ADHD and Hyperfocus: Teaching Yourself, Then Dropping It

I go into a subject. On the first day I read two articles. On the second day I start thinking in that subject's own terms. By the fourth day I have six open tabs in my mind, three note files and something I want to build on that subject.

Three weeks later I do not open those files.

This cycle was there for most of my life and for a long time I thought it was a character trait: enthusiastic but without staying power. Today I look from a more mixed place. Many things I know, nobody taught me; I found them myself. And the engine of that finding was often these dives.

This article is about the good side of self-teaching with hyperfocus, the guilt that is left when I drop it, and an attempt to find a place between the two. What hyperfocus is in general I described in the article on hyperfocus; here I look only at the learning side.

Can hyperfocus be measured

First an honest note. The word hyperfocus is used a lot in the ADHD community but its scientific side is thin. A review of the subject stresses that although hyperfocus is often mentioned in the context of autism, schizophrenia and ADHD, research on its cognitive and neural workings is limited (Ashinoff and Abu-Akel, 2021).

There are also studies that try to measure it. Researchers who developed a new scale called the Adult Hyperfocus Questionnaire found, in two separate samples, one a pilot and one a replication, that adults with high ADHD symptoms reported more hyperfocus. This difference was seen in different areas such as school, hobbies and time spent in front of a screen (Hupfeld et al., 2019). The data rest on self-report, that is, they measure how people describe their own experience. Still, they show that the sentence “this happens to me” does not stand in a void.

The side of self-teaching that suits me

Learning at school was tied to a sequence: first this unit, then that unit, exam on this date. In self-teaching there is no sequence. You can go where curiosity goes.

For an ADHD mind this is a great relief. Where there is interest, attention comes on its own. You can skip a boring introduction and go straight to the question you are most curious about. The feedback is fast too: when you read something and try it right away, you see whether it works.

In a small qualitative study with professionally successful adults with ADHD, the positive sides the participants described include high energy, creativity and hyperfocus (Sedgwick et al., 2019). The study was done with six people; it does not count as a generalization, it counts as testimony. How easily this kind of testimony can turn into a “superpower” narrative I discussed in the article on the question of strengths.

When I teach myself I do not force my attention. I follow the path my attention goes.

Why curiosity fades

The explanation that comforted me most did not come from the ADHD literature; it came from an old article written on curiosity. George Loewenstein defines curiosity as a feeling of deprivation that arises when we notice a gap in our knowledge. The same article also draws attention to some features of curiosity: that it is intense, that it is temporary, its relation to impulsivity, and that when satisfied it often leaves disappointment (Loewenstein, 1994).

This description tells my dives almost exactly. When I enter a subject the gap is large and attractive. Within a few days the questions I am most curious about are answered. When the gap closes the feeling of deprivation also goes. What is left is the slow and repetitive part needed to become really good in that field. The glossary has a counterpart for this: fading of novelty.

So dropping can be less a collapse of willpower than the natural lifespan of curiosity coming to an end. Loewenstein's article is written for all people and makes no claim specific to ADHD. The difference in ADHD may be here: when novelty and interest are almost the only fuel that carries the continuing, nothing else is left to continue with when the curiosity is over.

Is dropping a failure

For a long time I counted every dropped subject as a loss. The half-finished projects, the note files never opened, the books never looked at again. In the article on the hobby graveyard I described the material side of this guilt.

On the learning side, today I ask myself a different question: what was I learning this subject for?

Some dives were only for curiosity anyway. I wanted to understand how a field works, I understood, I stepped out. That is a finished job. The knowledge that remains turns up in another place, in another question, and often makes a connection I did not expect.

Some dives, though, were for a skill I really needed. Then dropping produces a cost, and there I need to build a structure other than curiosity.

Not confusing the two kinds removes most of the guilt.

Making the dive useful

I tried to stop hyperfocus; it did not hold. What I find worth trying is putting small markers at the beginning and end of the dive.

Write questions before entering. Instead of “I will learn this subject,” “I am looking for answers to these three questions.” When the questions are answered the dive has a finish line, and when I drop it I know what I completed.

A one-page map. Instead of dozens of note files, a single page: the main ideas I learned, the questions still open, the next step. When I come back three weeks later this page saves me from starting from zero.

An exit note. When I notice I am dropping the subject, two lines: where I stopped, what I would do first if I came back. Dropping stops being a break and becomes a pause.

An output. Telling someone what I learned, writing a page, or making something small. A dive that has an output settles somewhere in the mind.

A time marker from outside. During a dive time disappears completely. An alarm or another person saying “what time is it” keeps me from reaching three in the morning.

Keep a parking list. When a new curiosity comes in the middle of a subject, do not open it right away; write it on a list. Most curiosities do not carry the same pull a week later. The ones that do are the ones really worth diving into.

The gaps fast learning leaves

Learning with hyperfocus has a less talked about side too: holes are left in what is learned fast.

When I go where curiosity goes, I jump straight to the most interesting question. I often skip the basic concepts, the boring introductions, the part passed over as “everyone knows this.” A few days later I can follow an advanced discussion in that field but I can get stuck on a very simple question. To someone looking from outside this is a strange picture. To me it is sometimes shaming too.

There is also the matter of early confidence. After diving into a subject intensely for a few days I feel that I know it. This feeling often comes faster than real knowledge. When I try to explain what I learned to someone or apply it in a job, I see where the gaps are.

That is why I find it worth trying to add two small checks at the end of the dive.

A basics list. Finding from a source the five or ten concepts a beginner in that field must know, and asking myself about them. I skip what I know, and I give a short time to what I do not. This is the cheapest way of filling in afterward the places the dive skipped.

Testing by explaining. Trying to explain the subject in five minutes to someone who knows nothing about it. The place where I stumble while explaining is the place where I do not understand. If there is nobody in front of me, writing works too; the one-page map does this job as well.

These checks do not kill curiosity. On the contrary, sometimes by showing a new gap they wake the curiosity again. Seeing the gap produces a new pull, as in Loewenstein's description.

There is also the share hyperfocus takes from the body. My learning dives often slide into the night; food, water and sleep are forgotten. The next day I do not remember half of what I learned, because a tired mind does not settle new information well. So limiting the length of the dive works not only for my health but for what I learned to last.

When there is something I want to sustain

Sometimes I want to continue even though the curiosity is over. In that case, instead of struggling to produce curiosity again, I look for other fuels: someone to learn with, a date from outside, a small but regular repetition.

I also lower the measure. Expecting the tempo of the hyperfocus period to continue is the most frequent trap I set for myself. After a three-hour daily dive, twenty minutes twice a week looks like a drop. Yet this is what is sustainable.

Self-teaching will probably always be like this for me: intense beginnings, quiet intervals, unexpected returns. Now I try not to see this as a flaw to be corrected but to read it as a rhythm on which a system can be built.