of supportive environments, I’m now driven to advocate for change. Teachers in Aotearoa need education on neurodiversity. Too often, neurodivergent students—especially girls—go unrecognized. By the time we reach adulthood, we’re often left without access to publicly funded healthcare for ADHD and autism. My own suspicion of being on the autism spectrum remains unconfirmed, as it would cost $2000 to get an official diagnosis—a barrier for many.
“Teachers need to recognize neurodivergent students’ potential instead of seeing us as disruptive or difficult.”
I’m also speaking out with my fellow wahine, standing with other young adults in the same predicament. ADHD treatment is not funded for adults, leaving many of us without the help we need. With private psychiatrists facing months-long waitlists, my neurodivergent friends and I are caught in a system that overlooks us. Many are unable to pursue further education or perform to their potential, burdened by barriers that shouldn’t exist.
We deserve a system that values and understands us. I’m fighting for a future where neurodiverse talents are recognized, nurtured, and respected. It’s time for change.