Two Rhythms, One Relationship: Navigating ADHD, Mismatched Energy, and the Magic of Meeting in the Middle
What does connection look like when we stop trying to mold each other into matching tempos—and instead look for shared pauses that feel honest, restorative, and real?
— Calla Hart
Winding and sun-bleached, the kind of road that leads to something worth finding.
A Mother’s Day in La Paz, a winding road, a shared margarita, and one perfect beach
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Intro
This morning, my husband brought me coffee on the balcony. It was sweet. Thoughtful. The kind of gesture that says, I see you. I want to meet you where you are.
But what I noticed next felt like the real story:
His eyes constantly adjusting to the sunlight.
Fingers fidgeting to grab his phone.
A body—kindly present, but clearly yearning to move.
And that’s when it clicked:
We’re not just different in our personalities.
We’re different in tempo.
And his isn’t a quirk—it’s his wiring.
My husband has ADHD.
And while so much of the conversation around ADHD focuses on forgetfulness or distractibility, there’s something we don’t talk about enough:
Hyperactivity as a rhythm. Not always bouncing-off-the-walls hyper.
But a kind of need-to-move-or-else hum, always under the surface. Even in stillness, there’s motion.
The Morning Ride
It was early—6 AM—when he suggested going for a bike ride. And while we’re both early risers (him more than me), that’s still early for most. But in La Paz, May temperatures often reach 30°C (86°F)—and we both love riding along the quiet Malecon before the heat sets in.
I had just taken something for a headache—my body’s way of saying, slow down. I needed 20 or 30 minutes to let it work.
But I could feel him vibrating, that subtle buzz that says: I need to move soon.
He also had plans to volunteer for a beach cleanup, leaving the house at 7:30. If we left by 6:30, we’d have just enough time for our usual route.
And so, I got ready. Not because I didn’t want to ride—truthfully, I did. But because I wanted to feel better first.
Still, I’ve learned to read the cues in his movement—the way energy builds in him when it has nowhere to go.
The Afternoon Reset
Later, after the cleanup, he did a grocery run—something that gets him out, around people, and moving.
He is an extrovert in the classic sense.
But it’s more than that. I think it also helps him feel like he’s contributing—bringing something home.
Sometimes it’s literal.
Like saying, “I got you your favourite coconut water,”—even though he hates coconut water. Or picking up mangoes, which he also doesn’t eat. Or grabbing gnocchi for the girls, because he remembers what they love.
It’s these small, thoughtful things.
They say: I’m thinking of you, even when I’m out in the world.
By the time he returned, I’d had space—talked with a girlfriend, tidied up, reset.
We decided to go explore a few beaches.
The roads were winding, sandy, and a little sketchy.
But he’s an expert behind the wheel—calm, confident, part off-roader, part guide. We checked out three spots. Two we don’t need to go back to. But the last one?
It was perfect.
Especially for Charlie, our dog.
Shallow water, calm waves.
A beach that would be ideal not just for us, but for our growing family. When our new grandbaby comes to visit in winter, I already know this is where we’ll go.
The Rooftop and the Ritual
That night—Mother’s Day—we skipped the restaurant.
Instead, we made nachos (a rare indulgence), poured his favourite margaritas, and went upstairs to the rooftop.
I don’t drink much—one margarita is plenty—but it felt just right.
We didn’t talk much.
We each scrolled through our phones, decompressing in parallel. No performance. No expectation. Just stillness beside each other.
For me, it was exactly what I needed. Quiet. The ocean breeze.
A sunset that didn’t need commentary.
Learning to Dance Differently
Here’s what I’ve started to learn:
He needs motion—solo tasks, swimming, grocery runs, time outside.
I need quiet—slow starts, meaningful connection, gentle pace.
Syncing rhythms too early—or too late—leads to friction.
And yet, we both crave connection.
The question is:
When?
How?
And what does connection look like when we stop trying to mold each other into matching tempos—and instead look for shared pauses that feel honest, restorative, and real?
A Gentle Tool for Exploring Shared Rhythm
If you’re in a partnership like this, try this reflection together—or start with yourself:
1. When do I feel most grounded in the day?
2. When do I feel most overstimulated or depleted?
3. When do I most naturally want to connect?
4. What kind of connection feels best in that moment? (Movement, conversation, shared projects, silence, physical touch?)
5. Is there a pocket of time where our needs overlap?
Not perfectly.
But enough?
That’s your bridge.
Closing
We’re still finding ours.
Some days, it’s a morning ride.
Other days, it’s separate mornings and shared sunsets.
Sometimes, it’s texting from across the room just to say I miss you.
But naming the mismatch has helped us stop blaming the moment.
It’s not that we don’t care.
It’s that we move differently.
And now, we’re learning to honor the spaces in between.
To find the magic in the overlap.
And to celebrate what we discover there.
