ADHD, Sobriety, and the Salvation of the Dinner Rush
When the dinner rush hits, time doesn’t just slow down—it fucking stops. The moment the tickets start pouring in, and the kitchen transforms into a symphony of organized chaos, the world outside ceases to exist. For a few hours, it’s just me and the rhythm of service. No time to think, no time to worry, no time for the mind to race. Just cook. Just fucking go. For someone like me, whose mind is constantly running, that’s a kind of peace you can’t put a price on.
This is where I feel most alive, most normal, even. In the heat of service, I’m locked into the present moment, hyper-focused, and free from the distractions that usually pull me in a thousand directions. Psychologists call this “flow,” that state of being so immersed in an activity that you lose track of time and self. For me, it’s not just a benefit of the job—it’s a fucking lifeline.
I started looking for better ways to manage my ADHD when I got sober. For years, alcohol was my escape, the thing that turned the volume down on my thoughts and gave me a break from myself. But when I quit, I had to find something else to quiet the storm. Something healthier. Something real. The kitchen gave me that. The dinner rush does what no pill ever could: it stops time, erases my mind, and lets me channel all that restless energy into something good.
I was diagnosed with ADHD in high school, which probably doesn’t surprise anyone who knows me. Back then, they handed me prescriptions for things like 150 mg of Concerta, hoping to tame my creativity and energy. Sure, it slowed me down, but not in the right way. I’ll never forget the day I caught myself literally drooling in class. The meds dulled everything that made me me. I wasn’t funny, creative, or outspoken anymore. I was a shadow of myself, and I hated it. So, I stopped taking them.
Now, as a father, I think about those years a lot. My son is still young, but I see so much of myself in him—the energy, the curiosity, the way his mind works. It scares me sometimes. I don’t want him to feel like he’s broken or needs to be fixed. I want to teach him to embrace his creativity, not stifle it. When he’s being imaginative or funny, I try to guide him instead of scolding him, because I know how it feels to be told you’re too much.
That’s why Dinner Rush means so much to me. It’s not just a brand; it’s my fucking outlet. It’s where I can take all the energy and ideas bouncing around in my head and turn them into something tangible. Whether it’s making cool streetwear, building a community, or sharing these thoughts, it gives me purpose and peace. It’s my way of taking what could feel like chaos and turning it into something meaningful.
The dinner rush, for all its intensity, is a kind of salvation. The heat, the noise, the speed—it’s where I find clarity and calm. I find it when I’m creating and designing too. It’s the same feeling I used to chase in alcohol but without the shame or regret. It’s honest and earned. And it’s a reminder that our differences—the things that make us feel out of place—can also be our greatest fucking strengths.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: find your outlet. Whether it’s cooking, writing, art, music, or something entirely your own, don’t let anyone stifle your creativity or tell you your ideas don’t matter. Use what makes you different to fuel your fire. Make mistakes. Learn from them. Build something beautiful.
In the kitchen, in creating in making mistakes; I’ve found my peace. I’ve found my purpose. And in sharing it, I hope you can find yours, too.
Peace.
