Sorry I’m Late

Sorry I’m Late

A personal history of executive dysfunction—and the difference between a real diagnosis and a very good excuse.

Sascha Seinfeld

Sep 16, 2026

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If “executive function” is the brain’s

“air traffic control system,”

mine’s a disaster zone, planes colliding in mid-air.

Take a day in my life from college: Before a flight to visit my friend in Nashville, I lie in bed, pre-tired from thinking about packing. Once the boost of adrenaline arrives (reliably ten minutes late), I race through my to-do list.

I do half of each task, improvising, riffing, saying “one last thing” on a loop, pinballing around. Before I throw myself out the door, I toss a few miscellaneous items into a stray canvas bag—a half-screwed pill bottle, a dress I’ll never wear, a tumbleweed of electrical cords. I flash back to my mom fishing a tangle of chargers out of my bag when I was a teenager, as if testing al dente spaghetti, and saying with a straight face: “This is you.”

Heart thumping, hair dripping, suitcase running over the backs of my feet, I arrive at the airport. By the time I make it to my gate, I realize my computer is dead, I brought the wrong charger, and there’s an essay due that night—why wouldn’t there be?

I seek refuge at “inMotion,” an airport tech store near my gate, to borrow one of their dangling chargers. I stand there for fifteen minutes, propping my laptop up on the ergonomically hostile electronics bar, and squint at the departure board. What I lack in both eyesight and foresight, I make up for in blind faith.

When my computer achieves 20% battery, I saunter over to the gate, and inquire, dignified: “Will the flight to Nashville be ready to board soon?”

“Oh, that flight already left, honey.” They called my name several times, apparently.

No more direct flights that night, and worse, no one felt bad for me. I’d managed to miss a flight standing feet from the gate. The only thing left to do was kick a wall, so I did.

When I received a diagnosis of “executive functioning disorder” in 2016—after being recommended for diagnostic testing from my school—my first thought was,

“that doesn’t sound so bad.”

I was even a little flattered.

“I had no idea I was even an executive. That must be why I’m having a problem—I’ve ascended so high. These are CEO function issues.”

But the prestigious title came crashing down when, after school one day, I was faced with a bubbly woman in pig-tail buns and workout clothes. The stranger swiftly confiscated my phone, wrote out an hour-by-hour checklist for me, scheduling every waking minute until I went to bed.

But I’m an executive, goddamn it! And as my first executive order, you’re fired!

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