Offside and Overstimulated

  Being a rugby coach is a strange mix of hype speeches, clipboards, and wondering if your players actually understood what you just said about ruck technique. Add ADHD into the mix, and suddenly feedback- whether from players, parents, or other coaches can feel like a surprise tackle you weren’t braced for. And if you’re familiar with Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD), you know that sometimes even the gentlest “Hey, maybe try this next time” can feel like your entire existence has been red-carded. So let’s talk about it. What RSD Feels Like in Coaching RSD isn’t just “taking things personally.” It’s your nervous system going into full meltdown over a comment that wasn’t even meant harshly. It can feel like: • A sudden drop in your stomach when someone points out a mistake. • That hot, flushed embarrassment that makes you want to vanish into the nearest changing room. • A spiral of overthinking:  Do they hate me? Should I even be coaching? Maybe I’ll just become ...

 Being a coach is never just about rugby. Yes, you run training sessions, pick teams, and shout “LINE SPEED!” until you’re hoarse - but behind the scenes? There’s a mental to-do list longer than a lineout gone wrong. And when you’ve already got a brain that’s doing laps of its own thanks to ADHD (or just, you know, life), that mental load can feel like carrying a full kit bag up three flights of stairs: possible, but sweaty and undignified. The “Coach Brain” To-Do List Here are just a few of the things bouncing around my head on any given day: • Who’s injured? Who’s ghosting training? Who’s secretly playing netball on the side? • Did I submit the team sheet? (No.) • Did I pack the cones? (Also no.) • How do I make training fun, but also effective, but also not chaos? • Remember to check in with the player who looked quiet last week. • Oh, and don’t forget the fundraiser. Or the kit order. Or the fact you have an actual life outside rugby (allegedly). It’s li...

The new rugby season is looming, and I’m armed with a notebook, a dozen colour-coded pens, and the unwavering belief that this year I’ll finally get organised. (Spoiler: I won’t.)  Being a rugby coach with ADHD means that “season planning” is a unique cocktail of ambition, chaos, and creativity. And some stress for equal measure.  I start with the best intentions. I make spreadsheets. I schedule training themes. I map out fixture lists. I even attempt various calendars. But soon enough the wheels inevitably wobble. I forget to email the pitch coordinator, lose track of which session we’re on, and have to dig muddy balls and bins out of my car boot because I forgot to wash them- again. Yet somehow, it works. ADHD has a way of turning planning into a contact sport. My brain thrives on urgency, so those last-minute changes? I excel at them. (Get it, a spreadsheet pun!) A fixture gets cancelled? No problem. We’re running ann extra training session or an social instead. Half ...

  How I accidentally swapped boots for a whistle (and sometimes forgot both) ⸻ If you’d told younger me that I’d be coaching women’s rugby, I would’ve laughed, probably spilled my drink, and said something along the lines of:  “Me? The one who still forgets which way we’re playing until half-time?” And yet, here I am. Whistle in hand, clipboard somewhere at the bottom of my kit bag, and surrounded by the most brilliant, chaotic, determined group of women you’ll ever meet. ⸻ 🏉  Still Playing, Still Coaching, Wondering Why I Do Both I started coaching while I was still playing. Some might call that dedication. Others might call it questionable time management. Both are correct. Playing gave me the adrenaline- the tackles, the mud, the sheer joy of crashing over the try line. But coaching? Coaching gave me something else entirely. It was a chance to see the game from a different angle, to step back slightly and help other women fall in love with rugby the way I did. And so ...