Chasing Dopamine: Living at the Intersection of ADHD and Eating Disorders

Sometimes I think of my brain as a little kid tugging at my sleeve, begging for just one more spark of excitement, one more burst of dopamine. It’s exhausting and beautiful all at once—the way it craves stimulation, comfort, and connection. What I didn’t understand for years was how that same craving shaped my relationship with food, with my body, and with control.

As a person with ADHD, I am always chasing that next hit of dopamine. It’s like my brain is constantly scanning for something—anything—that will light it up for just a second. And often, that something is food. Whether I’m bored, restless, or sad, food feels like the answer. The sweet taste on my tongue, the warmth of a meal in my belly—it brings a kind of comfort that nothing else quite can.

I’ve since learned that about 30% of people with ADHD struggle with eating disorders. It makes sense to me. As a young adult, I wrestled with bulimia and over-exercising. It started with restrictive dieting and perfectionism, the kind that told me I needed to be smaller, quieter, more in control. Food became a place I sought comfort, and then punished myself for finding it. I’d binge to soothe and purge to feel like I had some control left. It was a heartbreaking loop I couldn’t name at the time.

Impulsivity, one of ADHD’s trademarks, doesn’t stop at blurting things out or interrupting people—it can show up as binge eating, as emotional decisions made before you even realize you’ve made them. Even now, as an adult, I have to remind myself that ADHD and eating disorders are about regulation, not willpower. My struggles are not about laziness or a lack of discipline—they’re about a nervous system that runs on a different rhythm.

There are days when I still get down on myself for not managing the “simple” things—brushing my teeth, taking a shower, cooking a meal. I used to label myself as lazy. But lately, I’ve been working with an ADHD coach who keeps reminding me that my brain just doesn’t work like everyone else’s. That the kind of intrinsic motivation others talk about isn’t something my brain can always access. Hearing that truth spoken aloud was freeing.

Sheena’s Place has been another lifeline. Their neurodivergent support group for people struggling with eating disorders gave me language, community, and compassion. It reminded me that I’m not alone in this. Listening to others describe their experiences—how structure and rigidity can backfire, how texture or smell sensitivities can make eating feel impossible—was like finally seeing my own reflection. Many of us have sensory processing differences that make food complicated in ways most people can’t imagine.

For those of us with ADHD, it’s not that we don’t want recovery—it’s that our brains make consistency feel like climbing a mountain every day. When clinicians don’t recognize that, we end up blaming ourselves for being ‘unmotivated’ or ‘noncompliant.’ But we’re not broken. We’re just wired differently. And the more I lean into that truth, the more I find space for grace, for curiosity, for the kind of healing that honors the way my brain and body actually work.

There’s still a part of me that wants to be “normal/better”—more organized, more controlled, more together. But these days, I try to quiet that voice and listen to the softer one underneath, the one that whispers that I am already doing enough. Healing and recovery for me isn’t about discipline or perfection anymore; it’s about learning to honor the way my mind moves, to feed my body when it’s hungry, and to find joy in the small bursts of dopamine from self compassion, not shame.