I came to watercolour sideways. I was looking for something fast, portable, minimal. What I found was the exact opposite: a medium that insists you slow down, pay attention, and accept what you cannot fully control.
For someone with ADHD, this is both torture and therapy.
Watercolour won't be rushed. Apply colour too quickly, and it pools. Layer before the previous wash dries, and you get mud. Try to fix a mistake, and you often make it worse. The medium has rules—not rigid ones, but principles that reward patience and punish impatience.
In the beginning, I fought it. I wanted immediate results. I wanted to plan everything, control everything, fix everything. But watercolour doesn't work that way. It teaches through failure. Through happy accidents. Through the gap between intention and outcome.
Slowly, I began to see the gift in this. Every painting became a practice in letting go. In working with what emerges rather than forcing what I planned. In staying present rather than racing ahead to the finished piece.
The ADHD brain craves novelty and dopamine. Watercolour offers something different: the quiet satisfaction of watching colour bloom on wet paper. The meditative rhythm of loading the brush. The gentle surprise of what happens when pigment meets water.
I still struggle. There are days when my brain wants fifteen projects at once, when sitting still feels impossible. But watercolour has taught me that creativity doesn't always have to be fast or loud or productive. Sometimes it's about showing up, mixing paint, and making one careful mark.
For other neurodivergent artists: find the medium that matches your nervous system, not the one you think you should use. For me, watercolour's unpredictability became a mirror for my own brain—chaotic, surprising, and ultimately, more beautiful for its imperfections.