Hello! I’m Derrick—a fellow ADHD creative.

As a professional writer, I’ve crafted content for media outlets, magazines, gaming studios, tech firms, government departments, and even defense contractors. These were often dynamic, high-stakes environments and my skills were constantly put to the test.

I did well. But it was rarely easy.

I worked hard—harder than most—but without putting in extra hours, I could barely keep up. The blank page was both thrilling and terrifying: some days it sparked momentum, other days a seemingly unscalable cliff.

On the best days, I’d tell myself “I got lucky.”

On the worst day, I’d tell myself “they’re going to figure out I don’t belong.”

Freelancing and personal projects were even harder. Without structure, ideas piled up, but rarely crossed the finish line. The novelty wore off, and overwhelm crept in.

Over time, anxiety grew—especially as tasks piled on and projects stacked up behind me.

I was diagnosed with ADHD in my mid-30s.

Getting my diagnosis was a turning point. It helped me understand how ADHD shaped my work habits, motivations, and creative cycles. Coaching took that awareness further, giving me tools to work with my brain, not against it.

As a result, I became more successful and efficient. My project completion rate—at work and home—grew, as did my sense of accomplishment, calm, and happiness. This progress fueled my deepening curiosity about productivity, ADHD, and how the brain works.

For creative professionals like us, the struggle is real. We’re constantly caught between the free-flowing artist and the meticulous organizer—how do we nurture both sides without losing our way?

As a journalist, I’ve always been driven by curiosity and the search for truth. I bring those qualities into my coaching, inspiring the same in those I work with.

My coaching approach is rooted in evidence-based techniques from psychology, behavioral science, and neuroscience.

🐒🐟

Why MonkeyFish?

A metaphor for the ADHD mind—adaptable, focused, and hard to pin down.

MonkeyFish represents the dual nature of ADHD: the ability to be both highly adaptable and deeply focused—but not always when we need it. Sometimes, it feels like there’s a treasure just out of reach.

It’s at the bottom of a lake, but you’re in monkey mode—climbing isn’t possible.

It’s at the top of a tree, but you're in fish mode—diving isn’t an option.

You have the ability to reach both, but what should be possible and what is possible doesn’t quite align.

But here’s the good news: We can get that treasure!

With coaching we can navigate the unique terrain of your brain, harnessing your creativity, energy, and resilience to adapt and thrive.

As a coach, I help creative professionals chart a course that works with their mind’s wild, unique, and brilliant terrain—turning creative chaos into clarity and momentum.

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My story.

Once upon a time... I grew up in a small Northern Alberta town for a good chunk of my childhood. It was isolated—not in people, but in services. The town was transient and surrounded by diverse communities, which gave me early and frequent exposure to diverse perspectives, cultures, and taught me the value of working with others. Even then, I often felt like the odd one out. To compensate, I became the organizer, the facilitator—because... ...the only way to be invited was to be the one sending the invites. ...the only way to avoid boredom was to be in control. This belief was reinforced by the fact that I often wasn’t invited to hang out, play, or go to parties—unless I was the one organizing them. I didn’t understand why, and it hurt. But there was also something good in it: I genuinely enjoyed bringing joy to my friends and helping newcomers find connection. Even if I didn’t realize it yet, this was the spark of something deeper—a passion I’d only come to name much later in life.

I went to technical school... In my mid-teens, we moved to the big city. High school was a challenge on its own, but adding the fast pace and sensory overload of city life? For someone prone to distraction like me, it meant stumbling—a lot. Still, I made it through. By graduation, though, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I liked video games and computers… So I enrolled at the DeVry Institute of Technology. By second semester, I was on academic probation. After the third, I dropped out. I understood programming languages, could troubleshoot others’ code, and grasped the logic—but when it came to starting from a blank page? I froze. Even more telling? I didn’t want to start. Because around that same time, something else grabbed my focus: Dungeons & Dragons, and other tabletop RPGs. I ran multiple campaigns, built worlds, wrote story arcs—it combined facilitation with creative writing in a way that lit me up. I worked various jobs after that (including lifeguarding and teaching swim lessons), but in hindsight, these became the gap years I didn’t know I needed.

So, then I went to college… After a few years and a half-dozen jobs, I decided it was time to give post-secondary another go. So, I took out some student loans and enrolled in Lethbridge Community College’s Environmental Conservation Enforcement applied degree program. It seemed perfect. I’d be working outdoors, helping protect wildlife, and getting back some of what I felt I lost when we moved from a small town surrounded by wilderness to the city. But, I only lasted a year. Living in a new city was harder than I expected, and I still wanted to commute home every weekend (a 2+ hour drive) to continue running D&D games — time I should have spent studying. Debt also started to weigh me down. I made store credit card purchases as rewards for doing well in school or simply going to class. Now, I realize I was trying to hold on to something that felt important, but without structures in place, I sank into financial chaos. Eventually, I came home, and the next few years became a blur of different jobs, false career starts, and a lot of questioning. Aside from moving to Edmonton to become an Aquatic Supervisor, the most impactful decision I made during this time was getting rid of my credit cards. Even today, I have one card with strict credit and external limits to help me regulate its use.

Then began the LARP years... Living in Edmonton, Alberta, and working as an Aquatic Supervisor at the YMCA, I was still writing and designing gaming experiences for friends—but my interest in the format was starting to fade. That’s when I walked into my local hobby shop and saw a poster for a Live Action Roleplaying (LARP) event. I’d later learn there were many different types of LARP games, but this poster painted a picture of an experience where we’d physically step into a fantasy world. I’d be out in the woods, wearing a costume, wielding a shield, and swinging foam-padded swords at monsters. I could be the hero! I was instantly hooked. After attending my third event, I decided to start my own game with a few partners. For the next decade, we designed and ran fantasy, contemporary, and sci-fi LARP events for both small groups (10-20 participants) and large ones (100+). In my first year, I quit my job as an Aquatic Supervisor and went full-time as a LARP business owner. We called it a business, though we never really made a living wage—this was pure passion. But it came with a cost. I wrote and released a number of rule books, lore books, and supplementary material for our events, games, and transmedia experiences. This was my first real experience with content cycles, agile frameworks, and multidisciplinary teams. I loved it from start to finish. I became consumed by it, and my relationships outside of LARP suffered. My physical health deteriorated, and I was in a constant state of overwhelm. We poured all our energy into the creative aspects, neglecting the less exciting parts, like community management and business logistics. It would take me years to recover from the burnout of this period (I’m still not 100% certain I have). It was a wild ride. But with the help of a few good friends, I realized it was time for a change. Together, we reflected on what I’d learned and they helped me create a plan for what came next.

With ADHD… I wanted to write. At 35, with the money from selling my part of the company (and some government assistance), I enrolled in MacEwan University’s Journalism program. This time, things were different: I went to class. I studied. I crushed it and graduated with distinction. But more importantly, I proved to myself that I could do it. What made this time different? I watched a video by Jessica McCabe and immediately saw myself in her story. After some reflection and discussions, I booked an appointment with my family doctor and received an ADHD diagnosis. This was a revelation—it was okay to ask for help when I needed it. It also sparked my passion for understanding my brain and, eventually, helping others do the same. I had a partner who helped me with curiosity and empathy. She didn’t tell me “what” to do; instead, she helped me reflect and discover actionable conclusions and weight outcomes. I was authentically interested in wanting to be a better writer. I found joy in writing about certain topics, but often—not always—just the act of writing was enough to keep me focused and engaged. I had proof that I could sustain a path for longer than a few years. My LARP experience had shown me that I could stick with a path, even when it became seemingly impossible and harmful. I never wanted to follow a path to that degree again, but knowing I could really made a difference. I still struggled with staying on task or avoiding procrastination, and I had to adjust some assignments to make them more engaging—like working fun metaphors into academic papers or writing about topics that sparked my interest. Some professors hated the metaphors, calling them “unacademic,” but being marked down a few percent was a heck of a lot better than not completing the assignment at all. After I self-advocated and explained why I did it, many of those professors stopped using it as a reason to reduce my grade. They started to work with me, offering suggestions on how to simplify or improve those metaphors. In my summers, senior year, and after graduation, I quickly found work with magazines and local newspapers. I even won a Canadian Association of Journalism award for investigative journalism. Yup, things were looking up!

What could go wrong… Journalism is a fantastic calling, but it’s also tough—there’s a reason many call it a “calling” rather than a career. The industry is fast-paced, filled with incredible people, but also a constant stress of tight deadlines and low pay. The pressure to produce more stories in less time is relentless, and many journalists feel like they’re always drowning, just at different speeds on different days. The ones who excel are masters of time management. My time in journalism helped me sharpen my executive function skills and build structures to support them, especially in an environment where they’re always needed at full capacity. But what eventually led me to leave journalism wasn’t the deadlines or constant on-the-go pace—those were manageable with the tools I had in place. It was the constant layoffs and shifts in my work environment. Each time my surroundings changed, my structures were either torn down or needed to be reworked. One week, I’d work 14-hour days, and the next I’d be out of work. It was maddening. So, onwards! Maybe?

If words are what matter… I was terrified that Impulse was rearing its ugly head again, but with a little help, I did the work. By the time I left the newsroom, many of my former classmates had already moved into communications or related fields. This shift was so common, it was often referred to as “going to the dark side.” I reached out to these classmates, professors, and even a few old bosses. I had difficult conversations with family and friends, but not one of them said, “Really? Again, Derrick.” Instead, they listened and offered thoughtful advice. Eventually, I made the change and spent some time working on the “dark side,” but what really grabbed my attention were learning and development and technical writing. In those fields, I worked as an editor, lead technical writer, and mentored a small team of writers and instructional designers. It was through this mentoring experience that I was led to ADHD coaching. My passion for helping others like me grew, fueled by a supervisor who supported me fully (she even sent me a remote work ADHD “survival” kit as a gift). It was with her open-mindedness, empathy, and encouragement, coupled with my growing interest that I enrolled in ADDCA’s ADHD coaching program. Before the course finished, however, the company I worked for was hit with massive layoffs. This time, I was ready. My new structures were in place and I adapted quickly. I completed the ADHD coaching program and launched my practice.

Then here we are today… I started out as a generalist ADHD coach, helping clients tackle everything from emotional regulation and rejection sensitivity to executive function challenges. While I continue to support people across a range of issues, my true passion lies in helping creative professionals. I guide them in sustaining motivation, organizing their thoughts, creating structure, and overcoming overwhelm, perfectionism, and anxiety. My experiences shape how I coach (and don't worry, foam-padded swords and dice are optional!). My approach is to create a safe space where we can explore solutions together, using creativity, empathy, and curiosity to find a way forward. I know that was a lot, but if you'd like to dive deeper into any part of my story, don’t hesitate to reach out. If any part of my journey resonates with you or could help in any way, I’m more than happy to share.