Building a Fence Around a Very Interesting Brain

Adult ADHD, Part Two: On motivation, structure, emotional fireworks, and why good treatment sometimes looks nothing like we expected.

Sometimes the structure we resist is precisely what gives us greater freedom. Good ADHD treatment isn't about eliminating curiosity or spontaneity, but creating the conditions in which both can flourish.

Suppose you own a particularly enthusiastic dog. He's intelligent, affectionate, curious, and capable of learning almost anything. Unfortunately, he also has a passionate interest in squirrels, passing bicycles, unfamiliar smells, and whatever might be happening three neighborhoods away. You can spend your afternoons standing in the backyard shouting, "Stay!" Or you can build a fence.

The fence doesn't make the dog less intelligent, less curious, or less interested in squirrels. It simply creates an environment in which his enthusiasm is less likely to get him into trouble. And if you've ever owned a dog who regards your instructions as interesting suggestions rather than actual expectations, you probably understand the distinction.

Over the years in my practice of psychotherapy, I've become increasingly interested in the difference between telling someone to behave differently and helping them construct a life in which different behavior becomes possible. This is particularly relevant to Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), where people frequently know what they should do but struggle to do it consistently. We can spend years discussing responsibility without adequately examining the circumstances in which responsible behavior becomes easier or harder.

Of course, people aren't dogs, and a fence isn't a substitute for judgment. But the metaphor raises an interesting question: what if good treatment involves changing the conditions surrounding a behavior rather than simply demanding greater effort at the moment it occurs?

Making Responsibility Interesting

In Part One, we explored the role of attention, executive functioning, and reward regulation in ADHD. These ideas become particularly interesting when we consider treatment, because the brain doesn't always respond to what is important with the same enthusiasm it brings to what is interesting.

Consider two activities: preparing your taxes and researching a new fly-fishing rod. The taxes are important, possibly urgent, and accompanied by consequences you would rather avoid. The fishing rod, however, promises novelty, anticipation, and the delightful possibility that owning it might somehow improve your casting. I wouldn't dismiss that possibility entirely, although the evidence is probably limited.

Dopamine plays a role in motivation and reward learning, but the clinical objective isn't simply to increase dopamine. We want to understand how immediate rewards, anticipation, interest, and environmental cues influence behavior. For some people with ADHD, a task becomes more manageable when we shorten the distance between effort and reward.

This might involve making an unpleasant task into a brief challenge, working alongside another person, introducing movement, using immediate feedback, or breaking a large project into smaller accomplishments. A technique called body doubling involves having another person present while working, even when that person isn't directly helping. Some people find that another person's presence makes beginning and sustaining an activity easier.

But here's an interesting complication. A strategy may work beautifully for three weeks and then stop working because it has become boring. The person buys an elaborate planner, uses it faithfully, and feels wonderfully organized. A month later, the planner has joined the archaeological remains of six previous organizational systems.

Rather than concluding that the person lacks commitment, I would ask what changed. Did the system become too complicated? Did the novelty wear off? Was the reward too distant? Perhaps treatment requires not one perfect system but the ability to recognize when a system needs adjustment.

When the Brain Finds Its Own Entertainment

There is another possibility worth considering, particularly in relationships. Sometimes conflict is stimulating.

Imagine a couple spending an uneventful evening together. Nothing is wrong. Dinner was pleasant. One partner is reading, and the other is becoming increasingly restless. Then comes a provocative observation: "You know, you never really listen when I talk about my day."

Suddenly, there's a conversation. Admittedly, not a particularly pleasant one, but an engaging conversation nonetheless. Both people are animated, attentive, and emotionally involved. For some couples, conflict may provide an intensity that an otherwise quiet evening lacks. This isn't unique to ADHD, and it would be a mistake to assume that people with ADHD deliberately manufacture disagreements. Still, impulsivity, novelty seeking, and difficulties regulating emotions can contribute to patterns of arguing for the sake (reward) of arguing in which conflict becomes unexpectedly engaging.

The couple may even discover that arguments are followed by passionate reconciliations. The emotional intensity of the conflict and the pleasure of reconnecting become part of a familiar cycle. The relationship becomes interesting again, although at considerable expense.

In therapy, I might ask whether the couple has confused intensity with intimacy. Are they finding ways to remain engaged with one another that don't require someone to become upset first? The alternative isn't a boring marriage. Perhaps the relationship needs more playfulness, shared adventure, and intentional connection rather than another emotionally expensive evening.

Hyperfocus can create different relationship problems. During courtship, a new partner may become the most fascinating person in the universe. The attention is extraordinary, the enthusiasm delightful, and the connection intense. Later, when the relationship becomes familiar, some of that intensity may diminish. The affection hasn't necessarily disappeared, but novelty no longer provides the same momentum.

Or perhaps someone is deeply absorbed in a project when their spouse asks an ordinary question. The response is irritation because disengaging from the activity requires considerable mental effort. From the spouse's perspective, the person is being rude. From the perspective of executive functioning, the transition is genuinely difficult. Both things can be true, and the irritated response may still require an apology.

One practical intervention is to develop a transition signal. Instead of expecting immediate attention, a partner might say, "I'd like to talk in about five minutes." The person with ADHD agrees to disengage and follows through. A marriage shouldn't require an air-traffic controller, but a little advance signaling can be surprisingly useful.

The Paradox of Structure and Freedom

Many people with ADHD depend heavily on structure. Predictable schedules, familiar environments, and established routines can compensate for difficulties with planning, memory, and self-regulation. Then something changes. A spouse travels, a work schedule shifts, an appointment gets canceled, or someone moves into a different living arrangement. Suddenly, the systems that supported everyday functioning no longer work.

The resulting anxiety may seem disproportionate until we understand that the person hasn't merely lost a routine. They've lost part of the external structure that helped them function.

I've encountered this in forensic treatment, including work involving less restrictive alternatives, or LRAs, where individuals may move from highly structured environments into settings requiring greater independence. A person may genuinely want more freedom while becoming anxious about the loss of external support. Freedom increases choices, but choices require planning, judgment, time management, and impulse control. Independence can become frightening when the abilities needed to manage it are inconsistent.

The clinical question isn't simply whether someone wants independence. It's whether the environment provides sufficient support for independence to succeed.

This also changes how I think about masking. Some clients have spent years trying to look organized, attentive, and socially comfortable while privately struggling to maintain that appearance. Therapy shouldn't become another place where they're expected to perform normality. If movement helps someone concentrate, perhaps we can walk during a session. If written homework repeatedly disappears, perhaps we need a different way to practice skills. The objective is effective functioning, not the appearance of effective functioning.

This is where the fence becomes particularly useful. Good structure doesn't necessarily diminish freedom. Sometimes it creates the conditions in which freedom becomes possible.

Building a Fence With a Gate

Suppose someone repeatedly makes impulsive purchases online. They understand the consequences, have promised themselves to stop, and can explain with impressive psychological sophistication why buying another expensive gadget isn't a good idea. Then they discover an interesting new gadget, and suddenly the problem is no longer theoretical.

Traditional advice might emphasize self-control. Resist the urge. Think about the consequences. Remember your goals. Those are reasonable suggestions, but they assume the person can reliably access deliberate judgment at the moment of temptation.

Building a fence means changing what happens before that moment arrives. Perhaps credit-card information is removed from shopping websites. Purchases above an agreed amount require a waiting period. Shopping notifications are disabled, and a separate account provides money for spontaneous purchases without threatening essential expenses. The fence doesn't eliminate choice. It creates enough distance between impulse and action for choice to become possible.

This is also where Cognitive Behavioral Therapy becomes useful. CBT helps us examine the reciprocal relationship between thoughts, emotions, and behavior. Someone encounters an uncomfortable task, thinks, I'll never get this done, becomes overwhelmed, and avoids beginning. The avoidance provides immediate relief, but the unfinished task becomes more threatening. Eventually, the person has even more evidence for the belief that they can't manage their responsibilities.

Treatment involves interrupting that cycle. We identify the situation, examine the automatic thoughts, consider the emotional response, and recognize what the behavior accomplishes in the short term. Then we generate alternatives, anticipate their consequences, choose a manageable response, and evaluate what happens. Rather than repeating the same unsuccessful effort, we engage in structured problem-solving.

Acceptance and Commitment Therapy adds another dimension and works hand-in-hand with CBT. A person doesn't necessarily need to feel motivated, confident, or enthusiastic before taking a meaningful action. They can recognize discomfort, make room for it, and take a small step toward something they value. The objective isn't to win an argument with the mind. It's to become more capable of acting while the mind continues offering its opinions.

In my forensic work, these principles also have implications for managing behaviors that could harm others. A self-management plan cannot consist entirely of promises to make better decisions. It needs practical boundaries, accountability, and safeguards appropriate to the individual's assessed risk. ADHD doesn't excuse harmful behavior, nor does ADHD itself establish dangerousness. But when executive functioning difficulties are relevant, treatment must account for them.

And a good fence has a gate. The objective isn't restriction for its own sake. It's developing reliable habits, demonstrating responsibility, and increasing independence where appropriate.

Therapy as an Experiment

There is another treatment idea I particularly enjoy because it sounds almost too simple to be useful: make transitions interesting. A brief walk, a favorite song, a change of location, or a small ritual can provide a bridge between activities. Someone might even create a jar containing short transition activities: walk around the block, play one song on the guitar, spend ten minutes outdoors, or complete a small household task. Selecting an activity introduces novelty while reducing the burden of deciding what to do next.

Naturally, the activity shouldn't be so fascinating that the person disappears into another three-hour project. The purpose is to create movement, not establish a second residence in the transition.

Psychological strategies matter, but ADHD also has biological dimensions. For many people, stimulant or nonstimulant medications can be important components of treatment, following appropriate medical evaluation. Sleep disorders, anxiety, depression, chronic pain, and other conditions may also complicate attention and self-regulation. Sometimes someone who appears unmotivated is exhausted, and sometimes the apparent resistance to treatment reflects a problem we haven't adequately identified.

There is growing scientific interest in medications affecting reward-related processes, including GLP-1 medications such as semaglutide. Their potential effects on certain addictive behaviors are being investigated, but they are not established treatments for ADHD. We should distinguish interesting scientific possibilities from treatments supported by sufficient clinical evidence.

What matters most to me is that treatment becomes a collaborative experiment rather than another opportunity for correction. We identify a recurring difficulty, examine what happens before and after it, consider the biological, psychological, relational, and environmental influences, and develop something worth trying. If it works, wonderful. If it doesn't, we've learned something.

I also want therapy to include successes, not merely problems. People who have spent years being corrected often become experts at identifying everything they've done wrong. Remembering an appointment, pausing before interrupting, repairing a disagreement, or successfully using a transition strategy may seem like small accomplishments. But in everyday life, these are often the things that matter most.

A Fence With a View

I began with a curious dog and a backyard fence. I suppose I should return to him before he escapes into another essay.

The point of the fence was never to eliminate his curiosity. It was to create a place where curiosity could exist without constantly producing trouble. That's increasingly how I think about ADHD treatment. We aren't trying to eliminate enthusiasm, spontaneity, or the pleasure of discovering something interesting. Nor are we suggesting that every characteristic associated with ADHD is secretly a wonderful gift. Some difficulties are genuinely painful, and their consequences can be substantial.

We're trying to understand the relationship between a person's capacities, vulnerabilities, environment, and choices. That understanding allows us to build structures that support responsibility rather than simply demand it.

Perhaps the deeper paradox is that structure can actually increase freedom. When someone no longer spends so much energy recovering from forgotten obligations, impulsive decisions, and unnecessary conflicts, more of life becomes available for the things that matter.

And perhaps that's what good therapy is supposed to accomplish. Not turning someone into a different person, but helping them become more capable of living as the person they intend to be.

Now, about that dog. He's discovered that the fence has a gate, and he's standing beside it, tail wagging, wondering whether we might go somewhere interesting.

I think we should. Just bring a leash.

© 2026 Thomas Kurtz. All rights reserved.

Published by Thomas Kurtz Counseling, LLC.