How NorthShore Helped One Man Find Validation, Healing, and Himself

NorthShore Care Supply July 13, 2026

Smiling man in a light blue button-down shirt leans on a kitchen island with folded hands in a modern home, looking directly at the camera.

Ian W shares his story

Key Takeaways

Living for years in the gray area between "fine" and "something's wrong" can be its own kind of prison — and Ian's story shows how interconnected anxiety, ADHD, OCD, and pelvic floor dysfunction can manifest as incontinence that goes undiagnosed for decades.
A single moment of being truly heard, by a doctor who finally listened, by NorthShore, the first place that finally understood, can be the turning point that unravels years of shame and self-doubt.
Choosing adult diapers wasn't a defeat for Ian; with NorthShore by his side, it became an act of self-love and the first step toward asking for help, building a support team, and finally feeling like himself.

When I look back on my life, hoping to reflect or simply reminisce, I often find myself slipping right back into that awful, lonely space — that cusp, that margin — that always trapped me on the edge of everything being "bad," but "not bad enough." "Worrisome," but not "alarming." "Impeding," but not quite "crippling." Conversations, diagnoses, help, or care tended to stop right there. Instead, everything was dismissed with a falsely comforting, "You have nothing to worry about," leaving me feeling brushed off, ridiculous, and still with everything to worry about.

I remember these edges as far back as my earliest memories. It's hard to fathom how much of my life I've spent held in that strange middle ground — a place that kept me cautiously inward, struggling silently, and made me feel both unworthy and shameful for wanting help. When a parent or doctor asked if I "wanted" or "needed" help, I could never answer. The world seemed to operate only in black and white, while I was living — lost — in the gray.
Those "in-betweens" eventually formed their own kind of prison. My barriers — my anxiety, depression, ADHD (with autistic traits), OCD, sensory issues, intrusive thoughts, maladaptive daydreams, and, not least, my bathroom struggles — are my oldest companions. But according to everyone I relied on, I was fine - I wasn't "sick" so that meant I was "healthy," right?
When your symptoms are deemed "bad" but not "bad enough," you end up living a life stuck somewhere in-between.

I'd never forgive myself for complaining about my childhood — I was very privileged and I acknowledge that. From the start, I was a happy little kid with a wild imagination. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary — just some extra grace during potty training, the occasional accidents, and a bedwetting phase that ended around first or second grade. But I remember anxiety showing up early. Even my first memory of it, the butterfly stomach, the homesick lump in my throat, the constant sense of dread already felt too familiar at the time. On top of everything, I somehow knew I was different - and other kids seemed to know it too.

Without knowing better, I grew up thinking that occasional accidents and damp underwear were normal for boys. Still, I knew to hide it. My mom was patient and not an alarmist, which I appreciated, but when I brought her my worries, she'd say, "Don't worry, you're fine." So, I didn't — until my anxious brain got older and the wiring tangled further. ADHD and OCD kicked in, and school became harder. "Peein' Ian," coined by my family, is what everyone called me in hopes of making light of the elephant in the room.

In school — or anywhere social — I was anxious, restless, and full of intrusive thoughts that led to outbursts. I became the class clown — not because I wanted to misbehave, but because disrupting class stopped the noise in my head, if only for a moment. It wasn't fair to my classmates, to the teacher, or to anyone, but I couldn't help it. I was really struggling.

When I wasn't being a pain to every teacher I had, I was involuntarily swept away by vivid maladaptive daydreams that pulled me out of my body completely. These trances were so intense that sometimes, when I came back to reality, I'd realize my underwear was wet or…worse. I'd have to frantically throw them away before anyone noticed. With this, the anxiety built, and so did the symptoms.

Then came a new problem: discomfort with the toilet itself. My ADHD made it hard to pause and use the bathroom, and when I did, my focus scattered. I'd bring toys or books to stay seated, but that created more rituals and indecision. Soon, I started cleaning the toilet obsessively before I could sit down, and public restrooms became unbearable. This was the first major overlap of my ADHD, OCD, and sensory issues.

Any time I spoke up — "I always have to go," "I feel scared," "I feel uncomfortable" — I heard the same warm but hollow reply: "You don't have anything to worry about." Doctors said the same. This was mainly because from an early age, I masked in front of adults, presenting as the model kid out of self-defense. When talking with an adult (one-on-one) I always assumed I was on trial or in trouble, triggering survival mode.

So, I started faking 'sick,' refusing invitations, and lying about why. "I don't like them," "That's for losers," or "I just don't want to." It made me look defiant, when really, I was terrified. My mom and I fought constantly. This led to my first panic attack in fourth grade at a lacrosse tryout — what was initially thought to be asthma or being 'out of shape.' Later that same day, my dad told me to "toughen up." Nothing makes a young boy feel weaker than being told to toughen up.

By puberty, I fully retreated inward. In high school, when my mom gently asked what was going on, I snapped and shut down completely. She offered help, and I refused it. Help was never mentioned again.

In college, I became the drunken clown. The guy who wet the bed after drinking, or his pants in a cab, and everyone laughed it off. Even asking roommates to leave the room so I could perform my bathroom rituals became part of the joke. But eventually, the laughter stopped working. My anxiety and panic attacks took full control around age twenty, creating a cycle of anxiety, hyper-focus, burnout, shame, and depression — all revolving around my bathroom issues.

Travel was especially hard. During one flight, I lost my aisle seat and ended up by the window — my worst nightmare. I was already exhausted and overstimulated, so I made the people sitting next to me get up continuously to let me use the restroom. The man next to me began to make side remarks after the third time. Terrified of bothering the passengers beside me again, I held it too long. The panic attack that followed was total: dry mouth, numb limbs, a chest that felt like it was collapsing. When the seatbelt sign came on, I lost control completely. I covered my wet lap with my sweatshirt and squeezed my eyes shut until landing, holding back tears for what felt like an eternity. Afterward, I cleaned up as best I could in the airport bathroom and swore off flying. I canceled everything.

Months later, for my brother's wedding, I had no choice but to fly again. And that's when my first turning point came. Out of sheer survival instinct, I bought adult diapers. What I expected to feel humiliating was, instead, freeing. The sense of calm and safety they gave me outweighed all my fears. Ironically, once I wore them, I even needed the bathroom less often. For the first time, I felt dry, comfortable, and safe.

Still, guilt lingered. I could hear my mother's voice saying, "You don't need that — you're fine." Diapers helped me sleep, focus, and calm my anxiety, but I couldn't shake the shame. Society's stigma was loud: diapers were seen as everything other than a suitable option. This realization came with overwhelming anger. The answer to all of my problems was seemingly universally unacceptable, which I found to be cruel and unfair - a sick joke even. Not to mention, I wasted my entire childhood feeling alone and uncomfortable - why did no one ever offer this idea before? It was all the stigma.

Eventually, with my own insurance, I saw a doctor and a urologist. The ('underwear-like' new to the market at the time) pull-up style diapers felt easier to accept, though they didn't always meet my needs. Still, I thought they'd be temporary once I found answers. But the first doctor I saw dismissed me after five minutes — "You sound depressed," he said, deflecting me to a psychiatrist down the hall. The psychiatrist barely listened before prescribing antidepressants. When I asked if they'd help with my accidents, she snapped, "Why do you keep talking about that?" I left feeling small, humiliated, and crazy. At twenty-six, I cried for the first time in years.

Despite wanting to give up, I kept my appointment with the urologist. On the way there, due to horrible nerves, I had a major accident and almost turned back, but I changed into a spare diaper and went anyway. During the exam, the nurse noticed the waistband and asked, "Why are you wearing that? You know they make other products, right?" Her tone was dismissive, judgmental. I finally snapped: "How would you know? You're not me." The room went silent. When the doctor arrived, though, everything changed. She listened. She believed me. For the first time, someone didn't brush me off. She diagnosed me with Pelvic Floor Dysfunction — a condition where chronic anxiety and muscle tension cause urinary and bowel issues. Suddenly, everything made sense: the urgency, the accidents, the discomfort, the years of shame. My anxiety wasn't just in my head — it had been living in my body all along.

Despite my breakthrough, I stayed away from doctors for nearly a decade following those experiences. To me, I had gotten all I needed to begin healing: validation.

Sometime during that ten years, I found NorthShore. Never in my life had I ever felt seen or remotely understood until I clicked into that website. The environment was light, modern, and encouraging while advocating for people exactly like me — apparently I wasn't alone after all. The products, the customer service, the mission, the inclusivity, the compassion, the overall tone, everything was exactly what I needed on my path to self-acceptance. NorthShore was the first to teach me about self-care and how diapers were actually a very brave act of self-love - a way to finally embrace life to the fullest. They even addressed the stigma and promised to fight it, giving me unprecedented hope. So, finally, I wasn't stuck somewhere in-between, but rather exactly where I was supposed to be.

With NorthShore as my first team member, I relearned how to ask for help. I built this team further - I found the courage to start therapy, which led me to finding the right psychiatrist, and finally, found the right primary care doctor too. As it turns out, everything (my anxiety, ADHD, OCD, PFD, etc.) is - and was - always connected. The mental snags of ADHD, OCD, sensory issues and intrusive thoughts cause a ton of stress to my system, resulting in intense anxiety, depression, rituals, overstimulation, burnout, and tension (especially in my pelvic floor apparently). The resulting complications led to incontinence and urgency. A diaper, among a bunch of other very literal fixes, gives me a major sense of safety and control, which allows my entire system to calm down and regulate itself. It's amazing what you can find out when people listen.

I'm still on this journey today, but I'm proud of how far I've come. My challenges are no longer "bad" nor "not bad enough," but instead are simply just mine. Mine to accept, mine to live with, and mine to manage in any way that I see fit for myself. On the topic, my psychiatrist once told me, "Only you know what's right for your body. Only you know what works best for you." This is something I now live by every day. And what works best for me is NorthShore.

Thank you for reading our customer stories.

NorthShore works to remove the confusion and isolation surrounding incontinence, helping individuals better understand that “incontinence is very common, often treatable, and regardless, very manageable.” — Adam Greenberg, President & Founder of NorthShore

We are grateful for the opportunity to share these journeys and provide products that help people live life to the fullest.

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