Before the formal application process begins, before the dense paperwork is downloaded, and long before you ever face the Carousel Conversations or diocesan panels, there is a much smaller, quieter threshold to cross: the Vicar’s Office.

This initial period of pre-formal discernment—the quiet, foundational work you do with your local minister—is absolutely crucial. It sets the trajectory for everything that follows. But for me, the doorway to that office was firmly blocked, not by a lack of faith, but by my own neurodivergent brain.

Looking back now, having come to understand how my ADHD operates, I realise the long delay in taking that first step wasn’t a spiritual issue at all. I wasn't wrestling with God or doubting the theology of calling. I was experiencing executive dysfunction and decision paralysis at its absolute finest.

The Call, Blocked by My Own Mind

For months, the internal promptings had been growing louder. I felt that God wasn’t just speaking to me gently in Sunday sermons or during midweek Bible study groups—He was prodding, nudging, and eventually shouting. It built and built over time until I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I needed to speak with my rector and my wife about what I was experiencing.

The problem? My mind was too perpetually busy to execute the simple physical choice to speak.

ADHD paralysis is a strange and isolating experience. Sometimes, I can just sit completely mute, looking entirely calm on the outside, while on the inside my mind is racing at a hundred miles an hour. It takes its time trying to process what should be simple instructions. The internal friction is so high that the momentum required to break that physical silence, to form the words and initiate the conversation, felt utterly insurmountable. The spiritual clarity was there; the neurological mechanism to act on it was jammed.

Then came the moment of clarity in a Bible study group. It was another proverbial “smack around the head” from the Holy Spirit, and suddenly the fog parted just enough for the directive to become clear: I need to speak to them now. Today.

The Spousal Push

The dam finally broke on the car journey home. Vicky turned to me and shared that she felt she was being called to something, though she wasn’t entirely sure what it was yet.

This was the opening I desperately needed. The topic of calling was suddenly in the air, and I didn't have to initiate it from a standing start. I confessed to Vicky that for months I’d felt a very clear, undeniable call to ordained ministry. It was a profound admission, especially considering it was a call I hadn’t felt for around twenty years. It is incredibly true what they say in church circles: once God has you, He has you forever, even if the calling lies dormant for two decades.

Vicky, initially surprised but immediately resolute, agreed with what I was saying and did exactly what my ADHD brain required: she pushed me to speak to our rector immediately. She didn't let me defer it to next week or wait for the "perfect time."

Neurodivergent Tip: This was the exact push I needed. Without it, I could have easily sat on those thoughts for another few weeks, waiting for my brain to process the commitment and generate the dopamine required to act. Instead, Vicky made the choice for me. She delivered the permission to act. Sometimes, your best support network acts as your external Executive Function. When your brain cannot initiate the task, let the people who love you press the start button.

The Fear of First Contact

When I finally reached out to my rector to ask for a meeting, I was braced for resistance. I fully expected a soft-pedalled response—a gentle, “Oh, maybe let's wait a bit,” or “Why don't we try doing this minor lay role first and see how you feel?”

Instead, when I walked into the office and laid it all out, I received a thoroughly warm, validating greeting for the call. We sat and spoke for two solid hours about how I felt the call was taking shape. I explained my clear sense that this was toward ordained ministry, rather than as a Reader or another lay pathway.

It was an undeniably scary conversation, making something so internal finally public, but good ministers have a unique way of calming the waves. Our rector was as supportive as anyone could possibly be. Rather than just handing me a stack of books to read, he immediately moved to practical theology, organising for me to do a little bit of service leading, and eventually preparing to write and deliver sermons.

Stepping up to the front—to lead, to educate, and to be at one with the community in the liturgy—was the practical experience that ultimately cemented my calling. It took it from an abstract thought in my head and turned it into a lived reality.

Setting the Stage for Accessibility

Crucially, because I had been open in the past, my minister already knew I had dyslexia. We didn't have to have an awkward conversation about it; we were able to address it right then and there as we planned my involvement in the services.

We arranged for our service booklet to be printed specifically on green paper for me, which significantly reduces the visual stress and ghosting that my dyslexic brain struggles with on bright white paper. We also tweaked the font size and style on my copies to ensure the text was as readable as possible.

These are seemingly small administrative things, but they made a massive, tangible difference to my ability to lead worship without spiralling into a panic.

Yes, during almost all of my leading, I have stumbled over words. I have gotten flustered. I have even lost my place and completely forgotten a part of the service. But when it happens, you just take a breath and move on. What I have learned is that my congregation accepts me, neurodivergent flaws and all. They are there for the worship, the community, and the message. I shouldn’t have spent so much time terrified that they would judge me if I stumbled over a complex biblical name or lost my place on the page.

The lesson here is vital for anyone stepping into this process:
Be entirely honest about your needs, your neurodivergence, and your struggles from the very beginning. It sets the tone for your entire journey, allowing you to serve not in spite of how your brain works, but in harmony with it.