ADHD Escape Room Overhaul

ADHD Escape Room Overhaul – Reflection Transcript

So, I've decided to start keeping a reflection journal about my work on the ADHD escape room project.

This all started around Christmas. The idea was to use our immersive suites—especially the four-wall pod at the bottom of the tower block—to create an innovative and emotionally engaging way to train staff on the lived experiences of people with ADHD. The goal was for staff to develop a deeper understanding, so they could build their own strategies for supporting students and colleagues with ADHD.

For the past three months, I've been working nights and weekends producing a series of videos. They cover not just the clinical symptoms of ADHD, but the lived experience—things like hyperfixation, emotional dysregulation, impulsivity, masking, and rejection sensitive dysphoria. I also explain the diagnostic process and various treatments, from medication to cognitive behavioral therapy to the role of physical health.

This isn't soft training. I didn't want to sugarcoat the reality of ADHD. I've included personal experiences—substance and alcohol abuse, eating disorders, suicidal ideation, low self-esteem, challenges in relationships, professional struggles—because it's important to show what it really feels like. I created simulations designed to immerse participants in that reality.

The structure was designed to create what I call a "tripping point"—a moment of emotional resonance that prompts participants to want answers. From there, they're encouraged to create their own strategies, making the learning more meaningful and lasting. I deliberately avoided the "Here's the problem; here's the solution" approach. That method lacks depth and ownership.

After putting in all this work, I realized I had no idea what the staff already knew about ADHD. So, I tried to distribute a questionnaire, but it was ignored. When I followed up, I was told it raised concerns because it might collect data that didn't align with the college's broader goals. That was frustrating.

To address it, I invited the principal and vice principal into the immersive room and presented my rationale. But it became clear they hadn't read it. Their questions showed a lack of understanding, and one comment particularly stuck with me: the principal pointed to a wall display showing common misconceptions about ADHD—including one that said, "What's to stop people from faking it?"—and asked that exact question. It was disheartening.

They wanted balance. They asked about presenting ADHD as a superpower. I resisted that framing because I think it oversimplifies and dismisses the real challenges people face. Yes, ADHD has strengths, but without support, those strengths can't flourish. I explained that.

They also pushed for a more traditional structure: present a little bit of a problem, then immediately offer a solution. That completely undermines the point of the "tripping point." I'm not changing that. This is my hill to die on. Without me, this hill wouldn't even exist.

However, I do recognize a legitimate issue: the participants didn't know how to engage with the escape room. That might be a flaw in my design. So, I'm now leaning into a more narrative, story-based approach—think Mission Impossible meets conspiracy theory.

The new concept involves discovering a hidden office that belonged to a fictional former staff member, Holbrook, who was fired for trying to make ADHD training real. This becomes the trigger moment: participants uncover his documents, videos, and notes, and slowly realize the people they were supposed to "stop" are actually the ones who need support. It's a metaphor: the "disruptors" are neurodivergent individuals struggling to survive in a neurotypical world.

From there, the goal is to guide participants toward co-creating strategies—not ones handed to them, but ones they feel ownership over. This reframing allows me to present the same emotionally impactful content while creating a more engaging and exploratory experience.

But I'm still battling doubt. Not just from others, but internally. I feel unheard, unseen, unappreciated. It's exhausting putting so much into something only to be dismissed or misunderstood. It's making me question whether I want to continue as immersive lead, or even as a professional learning coach.

Every time I propose an idea, it seems to fall on deaf ears. And I'm left wondering—what's the point of having this role if no one listens? Part of me wants to withdraw. But another part says, if I still have a hand on the wheel, I can still steer, even if just a little.

I know now that presenting preconceptions about ADHD might have primed defensiveness. I unintentionally triggered cognitive dissonance—people saw their own biases reflected on the walls and shut down. I should have anticipated that. It may have backfired and made it harder to get my message across.

Still, I'm not giving up. I've drafted a second rationale to explain the updated concept—less confrontational, more narrative-driven, more playful. I'll need to sit down and walk leadership through it, because just showing them the space wasn't enough.

Interestingly, a colleague mentioned that my data request might have made leadership uncomfortable because it revealed internal shortcomings: if staff don't know how to support neurodivergent learners, that suggests a need for training—which conflicts with the institution's desire to present itself as a center of excellence. Acknowledging that many of our learners are neurodivergent may challenge the image we want to project.

In the end, I'm still pushing forward. I've got a plot line, I'm developing materials, and I'm trying to keep the emotional core intact while adding more game elements. It's not perfect, and I'm not sure how to implement all of it yet—but I'm reinvigorated. The structure stays. The impact matters.

And if they don't want to help me build the hill, fine. I'll build a fortress.