When I first stepped into leadership, I was driven by a sense of purpose. I had something to prove, not only to myself but to everyone around me. I was going to be the leader I always wished I’d had. The kind of leader who truly cared for their team, someone who invested in others, supported them, and helped them grow. I envisioned myself as a coach, not a boss—someone who nurtured a collaborative environment and fostered trust.
But reality had other plans. Despite my best intentions, I found myself slipping into the behaviors of the managers I had worked under before. I grew frustrated with my team, and, to my surprise, I raised my voice. I still remember that moment vividly…the feeling of losing control, the look on their faces. That’s when I knew something had to change. I couldn’t be the kind of leader I wanted to be if I couldn’t manage my own emotions.
At the same time, things in my personal life were unraveling. My relationship was strained, and I was asked to attend counseling for anger management. I was confused and frustrated, wondering why I seemed to be struggling with things that came easily to others. What I expected from counseling was a solution for my emotional outbursts, but what I received was something much deeper, an ADHD diagnosis.
Getting the diagnosis felt like a revelation. Suddenly, so many things made sense…my impulsivity, my struggle with focus, the intense emotional swings. I finally had an explanation for why I felt like I was constantly running uphill, while others seemed to be on level ground. But at the same time, I struggled with the label. I had always been able to push through challenges, so why did I need to see myself as “different” now? It was a mix of relief and resistance, and it took time for me to fully embrace what the diagnosis meant for me as a leader.
But the journey didn’t stop there. Fast forward to the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, and my mental health took a serious dip. Like so many others, I was isolated, stressed, and overwhelmed. I was already managing my ADHD, but something still didn’t feel right. It wasn’t just the stress—it was a deeper feeling of disconnect that I couldn’t quite put into words.
It was during one of my conversations with my psychiatrist that autism came up. At first, I fought the diagnosis hard. I didn’t want to believe it. The idea of being autistic felt foreign to me, and I resisted it with everything I had. But, as I started to go down the rabbit hole of research, things began to click in ways I hadn’t expected. The sensory experiences that had been a part of my entire life suddenly had an explanation.
I realized that the discomfort I felt from my socks every single day wasn’t just me being picky. The seam at the front of the toes that I could never ignore, it was a sensory issue! The flicker of the TV or computer screen that had always made it difficult for me to focus for long periods, suddenly, that made sense too. I might be aging myself by admitting this, but those flickering screens always seemed so much more intense to me than they did to others. And the pain I felt when conversations were too loud in the car, that wasn’t just me being overly sensitive. It was real, and it was part of the way my brain processes sensory input.
Accepting my autism diagnosis meant accepting all of these parts of myself that I had either ignored or tried to hide. I had spent so much of my life trying to fit into a neurotypical world that I hadn’t allowed myself to acknowledge what was really happening. Even today, I still struggle with timing in conversations. I either can’t seem to get a word in and end up feeling frustrated, or I talk over someone by accident, which upsets them. It’s an ongoing challenge, but at least now I understand why it happens.
Coming to terms with both ADHD and autism has been a journey of self-discovery and acceptance. But it’s also been a journey of transformation in my leadership. With these diagnoses, I began to understand how my brain works and how I could tailor my leadership approach to fit who I am, not who I thought I needed to be. I started using tools that worked for me like: reminders, schedules, strategies to manage sensory overload. I found ways to pause and think before reacting in moments of frustration.
More importantly, I began to show myself the same care and compassion that I wanted to extend to my team. I had to recognize that being neurodivergent didn’t mean I was broken or that I couldn’t be a leader. It simply meant that I needed to lead in a way that aligned with my strengths, rather than constantly trying to compensate for my perceived weaknesses.
As I settled into this new understanding of myself, I also began to notice how many others around me were struggling in similar ways, feeling misunderstood, overwhelmed, or unsupported. This realization was the turning point that led me to become an advocate for neuroinclusion in the veterinary profession. I knew that if I, as a leader, could feel so isolated and frustrated by my neurodivergence, then others on my team or in the wider industry were likely feeling the same.
Now, I see it as my mission to create spaces where neurodivergent professionals can thrive without feeling the need to mask or hide who they are. Neuroinclusion, to me, is about recognizing that different ways of thinking bring immense value to a team. It’s about creating work environments where sensory needs are respected, communication styles are understood, and no one has to feel like they’re fighting an uphill battle just to fit in.
In my own veterinary practice, I’ve worked to implement these changes, whether it’s adjusting the physical workspace to minimize sensory overload or encouraging open conversations about neurodiversity. I’ve seen firsthand how embracing neuroinclusion not only improves the well-being of neurodivergent professionals but also enriches the practice as a whole. We become more adaptable, more compassionate, and more innovative when we make room for diverse perspectives.
Looking back, I realize that my journey through leadership has been anything but conventional. I started with a desire to be the leader I never had, and in the process, I discovered that being a good leader isn’t about fitting into a mold. It’s about embracing your unique strengths, acknowledging your challenges, and leading with authenticity. My ADHD and autism diagnoses didn’t hinder my ability to lead; they redefined it, showing me that leadership is as much about self-awareness as it is about guiding others.
Today, I stand as both a leader and an advocate, committed to making the veterinary profession a place where neurodivergent individuals can flourish. It’s a journey I’m still on, and one I’m proud to share with others. Because at the end of the day, we don’t need to change who we are to be great leaders, we just need to lead in a way that honors who we truly are.
Ronald Sosa
Ron is a Certified Veterinary Practice Manager and a former practice owner and business director for multisite animal hospitals. He also holds certificates in fear-free, compassion fatigue, veterinary business leadership, and the human-animal bond. He currently serves as the Executive Director for the Uncharted Veterinary Conference.
You can read more about Ron on his LinkedIn profile and his work at Synaptic Neuro-inclusive Leadership.