(And Why That Doesn’t Mean I’m Not Listening)
For most people, eye contact is just another part of a conversation. But for someone with ADHD, it’s a completely different experience—and not always the way people think.
Growing up, I heard it often: “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” My mom would say it, my teachers would say it, and I’d try. I’d force myself to make eye contact, especially in serious conversations. But no matter how hard I pushed, I’d find myself looking away. Not out of defiance (though sometimes that was part of it), but because I could actually concentrate better when I wasn’t staring directly into someone’s eyes.
It took me decades to understand why.
The Irony: It’s Only the Serious Stuff
Here’s what makes this even more confusing. When I’m laughing, joking around, hanging out with family, or just having a casual conversation? Eye contact is no problem. My brain doesn’t hijack itself. I’m fully present, fully engaged.
But the moment a conversation gets serious—business meetings, discussing money, dealing with weighty church decisions, or having a difficult conversation with someone I respect—that’s when I have to look away. The irony is: those are exactly the situations where society expects the most eye contact. The times when looking someone in the eye is supposed to prove you’re trustworthy, professional, paying attention.
The conversations that need the most focus are the ones where my brain says, “Nope, can’t do both.”
The Brain Can’t Do Both
When I’m in a one-on-one conversation—especially at work, with a client, or discussing something serious—maintaining eye contact while also processing complex information is like asking my brain to run two full programs at the same time. Except the programs keep crashing into each other.
Research shows that people with ADHD have disrupted attention patterns when it comes to processing faces and eye gaze, especially during high-demand situations. The brain is juggling so much already—listening to the words, processing tone, managing anxiety, organizing thoughts to respond—that adding sustained eye contact becomes the final straw that breaks the system. Studies confirm that when people with ADHD are required to maintain eye contact while listening, they struggle more with verbal comprehension compared to when they’re allowed to avert their gaze.
When I try to force eye contact during a serious or complex conversation, here’s what actually happens: my visual system hijacks my attention. I start noticing things—the color of their eyes, whether their pupils dilate strangely when they talk, the texture of their skin, random details like “is that botox?”—and suddenly these observations completely override what my ears are hearing. My brain is trying to stay focused on the conversation, but what I’m seeing is louder than what I’m hearing.
It’s Worse When Stakes Are High
It’s not that the stakes make me want to avoid eye contact out of shame. It’s that the stress and complexity of the conversation demand more of my brain’s resources. Add eye contact to that equation, and something has to give. Usually it’s my ability to articulate what I’m trying to say. I stutter, I stumble, I lose my train of thought.
But the moment I look to the side—just enough to keep them in my peripheral vision without direct eye contact—I can speak freely. I can organize my thoughts. I can actually explain the complex thing I’m trying to communicate.
It’s Not About Them—It’s About the Noise
Recently I attended an event where several political candidates spoke to a group. I looked up at each one when they started speaking—just to see what they looked like—and then I rarely looked back at them again. When I did glance up during their speeches, here’s what my brain latched onto: one candidate kept nervously putting his hand in and out of his pocket. Another had shoes that were completely wrong for his suit. Another’s pants were hemmed too long for the boots he was wearing. Someone else’s pants didn’t even match their jacket.
And I have no idea what any of them said in those moments. But I vividly remember those observations.
My wife even leaned over and said, “You aren’t even listening to them, are you?” So I tried to look up and make eye contact—to make the room happy, to perform the socially acceptable behavior of “paying attention.” And what did I do the moment I looked up? I leaned over and started whispering to her every fashion faux pas I’d cataloged: wrong shoes, mismatched jacket and pants, hemline disasters.
I was paying attention the whole time—just not in the way society decided I should be.
It happened again recently when two of my sons preached. They’re still building their preaching skills, and I wanted to hear every word they were saying. So I didn’t look at them much. Because the moment I did, their nervous movements pulled my attention completely away from their message. My brain stopped processing their words and started cataloging their body language, their hand gestures, every small fidget, pace, or shift in posture.
This is what people don’t understand: when I look at someone while they’re speaking, my brain doesn’t see a person delivering a message. It sees data—movement, color, texture, patterns, imperfections. And all that data drowns out the actual information I’m supposed to be absorbing.
Visual Processing, Not Rudeness
Research on ADHD and eye contact reveals that this isn’t about social skills or respect—it’s about how the brain prioritizes sensory input. Studies show that people with ADHD process facial information differently, and when there’s competing cognitive demand (like explaining something complex or absorbing serious information), the brain naturally redirects resources away from maintaining eye contact. For many neurodivergent people, looking away is actually a form of self-regulation—a way to manage sensory overload and free up cognitive bandwidth to actually listen and process information.
I tried to force myself to “just do it” for years. I’d remind myself: Make eye contact. Look at them. You can do this. But I couldn’t—not without sacrificing my ability to concentrate. And eventually I realized: this wasn’t a character flaw. It was my brain protecting itself from overload by doing what it needed to do to function.
What My Parents Didn’t Understand
When I was younger and my mom told me to look at her while she was talking, sometimes I was being defiant—I was mad and didn’t want to engage. But many times, I was actually trying to concentrate on what she was saying. The difference was real, even if she couldn’t see it.
Now I understand the difference: defiant eye-looking-away feels angry and stubborn. Concentration-focused eye-looking-away feels intentional and purposeful, like I’m gathering my thoughts. But in the moment, it probably looked the same to her.
I sincerely wish I had realized this when my own children were smaller.
And honestly? This still happens. Just tonight I was sitting on the front row of a ministry class my dad was teaching. I was listening, but looking down at the table almost the whole time. I realized it and forced myself to look up—to do the “right” thing, to show respect. The moment I did, I immediately lost what he was saying. My brain latched onto his eyes blinking in a weird pattern, twitching after every second blink. I had to look back down at the table just to hear him again.
Listening Harder When I’m Looking Away
Here’s the real truth: when I look away during a serious conversation, I’m often listening more intently, not less. With the visual noise removed, my brain has more bandwidth to actually absorb what’s being said. I can ask better questions. I can process nuance. I can think about what they’re actually communicating instead of being distracted by the physical details of their face.
But that’s not how it looks from the outside. People assume that if someone isn’t making eye contact, they’re not paying attention. They’re being rude. They’re uninterested. And that bothers me—even though the reality is almost the opposite.
The Real Issue Isn’t Eye Contact—It’s the Box Someone Else Drew
I hate when I feel that I should be forced eye contact to prove I’m listening. Research confirms that eye contact is culturally valued in Western societies, but it’s not actually universal or a requirement for genuine connection. In many Asian and African cultures, avoiding eye contact with authority figures is a sign of respect, not disrespect. In some Aboriginal cultures in Australia, eye contact is viewed as rude and aggressive. Even within autism and neurodivergent communities, different norms around eye contact exist—and they work just fine.
Here’s what frustrates me: somewhere along the line, someone drew a box around “eye contact” and decided that was the definition of listening, respect, and engagement. They didn’t ask people like me. They didn’t consider how different brains work. They just decided: this is normal, and everything else is wrong. And then they built that into the unspoken laws of “good society.”
ADHD isn’t a disorder. It’s a phenotype—a different kind of wiring. People with ADHD carry genetics that made us elite hunters, gatherers, and scouts in ancestral times. Fast reflexes, heightened sensitivity, scanning attention, and quick adaptability were all superpowers in natural environments. It only gets labeled a “disorder” when you’re born into a modern world that forces you to sit still for 8 hours a day, memorize irrelevant information, and conform to systems designed for industrial efficiency—not human brilliance. ADHD isn’t the problem. The environment is. And the same goes for eye contact—the expectation is the problem, not the way we’re wired.
But why? Recent research shows that it’s only neurotypical people—not neurodivergent people—who experience distress when someone averts their gaze during conversation. This supports the idea that eye contact differences aren’t a deficit—they’re simply a relational and cultural difference. The discomfort isn’t ours. It’s theirs. And yet we’re the ones expected to change, to mask, to force ourselves into their box—even when doing so causes us sensory overload, cognitive strain, and burnout.
What I needed—what we all need who are wired this way—is for people to understand that different doesn’t mean defiant, and looking away doesn’t mean not listening.
My wife gets it now. My kids get it. And I’ve learned to be upfront about it in meetings: “I listen & speak better when I’m not locked into eye contact, otherwise I’m distracted and lose my train of thought.” Most people appreciate the honesty.
Because real connection isn’t about staring into someone’s eyes. It’s about being understood—even (and especially) in all the ways your brain works differently from everyone else’s. And it’s about questioning the boxes that someone else drew for us, instead of just accepting them as law.
Wired Differently: Life and Leadership Outside the Box 
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