This is a candid, open conversation about living and creating with ADHD, the challenges of maintaining balance, and what comes next after building something that defined a chapter of your life. We talk about energy, self-care, community, and the ongoing work of staying emotionally honest - both with yourself and the people around you.ustwo is perhaps best known for Monument Valley, a game set in a world of shifting perspectives and impossible architecture. And while the game doesn’t come up in our talk, its spirit - seeing things differently, navigating through ambiguity with curiosity and care - feels deeply connected to Mills and the world he’s shaped.

Mills:
Tell you what, you can keep recording. It’s part of the joy. I’m going to make a little setup here. Alright, can I do this? Yes? Mate. Obviously, I’ve seen you around on the internet and in the design landscape. How are you these days?

Boris:
It’s actually the first time we talk in person, so I’m really honored. Thank you for your time.

Mills:
Oh mate, right back at you. Thank you very much.

Boris:
I wanted to start by saying how much your writing, especially around ADHD, resonated with me. It meant a lot even before I fully understood why. It was only about two years ago here in Tokyo that I was diagnosed with ADHD, and that finally gave me a sense of clarity I had never had before.

I remember reading your article, I think it was from around five years ago, about ADHD and the letters written across the paper.

Mills:
Oh yeah, that one. Funny, I think I’ve even got that tattoo somewhere. The one styled like a band logo, AC/DC maybe?

Boris:
Exactly, the AC/DC one.

Mills:
That’s it. I’ve got so many tattoos I forget where they are. Might be on my back somewhere.

Boris:
What made you start thinking you might have ADHD? What led to your diagnosis?

Mills:
Good question, but what about you first?

Boris:
For many years I was running a design agency in Japan, a bit like you were running ustwo, and for a long time everything seemed fine. It only became obvious once I stepped away.

We had to close our Berlin studio, partly due to the macroeconomic climate, and suddenly I was on parental leave with more time to think. I realized I’d built a lot of success by compensating for things I didn’t understand about myself. I used to say, “Look, there’s nothing wrong with me, the results speak for themselves.”

But when life slowed down, I saw patterns that didn’t feel like normal reactions. My wife noticed it too and encouraged me to check it out. Around the same time I started opening up to other entrepreneur friends, and many had gone through the same thing after burnout or a crash.

These were founders who built big companies, like we both did, and then suddenly found themselves lost when their role changed. That’s what motivated me to start Neurospicy Founders, a group for entrepreneurs who share similar experiences. We meet online and sometimes in person. Everyone runs a company, everyone has their quirks, but that’s secondary. What matters is that we understand each other’s challenges.

Mills:
I love that.

Boris:
It’s become a fantastic community. Now I want to talk to people like you, people a few years ahead on this journey.

Mills:
Well, I’m not sure I’m ahead. If anything, I’ve probably gone backwards. But go on.

Boris:
(laughs) That’s the basic intro from my side.

Mills:
Brilliant. So how long were you with Goodpatch?

Boris:
Ten years. The company was founded by a Japanese entrepreneur who came from Silicon Valley. He saw early on that UX / UI design was going to explode in Japan once the iPhone took off. I joined very early and helped grow it into something big, a mix of client work and our own products. We also raised VC funding and eventually went public in 2020.

Suddenly I was a young executive in a Japanese public company, and I wasn’t prepared for what that really meant. I did well for a while, but I didn’t fully grasp the weight of responsibility. I’m still a shareholder but no longer in operations. These days I work solo, more freely, doing different things.

Mills:
That’s mad. You actually IPO’d the company. Incredible.

Boris:
That’s the Japanese way. The IPO market here is quite different. Smaller, profitable companies go public early and then grow on the exchange. It’s more common than in Europe.

But I always looked to ustwo for inspiration. I followed what you did and honestly, I copied a few things.

Mills:
It’s not copying, it’s inspiration.

Boris:
Right. We even had people like David join from your side, which was fantastic. He’s still in Japan doing great work.

Mills:
He is. I’ve seen what he’s been up to. Looks great.

Boris:
So that’s my background. Now, tell me, where are you these days? What’s currently on your mind?

Mills:
My journey’s actually quite similar to yours. I started ustwo with my best mate when I was 24. We’d known each other since we were 11, which really mattered, that trust and history. We used to joke that he and I together made one complete person. Maybe he was the 2 and I was 0, but together it worked.

He played to his strengths, I played to mine, and somehow it balanced. We never thought of ourselves as the best designers, but we were good at building a company, and that became our design project.

We were also lucky. We were building just before the mobile boom, working with Sony in Tokyo’s Design Center, and when the iPhone came out, we were perfectly positioned. Right time, right place.

The company kept growing, and that growth really fed my energy. I had a lot of it, maybe too much. I could give endlessly without realizing what it cost.

We ran hard for about fifteen years before I started to break. It wasn’t dissimilar to what you described. We didn’t IPO, but we got more serious, had to professionalize, and I found myself drifting away from the role I loved.

That’s when the cracks showed.

Boris:
That’s really interesting because the way you describe it feels familiar. Once success comes, it changes what you do and how you feel about it.

Mills:
Exactly. Over the years I realised that while we were growing, I was putting everything into the company. At the beginning it was passion. Later it became identity.

We always said the company itself was our design project. We weren’t necessarily the best designers in the room, but we were good at building something around design. The culture, the people, the momentum – that was the creation.

I think we were lucky to start when we did. There was that sense of possibility. The iPhone came, digital design exploded, and we were there. But the same energy that made it exciting also made it relentless.

Fifteen years in, the thing I loved most – being surrounded by people, building, helping others grow – became the thing that drained me. We had created a company that was almost too emotional. We used to call it a family, which sounds nice but is actually quite dangerous in business. A company isn’t a family; it’s a commercial entity. Yet we truly cared about people, and I think that blurred the lines.

Boris:
That’s very true.

Mills:
One of the problems with ADHD, as you know, is that you jump around. My biggest problem became that the thing I adored most – building us two – was also what exhausted me. I loved my family, of course, but I definitely put the company first. One day I just woke up and didn’t feel it anymore. For maybe a year I was trying to convince myself I still cared the same way.

We had built our own IP too. Monument Valley was the big one – it embodied everything we stood for: values, risk-taking, and creativity. It did well, and of course we’d had other things that didn’t. But that one succeeded in the right way.

I always thought that being successful, producing something respected by peers, would fix whatever was missing in me. But when it finally happened, it didn’t. I still felt empty.

Boris:
Because it’s almost impossible to replicate that level of success?

Mills:
Exactly. There’s always that question of “what now?” I eventually realised it wasn’t about success. It wasn’t about money or recognition. There was something deeper I wasn’t addressing.

So I started therapy six or seven years ago, simply because I didn’t feel the drive anymore. My entire identity was wrapped up in the company. Everyone knew me as “the us two guy”. And when that fire disappeared, I felt hollow.

Through therapy I began to understand why. My therapist later referred me to a psychiatrist, and that’s when I was diagnosed with ADHD. The moment I heard it, everything started making sense.

Boris:
I remember you wrote that everyone around you said, “Well, we knew that all along.”

Mills:
Yes, exactly. My wife Lisa said the same. It really helped her, because for years she’d been dealing with behaviour that seemed careless or intense. Suddenly she could see that it wasn’t intentional.

For me, it was like coming out. I could finally name something that had always been there. I’d never liked labels, but this one felt useful. It helped me understand myself.

Boris:
It became something you could own rather than hide.

Mills:
Exactly. I almost wore it like a badge of honour. Back then ADHD wasn’t talked about as much, so I felt compelled to be open. Maybe if I talked about it, others would feel less alone.

Boris:
How long was it between being diagnosed and writing that first public post about it?

Mills:
Probably a day. Impulsivity has always been my thing. I thought, “Why not share it now?”

That impulsiveness can be a strength or a curse. Learning when to use it has been my biggest challenge. Before, I just followed intuition – building the company, working nonstop. Now I know when to pause. Some things need impulse, others need patience.

Boris:
That’s the difference between having ADHD and running a company with ADHD. The stakes are bigger. Private impulsiveness might mean overspending on a hobby, but business impulsiveness can cost millions.

Mills:
You’re absolutely right. Luckily, my co-founder Synx was the opposite of me. I never even had access to the company credit card. He was the stabiliser. I was the yes-man, he was the no-man. It worked because we balanced each other.

Boris:
My wife and I are similar. She’s changed over the years to balance me out. It’s funny how relationships evolve to keep the system stable.

Mills:
Exactly. My kids, now 16 and 14, have both been diagnosed too. So Lisa is living with three of us. I don’t know how she does it.

I was lucky. My success came because people around me allowed me to be myself and picked up the pieces. If I’d been on my own, I wouldn’t have managed. You need both energies.

I think my version of ADHD took the enthusiastic form rather than the destructive one. That enthusiasm rubbed off on people. But eventually it became a burden. I didn’t want to run a big business anymore, yet I wanted it to thrive. Pulling myself out without hurting it was difficult.

Boris:
And how are you now, after all that?

Mills:
It’s been a long road. After stepping back I felt lost for at least two years. I’d gone from running a huge company to being alone most days. I didn’t want to start another business. I needed space.

Eventually I realised I’m happiest when I’m building something, even if it’s personal. Right now I’m building a house with Lisa. It’s been two years of construction, and I’m there every day. It’s our shared project.

Boris:
So more personal creation, less commercial.

Mills:
Exactly. I love watching people solve problems on site. It reminds me of the early days of design – the making, the craft.

I’ve learned that my days have cycles. Mornings are strong, afternoons I crash, evenings I unwind. I take medication – L-Vance, a stimulant – and antidepressants too. Together they help me stay centred.

Boris:
Do they change how you feel creatively?

Mills:
No, not really. They don’t dull me; they just make me calmer, more at peace. I still have highs and lows, but less chaos.

I used to think depression meant not being able to get out of bed. For me it was different. I could function, but felt empty. Medication helps fill that void a little.

The hardest thing was learning that I can only do so much in a day. In the old days I’d travel between studios, hype mode all day, parties all night. Now I know I need downtime. Awareness of limits is as important as knowing strengths.

Boris:
When I finally went for testing, it felt almost like going to the doctor for something I didn’t want to find out. I thought, “What if this changes how I see myself?”

But the result was strangely freeing. Suddenly all those small, scattered moments across decades made sense. The all-nighters, the restlessness, the constant need to start something new. Even the exhaustion after excitement.

Mills:
Yes. That sense of finally connecting the dots.

Boris:
Exactly. My therapist said something that stuck with me. He said ADHD isn’t an explanation for everything, but it’s a frame. It shows the shape of your reactions.

Mills:
That’s a good way to put it. For me, hearing the diagnosis wasn’t a shock, it was a relief. It felt like someone had finally handed me the manual I should have been given as a kid.

I’d always been called lazy, messy, disorganised. Teachers said I wasn’t living up to potential. Suddenly, with one word, all that history changed meaning.

Boris:
It rewrites your story.

Mills:
Completely. It also helped me understand the company culture we built. ustwo thrived on my chaos because it was full of people who could turn chaos into magic. We built systems around my energy without realising that’s what we were doing.

When I was diagnosed, I looked back and saw the pattern. Every time we scaled too fast, I started something new. Every time we hired structure, I rebelled. It wasn’t that I hated structure — I needed it, but I couldn’t create it myself.

Boris:
That’s such a clear description. I think a lot of founders feel that. You need structure, but you resist it.

Mills:
Exactly. And that push-pull made us great, until it didn’t.

After the diagnosis, I felt lighter but also sad. I kept thinking, what if I had known this earlier? Would I have avoided the burnout? Or would I never have built the same company? I still don’t know.

Boris:
That’s the paradox. It gives you your edge, but it also breaks you.

Mills:
Yes. You learn to accept both.

Boris:
How was it telling people publicly?

Mills:
Strangely easy. I’d always been open. Writing about it was my way of making sense of it. The response blew me away — hundreds of messages from people saying “thank you.” It was mostly men in their forties and fifties who had never talked about this stuff.

That’s when I realised there was a whole generation of us who built companies out of coping mechanisms.

Boris:
Exactly. That’s what I keep seeing too. Hyper-focus builds startups, but at a personal cost.

Mills:
Yes. And once the adrenaline stops, you crash.

Boris:
When I stopped running full-speed, I felt the same. For months I couldn’t start anything new. My brain just refused. I thought something was wrong with me, but it was just fatigue. Years of pushing.

Mills:
That’s recovery. You’re still the same person, just with new awareness. The trick is learning new ways to use the same energy.

Boris:
Did your view on work change after diagnosis?

Mills:
Completely. I stopped thinking in terms of ambition. I started thinking in terms of curiosity. What feels good to explore right now? That became my compass.

Boris:
That’s beautiful.

Mills:
I think curiosity is the healthiest version of ambition. It still drives you, but without the obsession with outcome.

Boris:
That’s exactly what I’m trying to rediscover.

Mills:
It’s a long process. Some days I still feel restless and useless. But then I remind myself — I’ve built things, I’ve left an impact, and now I can just be. That’s enough.

Boris:
When you said you could finally just be, that really resonates with me. After I left my company, I didn’t know how to introduce myself anymore. Before, it was easy. I’d say, “I’m Boris from Goodpatch.” It carried weight. Suddenly I was just Boris, and that felt small.

Mills:
Exactly. For years I introduced myself as “Mills from ustwo.” It wasn’t just a company; it was part of my name. When that identity disappeared, I didn’t know who I was.

I remember going to events after stepping down and people would say, “What are you up to now?” And I had no answer. I’d panic inside. I wasn’t ready to say, “I don’t know.”

Boris:
It’s so hard to let go of that momentum.

Mills:
Yes. You get addicted to motion. You mistake speed for meaning. The hardest thing was learning to stop running.

For a while I tried to fill the gap with projects, collaborations, anything to stay busy. But none of it felt real. Eventually I realised I needed to sit in the emptiness until something authentic appeared.

Boris:
That’s tough. Most people can’t stand still long enough to find that space.

Mills:
It was brutal. But I started therapy again, went deeper. Talked about childhood, about patterns. I even went back to art school part-time. Just drawing, painting, with no goal.

It reminded me of being a kid before work became performance. There’s a freedom in making something with no brief, no client, no audience.

Boris:
That’s such an important distinction. Doing something just for the joy of it.

Mills:
Exactly. I had to remember who I was before I started trying to prove myself.

Boris:
Did you ever feel guilty about stepping away?

Mills:
All the time. I felt like I was betraying the company, the people. I’d built it with so much love. Leaving felt like abandoning a child.

But I realised that staying for guilt isn’t healthy. You end up doing harm anyway. The company needed new energy. I needed rest. It took time, but now I can look at ustwo and feel proud without needing to own it.

Boris:
That’s beautiful. I’m still learning that part. I often look back at the team and think, “Could I have done more?”

Mills:
You probably could have, but that’s not the point. You did what you could at the time with the tools you had. I wish someone had told me that earlier.

Boris:
What helped you most during that transition?

Mills:
Letting go of the need to be important. For so long I equated importance with purpose. When people stop calling, stop asking for advice, you feel invisible. But invisibility can be peaceful.

I found purpose again by helping in small ways. Talking to people one-on-one, mentoring, sometimes just listening. It’s less visible but more human.

Boris:
That really mirrors what I’m trying to build with Neurospicy Founders. It’s not about visibility. It’s about real connection.

Mills:
That’s exactly it. I think the future of community is intimacy. We’ve had enough of scale and noise. People crave realness now.

Boris:
Yes, and vulnerability too. Most founders don’t have a space where they can talk about fear or confusion.

Mills:
That’s what makes what you’re doing powerful. I think being open about these things is the next frontier of leadership. The old model of perfection is gone.

Boris:
And yet it’s still hard to show that side publicly.

Mills:
Of course. But the moment you do, it gives permission to others.

Boris:
Did you have any kind of ritual or moment where you said goodbye to ustwo?

Mills:
Yes. I went back to the studio one morning when it was empty. Just sat in the meeting room and looked around. I remembered our first desks, our first clients, our late nights. Then I said thank you out loud. It sounds silly, but it was emotional.

After that, I walked out and didn’t look back for a long time.

Boris:
That sounds cathartic.

Mills:
It was. I cried a lot that day. But it wasn’t sadness; it was release. You can love something deeply and still need to leave it.

Boris:
I think that’s a perfect way to describe it.

Mills:
Now I’m at peace with it. I still visit sometimes. It’s strange seeing it thrive without me, but it also feels right. The company was never supposed to be about me. It was always about the people.

Boris:
That’s a powerful realization.

Mills:
It took a long time. But I think everyone who’s built something big has to go through that death and rebirth.

Boris:
How do you structure your days now? Do you still need that sense of rhythm, or do you let things flow more naturally?

Mills:
I used to thrive on chaos. Now I need rhythm more than ever. Mornings are my best time. I wake up early, around six, have coffee with Lisa, and take the dog for a walk. That slow start sets the tone for everything.

I try to do focused work until midday, then accept that my brain switches off around two or three. I used to fight that and feel guilty, but now I just stop. I do something physical instead.

Boris:
That’s smart. I’ve noticed the same. My energy is like a wave — strong in the morning, useless after lunch, creative again at night.

Mills:
Yes, exactly. Once you understand that pattern, life gets easier. You stop pretending to be consistent.

Boris:
I also think routines save us from ourselves. Without structure, everything blurs.

Mills:
Completely. I’ve learned that discipline isn’t about punishment, it’s about protection. Protecting the time when you can do your best work.

Boris:
Do you have any tricks that help you focus?

Mills:
I use simple things. I write every morning in a notebook — not to produce anything, just to empty my head. I plan only three priorities per day. More than that, I’ll lose track.

And I’ve stopped multitasking. If I’m walking the dog, I’m walking the dog. If I’m cooking, I’m cooking. It sounds boring, but it’s actually a relief.

Boris:
That’s beautiful. I think ADHD brains crave stimulation but suffer from it at the same time.

Mills:
Exactly. Our brains are like race cars without brakes. Routines are the guardrails.

Boris:
Do you still take medication daily?

Mills:
Yes, I take a low dose every morning. It doesn’t make me hyper-focused like people assume. It just quiets the noise so I can choose what to focus on. I still drift off sometimes, but it’s manageable.

I also use exercise as medicine. Cycling saved me years ago. It’s the only time my mind feels truly silent.

Boris:
I think many of us find that through movement. For me it’s snowboarding and hiking. It’s like meditation, but physical.

Mills:
Yes, it’s a reset button. I don’t even chase performance anymore; I just need to feel alive.

Boris:
Same here. I also learned that I can’t handle too much input anymore. I used to read five books at once and follow every new idea. Now I read one thing at a time, or nothing at all.

Mills:
That’s such an underrated skill — learning to ignore.

Boris:
Yes. Focus isn’t about doing more; it’s about saying no.

Mills:
Totally. And saying no doesn’t mean you’re closed-minded. It means you’re saving energy for what truly matters.

Boris:
Do you still do any kind of creative work, design or writing?

Mills:
I do, but quietly. I sketch, I write a bit, I build things around the house. I don’t publish much anymore. It’s for me, not for an audience.

Boris:
That’s something I’ve been rediscovering too. The joy of making without performance.

Mills:
Exactly. I used to think everything I made had to have purpose or value. Now I just enjoy the process. Some days I build a wall or paint a door, and that’s enough.

Boris:
It’s funny how we circle back to simple things after chasing so much complexity.

Mills:
That’s the irony. After years of running companies and building systems, I’ve realised the real work is internal. Managing your mind, your emotions, your energy. That’s the hardest startup of all.

Boris:
Beautifully said.

Mills:
The truth is, I’ll probably always have restless energy. It’s part of who I am. But now I try to work with it, not against it. If I feel anxious, I go for a ride. If I can’t focus, I don’t fight it. I take a break. The next morning it’s usually back.

Boris:
It’s like learning to surf your own brain.

Mills:
Exactly. You can’t control the waves, but you can learn to ride them.

Boris:
You said something earlier that really stayed with me. That the real work is internal. I think a lot of founders struggle to shift their focus there.

Mills:
Yes. When you build something big, your identity becomes external. It’s about validation, success, impact. You start to believe that who you are depends on what you do. Letting go of that is terrifying.

Boris:
Exactly. When the company is gone, you suddenly face yourself without the noise.

Mills:
And that silence can be deafening. For a while, I didn’t like myself outside of work. I felt boring. I realised how much I relied on being “Mills from ustwo.” That persona was fun, confident, full of energy. Without it, I was just a human with insecurities and unfinished thoughts.

But then I learned to like that person too. He’s slower, more thoughtful, sometimes lost, but more real.

Boris:
It’s like meeting yourself again.

Mills:
Exactly. I think everyone who’s lived in high-performance mode needs that second life. You have to unlearn what made you successful to find what makes you happy.

Boris:
That’s something I’ve been trying to articulate too. Success gave me status, but not peace.

Mills:
Peace is underrated. The world celebrates noise. Stillness feels like failure at first, but then you realise it’s the space where truth shows up.

Boris:
Do you ever miss the adrenaline?

Mills:
Sometimes, yes. Especially when I visit the studio and see the buzz. But then I remind myself that my role was to start things, not to keep them forever. My time there was complete. Now I get to live another chapter.

Boris:
That’s how I feel about my current projects. I want to build things that don’t depend on me. Systems that can run without the founder.

Mills:
That’s wisdom. It’s the evolution of creativity. You go from “I make this” to “I enable this.”

Boris:
Do you ever think about legacy?

Mills:
Not really. I used to. I thought legacy meant leaving a mark. Now I think it’s about leaving people better than you found them. If ustwo made people braver, more human, then that’s enough.

Boris:
That’s beautiful.

Mills:
And honestly, I think our generation of founders has a new responsibility. We need to show that success doesn’t have to mean burnout. That you can build with heart and still live fully.

Boris:
That’s exactly what I want to do with Neurospicy Founders. Show that creativity and neurodiversity can coexist with balance.

Mills:
You’re already doing it. You’re creating the community I wish had existed when I was struggling.

Boris:
That means a lot.

Mills:
Keep going with it. These stories matter. Not just for people like us, but for the next generation who will build differently. They need to see that you can be sensitive, distracted, emotional, and still lead.

Boris:
That’s the heart of it, isn’t it? Leadership through honesty.

Mills:
Yes. The world doesn’t need perfect leaders. It needs real ones.

Boris:
If you had to summarise what you’ve learned in one line, what would it be?

Mills:
Probably this: you don’t need to prove your worth by building something huge. You already have value just by being you.

Boris:
That’s a perfect ending.

Mills:
Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the beginning.

Boris:
Thank you, Mills. Truly.

Mills:
Thank you, Boris. This conversation meant a lot.

Boris:
Same here.

Mills:
And remember — ADHD forever.