The season of Advent is one which is near and dear to my heart. A season embracing what N.T. Wright once coined the “now and not yet” of the Christian life provides a necessary respite from a certain rhythm which can ensnare us who are committed to justice and mercy in our world. This rhythm, which often has us careening between a demand for immediate action to heal our unjust world and a sense of hopelessness rooted in the perniciousness of sin and injustice, often leaves us (myself included) in a cynical and listless place. In the expectation and longing for something to finally change, where our “now” seems broken beyond repair and our “not yet” can’t afford to be delayed, Advent meets us where we are.
Conversely, Advent was one of the first responses to the ills of modern Protestantism which plagued my religious upbringing. This Protestantism all too often turned a blind eye toward a commitment to earthly justice: adopting a dissociated future for the world fully removed from the plight of the current one, losing the need for repentance in a quest for grace, and accepting a temporal belief that nothing in this life matters save for an individual decision one makes about their belief. Such a Christianity leads to minimal reflection of either the “now” or the “not yet” of the Christian life. For this type of Christianity, Advent gives a biting call to action, that we might embrace the reality around us in this world which has as much to do with the world now as it does for the world to come. Advent pushes the church into motion in this world.
The beauty of this season of “now and not yet” is that it calls us to a new kind of action. We are able to have hope that our actions toward goodness and healing have value and are not in vain, for there is a savior who wishes to help us, heal us, and use our actions to bring goodness in the world. We are no longer condemned to being stuck in our darkness, pain and misery.
Yet, this hope is not rooted in the completion of goodness but can be found in the progress toward that completion, embedded in the promise that “all things will be made new,” (Rev. 21:5). The heartbreak of being unable to realize the goodness and healing we wish to see in the world is wrapped fully within a promise that such goodness and healing will be realized.
The new kind of action is a gritty perseverance which Fleming Rutledge says “does not flinch from the darkness that stalks us in this world,” but allows us to “begin in the dark and move toward the light.”
It’s a gritty perseverance I’ve had to come to terms with in this past year as I’ve begun to address a mental disability which has plagued me for most of my life.
***
I was officially diagnosed in 2022 with ADHD, attention deficit hyperactivity disability. It is a disability affecting brain structure and the chemical composition of the brain, affecting the development of the frontal lobe and neurotransmitter networks in a way which inhibits decision-making, executive function and overall levels of activity. It is the disability de jour for self-diagnosis for some, and for many more it is a favorite disability to misunderstand. Living with clinical ADHD is a silent nightmare in one’s own mind, and one becomes acutely aware of how it becomes a silent nightmare for those around them as time goes on.
There’s no shortage of its effects on one’s life: constantly running late to even the most important events in your life. An inability to gather together the executive function necessary to complete basic tasks. A gnawing bitterness and weariness as each decision made is automatically assigned the weight of something which will permanently change the course of your life and reputation. A sleep schedule decimated by anxiety and procrastination. The list grows and evolves over time as one’s life changes and the disability impacts new areas of life not yet experienced.
Author’s Note: I am writing this six hours before it is due to our editorial team. My dream of becoming a better writer, and the yearning for any level of executive function needed to reach any sort of level of creativity in writing, are in constant battle with one another.
For myself, just as it has for many with ADHD, it has led to years of deep shame as I’ve grappled with the consequences of the disability (which for many years I blamed solely on my personal character, rather than anything to do with the structure and chemical composition of my brain). The shame has only worsened over time in tandem with my worsening symptoms over the past five years, and the shame further exacerbates one’s executive function and decision-making, pathways toward inaction and anxiety further reinforced by the shame. It’s a bleak existence, one I was unwilling to share with even the closest of my friends for many years.
My first venture into treatment was a short one: after receiving clinical diagnosis for ADHD in 2022, I was placed on Strattera, a non-stimulant which increases the availability of norepinephrine in the body, which is a hormone integral to executive function and making decisions (it is a critical hormone in the “fight-or-fight response.”) I quickly left this treatment behind, as the medication heaped side effects on my body and fear grew about changes to my identity, in addition to my own frustration about the progress being made.
Throughout 2024, my symptoms worsened and often became debilitating, at times reflecting a descent into an incorrigible display of anxiety and paranoia. Friends approached me with concern, noting that the symptoms had become greater enough to harm them, whether in forgetfulness, the burden of uncontrollable anxiety and worry, or in isolation from them in times of need. Inaction in the face of fear and disillusionment about the incurable nature of the disability was no longer an option. A friend’s help led me to a psychiatric appointment, and slowly but surely a new path began to take shape.
Two months later, I was back on Strattera in a much more manageable dosage. After talking with friends and family, I began ADHD-focused therapy in earnest for the first time. Friends were aware of the disability for the first time and found ways to step in and help process what I was going through. Prayer and participation in the Eucharist while reflecting on the disability led to a peace that the Lord could accept me as I was in my disability. The result of these changes was finding self-acceptance and an understanding of how to begin to address the symptoms of ADHD. I learned how to shift my focus away from longing for an ideal self that the disability keeps me from, to embracing the progress toward a healthier self.
While all of these steps have led to healing and discovering a life free from a constant underlying sense of shame for the first time, they haven’t come without challenges. Taking a medication which impacts anything involving your brain chemistry is an exhausting process, the increased levels of brain activity and excitability leading to constant exhaustion, even without the crash of a stimulant medication. Even more exhausting is the commitment to a non-linear path to recovery, and picking yourself up from “bad days” when you’re more aware than ever about negative symptoms and their effects. Setbacks are common, and mistakes have all the more gravity to them because of the awareness of what they are rooted in.
***
As I enter a new stage of accepting my need for treatment, I’m especially drawn to the season of Advent this year. The “now and not yet” of our current time is illustrated in the conflict between the confidence and hope of new treatments and therapy, and the continual setbacks of a life consigned to managing rather than curing an often-debilitating mental disability that silently stalks and harms even the most primal aspects of daily life.
The world is dark but such has begun to move toward the light at the behest of a savior who makes Himself low with us—this is the “now” of Advent. Darkness is all too readily available in examining the depths of a disability like ADHD, which I’m learning affects nearly everything I do because it affects the fundamental development of my brain itself. Yet the retreat of symptoms for the first time in years, and a promise of a pathway toward a healthier way to live in community with God and those around me, brings a sense of hope worthy of action—a better way has been made available.
Likewise, the world is not as it should be, and we are not as we should be, though we have been promised by a savior that they will be one day—this is the “not yet” of Advent. For those with a mental disability that too often rears its ugly head, it is not hard to visualize this truth. We lack most of the control in our progress, and setbacks are constant from “Day One” of treatment and care. But there is a hope that all in our bodies and in our minds will be healed one day in Christ. We are freed from the shame that comes from not being our perfect, ideal selves we believe we could become, knowing that someone beyond ourselves desires to heal and shape us into our best selves.
Whether it is our salvation or our healing from that which spiritually and mentally hampers us, Advent calls us to act on the hope which now flows into the world and to enact the patience of knowing that the work and healing of this world will not be completed in our own power. May we find joy in the difficult perseverance of moving from what has given us hope toward the promise of the completion of our hope.
Noah Schumerth graduated from Calvin University in 2019 with a major in geography and minors in architecture and urban studies. He currently lives in Chicago’s Hyde Park neighborhood and works as the village planner in Homewood, Illinois. He enjoys reading science fiction, writing essays, cycling, and exploring Chicago by train.
