So Someone You Care About Just Got Diagnosed
A guide for friends, partners, colleagues and family who want to do better
When someone tells you they've been diagnosed with ADHD or autism or both, that moment is never the beginning. It's much further down the road. Chances are, they've lived through years of confusion and burnout and thinking something was wrong with them. They've probably hidden more than they've shared. They've tried to fit in without even knowing why it was so hard.
By the time they tell you, they've already taken a huge emotional risk. How you respond can shape how safe they feel to keep being honest. So here's how to make sure you meet them where they are, instead of making it harder.
First, believe them.
Don't question whether it's real or necessary or overused. If they're telling you, it matters. They're not asking for your approval. They're asking to be heard. The kindest thing you can say is something like, "thank you for telling me, that must have taken a lot."
Don't make it about you.
Maybe you've had struggles too. Maybe you've read something or know someone with the same label. That can come later. Right now it's not about comparison or advice. It's about them. Give them space to speak without turning the conversation back to your own experience.
Ask what support looks like to them.
You don't have to guess. You can just ask: "Would it help to talk more about it? Would you rather I just sit with you? Do you want to send me something to read so I can understand better?" Let them tell you what they need instead of assuming.
You don't have to fix anything.
This isn't a crisis that needs to be solved. It's a truth that's finally being named. Most people don't need solutions. They need to feel like they don't have to carry it alone. You might be tempted to make it sound less serious or more manageable. You don't need to. Let it be what it is.
Learn something, but do it on your own time.
You don't need to become an expert overnight. But if you really want to support them, take the pressure off them having to explain everything. Look things up. Seek out real voices. Be open to learning even if it's uncomfortable at times. If you're not sure where to start, ask them what they wish others understood.
Expect some changes.
This diagnosis might shift how they see their whole life. It might bring up grief, or anger, or sudden clarity. They might seem different. Maybe less filtered, maybe more quiet. Let them change. Don't try to pull them back to who they used to be just because it felt more familiar to you.
If you say something wrong, just own it.
You don't have to be perfect. But if you mess up, don't get defensive. Don't make them comfort you for your mistake. Just say, "I think I got that wrong, I'm sorry, I'm still learning." That matters more than you know.
This isn't about labels. It's about someone finally understanding themselves after a lifetime of feeling off. It's about trust. It's about asking: "will you still see me the same way if I show you this part of myself?"
If you can stay present in that moment, if you can let them be fully seen without stepping away or changing the subject or making it about you, you're already doing something rare and important.
Thanks for being the kind of person who wants to show up properly.
That's what Unquiet is about. Staying when it's hard. Listening when it's unfamiliar. Making room where the world didn't.
And if you're reading this because someone gave it to you, that means they trust you. That means they want you in their life.
That's worth something. Try not to waste it.