Case Study
A private ADHD clinic with a clear assessment process — but a journey page that explained the steps without ever speaking to the person taking them.
The Challenge
I'd recently been through an ADHD assessment myself. Not with CareADHD — a different provider. But I knew what that journey felt like. The anxiety of not knowing. The relief of finally looking into it. The strange vulnerability of filling in forms about your own brain.
So when I looked at CareADHD's journey page, the disconnect was clear. The page opens with a treatment pathway diagram — the kind of flowchart you'd expect on an internal process document, not a page designed to hold someone's hand through one of the most significant decisions they'll make about their mental health.
Further down, there was better material — practical information about what the assessment involves, how prescribing works, what happens after diagnosis. But it was all hidden inside accordions. Collapsed by default. A patient would have to click through each one to piece the journey together, when what they needed was to feel it unfold.
The real problem wasn't missing information — it was missing empathy. The page needed to meet the patient where they actually are: uncertain, anxious, and looking for reassurance that someone understands what this feels like.
The Approach
Audience
The person arriving at this page isn't browsing. They're deciding. They've probably spent months wondering if ADHD explains their struggles. The page needed to acknowledge that emotional reality before explaining a single step — validate first, inform second.
Content
Took the clinic's existing information and restructured it as seven emotional beats, not a numbered flowchart. Each step acknowledges what the patient might be feeling alongside the practical detail. The questionnaires aren't a test you pass or fail. Masking doesn't disqualify you. Diagnosis brings complicated feelings — and that's valid.
Creative
Commissioned a consistent hand-drawn illustration style — teal ink with soft pink accents. Four images at specific narrative break points: a door ajar for arrival, a hand holding a phone for early support, a mirror for the moment of diagnosis, a window looking out for long-term continuity. Not decoration — punctuation.
The person arriving at this page is anxious, uncertain, and possibly relieved for the first time in years. The page should feel like a steady hand on the shoulder.
The Build