The Static That Became a Song
ADHD, Medical School, and the Search for Clarity, Community, and Pride in a Noisy Brain
By Anastasia Bui
I have always lived with a brain that runs faster than my body can keep up. When I was a little girl in Vietnam, I still remember my teacher chasing me across the playground, desperate to catch me as I bounced from wall to wall like a cartoon character. I was always getting in trouble for fidgeting, talking in class, or getting lost on field trips because a flower or a butterfly felt more urgent than the group. I knew, even then, that I was different, though no one had a word for it. In Vietnam, ADHD did not exist in the vocabulary of teachers or parents, only the hope that I would grow out of it. But what does it mean to grow out of yourself? Instead, I learned to mask, to try to appear like everyone else, while underneath I struggled with currents I couldn’t explain.
Fast-forward to college in New York, and the cartoon character from the playground had turned into a sleep-deprived NYU student. I remember sitting in the counselor’s office, exhausted and in tears, trying to explain that something was wrong with my brain. The vortex beneath the surface had become impossible to ignore. One chapter could take me hours. If a chair scraped in the hallway, the words evaporated, dissolved into the static. My friends finished assignments in a night; I was on my third all-nighter, stuck on Chapter Two, fueled by vending machine coffee and pure panic. I was falling behind despite working harder than I thought possible. The counselor listened quietly before asking me a question that caught me off guard: “When was the last time you felt happy?” I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Then I cried.
After that day, the counselor referred me to a psychiatrist, who sent me for a neuropsychological evaluation. The results: I had severe, combined-type ADHD, and likely had all my life. A diagnosis, at last. It felt less like receiving new information and more like finding a translation for a language I had been speaking all along. Suddenly the pieces of my childhood - the fidgeting, the wandering off, the exhaustion, the shame - had a name.
It was validating, even comforting, to know I wasn’t lazy or broken. My brain was wired differently, and there were things I could do to help it. I started medication, and though it took time to find the right combination, the first shift was unmistakable: it was as if the static in my mind finally began to quiet, and for the first time, I could hear my own thoughts. When the balance was right, it felt as though someone had finally handed me the tuning knobs, and I could bring the noise into focus.
But even with the volume lowered, ADHD did not disappear. Executive dysfunction still lived in me, an invisible gravity pulling me sideways. I knew what needed to be done, but moving from knowing to doing was its own kind of gulf. At times, I would avoid even sitting at my desk, knowing that once I did, I would lose myself in hours of relentless work - a marathon I could not always summon the strength to begin. Even now, I probably should be working on my residency application rather than writing this story. Probably.
Medical school brought its own kind of reckoning. In the first few weeks, I stumbled, unsure how to keep pace with the tidal wave of material. It felt like I was paddling with a teaspoon, trying to stay afloat while the current pulled faster and faster. I often heard the voice of imposter syndrome whispering in my ear: I was just a random kid from Vietnam with a brain full of static. What right did I have to be in rooms where lives and futures were at stake?
“For most of my life, ADHD was something I masked, something I tried to keep invisible. I tried to hide it, to smooth out the edges, to work twice as hard so no one would notice the static in my brain. Now that static is exactly what’s being noticed, what’s being celebrated. I always secretly wanted to be a cover girl. I never imagined it would be for ADHD. "
Anastasia Bui, Cover Girl
But slowly, I began to find a rhythm. I leaned into Anki, a system of spaced-repetition flashcards that became my lifeline. Thousands of cards, every single day. My classmates probably thought I was obsessed, and maybe I was. But in time I realized that my brain was not a barrier, but a different kind of engine, one that, once in motion, could sustain astonishing momentum. The same brain that made me avoid my desk was also the one that could run a marathon once I finally got going. What had once felt like a storm threatening to swallow me began to feel, instead, like wind in my sails.
Once I found my stride and learned to navigate the currents, the numbers started to surprise even me. Step 1 came and went - no disasters at all. And Step 2 was the kind of plot twist I couldn’t have written better: two and a half weeks of furious studying, and I walked out with a 269 (for context, the passing score is 218, and this puts me at the top of test-takers). For someone who once almost drowned in her own tears over Chapter Two, that number felt almost absurd. At least on paper, I was a fantastic future doctor.
But numbers were never the whole story. They were proof that the static in my brain had not silenced me. In fact, it had sharpened me. That same persistence carried me far beyond exams. In my first year of medical school, I was elected class president. I became president of my school’s chapter of Physicians for Human Rights, where I helped document forensic evaluations for asylum seekers - reports that could shield their futures. I later became president of our Students with Disabilities and Chronic Illness organization, where I worked to create an inclusive space and community for students living with chronic conditions. Through these roles, I organized educational panels on global humanitarian crises, brought experts together to speak on gender rights, and fostered a community where inclusion was more than a value - it was a practice. Because every voice, every story, was worthy of belonging.
That same drive led me to co-create a new LGBTQIA+ Health Pathway, a structured curriculum with didactics, clinical experiences, individualized mentorship, and community partnerships. I presented it to the Curriculum Oversight Committee, and together with my peers and faculty mentors, we saw it approved and launched. We have since recruited 12 mentors and two cohorts of 14 students across two years. Our students have described the pathway as more than a curriculum - they have called it a community, a place of safety where they could finally feel at home in medicine.
Applicants to our medical school have told us time and again: the pathway didn’t just interest them, it drew them here. The same brain that once kept me up through thousands of flashcards was now building something lasting - not just for me, but for those who would come after me.
Sometimes I think back to the sleep-deprived girl sobbing in the counselor’s office, convinced something was wrong with her brain. She could never have believed that one day she would be sitting in a testing center, racing through questions with confidence. She would never believe that the brain that once betrayed her could also be her greatest ally. And I would tell her: believe it.
ADHD is often called a hidden disability, but I’ve learned that invisibility doesn’t mean insignificance. Once I started speaking openly about it, I found others who recognized themselves in my story. On a LEND panel about neurodivergence, I shared my experiences as a medical student with ADHD - the late-night flashcards, the forgotten texts to friends, the reality of executive dysfunction in a system that prizes efficiency. Afterwards, a fellow panelist and mother of a child with autism, told me she had been hesitant to share her own struggles. But after hearing me speak, she felt brave enough to add her voice. “When you described forgetting your friends because they’re far away,” she said, “it felt like you were reading straight from my diary.”
That is the strange gift of ADHD: it can scatter your attention, but it also forges connections in the most unexpected places. Out of sight, out of mind may be more literal for me than I’d like, but it has never meant out of love. My friends know that when we pick up again, it is as if no time has passed. And for all its messiness, ADHD has given me something priceless: the chance to make people feel less alone, to find a community where difference is not deficit, but a bond.
For most of my life, ADHD was something I masked, something I tried to keep invisible. I tried to hide it, to smooth out the edges, to work twice as hard so no one would notice the static in my brain. Now that static is exactly what’s being noticed, what’s being celebrated. I always secretly wanted to be a cover girl. I never imagined it would be for ADHD. And yet, maybe this is the best kind of full circle.
A magazine cover is a funny place for an invisible disability to end up, but perhaps that is the point. Because visibility matters. Representation matters. And for me, this cover is not just about my face, but about every student who has been told they were too distracted, too messy, too much. To them, I would say what I now tell myself: You’re not broken. You’re not alone. We are here, and we are thriving. And yes - believe it. You can do it, too.