The Hidden Patterns of RSD No One Understands

I didn’t set out to define the phases of an RSD episode. I wanted to understand my own experience—one that, for most of my life, seemed like normal emotions. It wasn’t until daily stress set in that they were too painful to throw off or reframe. The overwhelming discomfort from rejection and criticism always had a clear source and I could sense there was a pattern. What I ultimately created was not just a model but a way for people like me to grasp what’s happening in the moment of RSD, find ways to navigate through it, and recognize the deeper patterns it etched inside over a lifetime.

Before it occurred to me that mapping the RSD process would help, I had to realize that what felt normal growing up with my family wasn’t universal–and was far more complex than I thought.

RSD Teaches Us to Question Our Own Reality
Before my ADHD diagnosis, I wanted help to learn how to accept the things that didn’t feel right in my life. Everything seemed perfect; should have felt perfect, I told myself for years. But it wasn’t, and deep down, I knew it. A life with hidden RSD teaches us to question our own reality–especially when trusting ourselves means risking the loss of those who seemed perfect but were actually never a good fit.

My therapist at the time gently suggested weekly that acceptance of a bad fit is unhealthy. It leads to internal stress and can lead to external stress. It made sense, but my goal was learning to accept my perfect life. “It can lead to anger…and if it does, try holding onto it, so we can talk about it in our next session.” I remember staring, floored. Hold onto anger?

I could see how what I was experiencing could look like anger—but it wasn’t. And yet, I couldn’t explain how it wasn’t.

Part of me decided I didn’t understand emotions, so maybe it was anger. But how was I to “hold on to” these reactions? At this time in my life, there were so many intensely consuming, short-lived reactions every day—maybe dozens each week—by the time of my next session, I had already forgotten most and struggled to explain to the rest.

An image of a broken rope bridge came to mind on my drive home.
I saw myself frozen on one side of the bridge and my next session on the other side. The broken rope would only support me for a few steps on either side…and then the same on the other side—where in theory I would bring the week’s frustrations.

I’ve since learned that my therapist didn’t have ADHD-training and had a traditional view of how emotions should work. They thought any mood shifts would be persistent for weeks or months at a time.

I didn’t fit the criteria.  My “moods” didn’t gradually shift into a mood disorder like depression, anxiety, bipolar or borderline. They flashed instantly in response to rejection and feeling devalued. And faded as soon as my fight-or-flight response subsided—once my body’s chemistry rebalanced.

This wasn’t about working through the issue; it was my nervous system standing down after a threat to my relationships and sense of belonging. The fear of losing connections I valued wasn’t imagined or exaggerated—but anyone without this context was unaware of the internal distress.

At the time, I didn’t have the language to explain it—I only knew these reactions came on suddenly and left just as quickly— leaving me doubting myself.

I was too exhausted and too overwhelmed to make it across a broken bridge to the next session. By the time I reached the next session, most events were long gone, covered up by new ones. I drew this feeling out in my sketchbook—trying to capture the isolating feeling that I needed to get across but not having enough strength or support to do so.

Then I made a connection: the bridge’s slats represented my support systems. Friends, family, and groups like Seattle CHADD and Unpacking ADHD provided the support that helped me make it across.

Long after my ADHD diagnosis, RSD remained difficult to explain. I could feel it and see it across my lifetime—how it hit suddenly, how it passed quickly—but I struggled to define it in a way that could help me, or others manage it. The way it was described in ADHD literature focused on our observed behavior, not what was driving the behavior.

By instinct it needed to be broken down like any complex system I’ve encountered as a tech industry process architect and change management consultant, but this was personal–and difficult.

I tried different shapes to find one that matched the flow of an RSD episode.
– A wave shows impact but is predictable.
– A triangle, multi-sided, but too balanced, with each side providing the other strength.
– A circle, too complete–no sudden start or stop.
– A stack diagram starts from the bottom up without showing an impact.
– Arrows in a line, in a circle… too organized.

None of the standard process models fit.

In a completely unrelated moment—searching for stock photos for another project—I saw an image of a water drop hitting a still surface. This was it. Trigger, Impact, Breaking Point, Reaction, Escape, Reflection and Fade.

An RSD episode isn’t just one reaction: it’s a series. The initial hit is intense, pulling everything inward, but the effects radiate outward, overlapping with other moments of distress. The metaphor worked not just for individual episodes but for the frequency of them—hundreds of drops throughout the day, rippling into each other like a rainstorm on a pond.

And like water, eventually, things do settle—but only if we understand what’s happening and how to ride it out.

Mapping the Phases of an RSD Episode
The waterdrop fit, I returned to my process-mapping instincts. I began to document each moment of an episode, not just as an observer but re-living frame by frame my most difficult episodes to feel what my body felt in real-time.

What I ended up with was a breakdown of phases—distinct yet fluid states that RSD moves through.

1. The Trigger – Always present with RSD, though not always visible to others. It’s the sharp impact of rejection, criticism, or exclusion.
2. The Impact – A sudden drop, disconnecting you from your surroundings. Time slows, and the pain is immediate and overwhelming.
3. The Breaking Point – The moment of trying (and often failing) to explain what just happened, feeling unable to express the distress.
4. The Reaction – Fight, flight, or freeze. How the trigger is handled—whether dismissed, validated, or ignored—shapes this phase.
5. The Escape Phase – Leaving, avoiding, or retreating inward, cycling through blame or self-doubt.
6. The Reflection Phase – Ruminating on what happened, often with harsh self-judgment, trying to make sense of the pain and our reaction.
7. The Fade Phase – The lingering aftermath, where the emotional weight slowly dissipates, but the vulnerability remains etched inside.

Since developing this framework, I’ve shared it publicly—including in discussions with Dr. Dodson—and received consistent validation that it captures the RSD experience in a way that resonates deeply. It wasn’t built from existing research or published works. It came from lived experience, deep examination, and a relentless need to make sense of something that had, for so long, felt indescribable.

Building the Bridge, Calming the Water
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this process, it’s that understanding brings power. Before I had the language for RSD, I was trapped in the experience, with no predictable way to steady myself. Feeling gaslit by others and gaslighting myself. Once I could see the phases, I could start to anticipate them—and find ways to lessen the intensity, shorten the episode, or even prevent it from taking hold.

And perhaps most importantly, I found my bridge slats to get across to the other side—the people and communities that have been there and continue to be.

For anyone still struggling to make sense of their RSD episodes, I hope this framework offers a starting point. Not a cure, not an instant fix, but a map—a way to recognize what’s happening so you can decide where to go next.

💬 Does this framework resonate with you? Have you experienced RSD in similar ways? I’d love to hear your thoughts—share what helps you navigate these episodes. If you’re looking for support, communities like Seattle CHADD and Unpacking ADHD offer spaces where you don’t have to cross the bridge alone.

🖼️ P.S. If you’re curious, my original art piece, When the Ropes Break, was inspired by this journey—reminding me that while inner strength matters, it’s the slats of connection that truly help us get across.