Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) is a neurological disorder that affects approximately — at last count — 10% of the population. This number, however, is on the rise as diagnostic tools are becoming more refined and ADHD is becoming less stigmatized. Between conversations around mental health becoming more casual, and apps like TikTok and Instagram teaching adults with ADHD how to identify the traits in themselves, we are seeing a rise in people seeking and accepting a diagnosis without the backlash that was common in the early 2000s and before.

I was not diagnosed with ADHD until I was an adult (though I found out later that most of my elementary school teachers had their suspicions.) Since my diagnosis, I have been seeking to understand its impact on my daily life. Every day it seems more pieces fall into place for me, and I realize that the things I don’t always like or get about my personality are actually just uncontrolled ADHD. (To be fair, a lot of my favorite things about myself are also byproducts of my ADHD, too, so with the bad comes the good.) I’ve also learned that with the right regulation techniques, proper treatment, and better understanding of how my brain works, those less desirable things don’t have to be hindrances.

What can you do in seven years? A lot, honestly. In my life alone, the past seven years have seen tons of events: I worked in three school districts, I finished my masters degree, I moved into three different houses (maybe four? The timeline is a little blurred.) I watched my wife graduate from medical school, go through residency, and begin her career as a doctor and medical educator. I played Carnegie Hall–twice! I became a parent.

I did a lot. A lot. And it’s not until I start to make a bullet point list that I start to see just how much my life has changed in seven years; just how productive my life has been.

But in those seven years, I did not find productivity in the area that matters the most: writing. Sure I’ve written casually, here and there. In the past seven years I’ve finished two manuscripts. I know that that is two more manuscripts than many people write in their entire lifetime. But I’m a writer. That is the way I label myself. I am a writer first, and everything comes second–at least when it comes to my career goals. I am a writer, and then I am a musician, an artist, a teacher, etc.

New Year’s has come and gone, and now I’m looking down the long tunnel that is 2022, with its unknown twists and turns, waiting to once a gain throw me for an unexpected loop. I used to to love New Years Day—it meant possibility, it meant hope, it meant change. But as I’ve gotten older, all it’s seemed to mean is more and more uncertainty.

One thing I can always rely on, however, is books. Books have, and always will be my comfort zone and my safe space. I will always have a home in books, a warm place to snuggle in and feel safe. Even when the story itself is unpredictable, I find comfort in the smell, the heft, the feel of a book. And in 2021, when everything was strange and new and unpredictable, it’s clear that I found comfort in my familiar retreat. I lost myself in 50 books. 50 beautiful, wonderful, heavy stories. 50 chances to live a new life entirely different of my own. So here is my 2021 Bookish Year in Review.