For three long years, my partner and I hesitated to medicate our son, Ethan, for his ADHD. Like many parents, we took the route of trying every alternative imaginable first. This approach served two purposes: it shielded us from the judgment of those who might think we were lazy parents for choosing medication, and it eased our own guilt about the decision to medicate. We felt justified in our choice because we genuinely explored every other option first.
The turning point in the debate over whether to medicate came during a parent-teacher conference. Sitting across the table from Ethan’s dedicated teachers, I felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. These were some of the best educators in the state, yet despite their best efforts, Ethan was completing only 40% of his schoolwork. He was a whirlwind in the classroom, with papers scattered everywhere, completely oblivious to his tasks, and constantly making disruptive noises. The teachers were stretched thin trying to manage him, which negatively impacted the learning experience for the other students. After that meeting, I returned home and cried. It became clear: we needed to take action; the “everything else” approach wasn’t working.
On a fateful Tuesday, Ethan began taking 10 mg of Focalin, an ADHD medication. Within just fifteen minutes, I noticed subtle yet profound changes. When I asked him to put on his shoes, they were already on. When I told him it was time to get in the car, he simply replied, “OK,” and got in. During the drive to school, he gazed thoughtfully out the window. Panic set in as I feared he was becoming a zombie, but when I asked what he was thinking, he shared an elaborate building design for Minecraft. Who was this articulate child who spoke in clear bullet points?
That afternoon, Ethan came home and did something I had never witnessed before: he neatly put his shoes away, unpacked his backpack, and immediately dove into his homework, even asking his sister to be quiet so he could focus. It was astonishing. In that moment, I realized the toll that ADHD had taken on our entire family, especially on me, as his primary caregiver. The years of worrying that Lucas would internalize negative feedback were valid, but I had overlooked how ADHD had affected my own mindset.
I had been conditioned to expect Ethan to ignore my requests, requiring me to repeat myself and sometimes even yell just to get his attention. I had become annoyed with my own child without even realizing it. That was simply how things were; it was my version of motherhood.
The morning after starting the medication, I watched Ethan practice multiplication flashcards in the car. He went through them methodically, repeating each one aloud, and even devised a study strategy that mirrored my own past techniques. In that moment, I felt an emotional wave wash over me—I finally felt a connection with my son that I had never experienced before.
Later that day, I encountered his reading and social studies teacher, who was practically buzzing with excitement about Ethan’s recent progress. She showed me his writing sample, marveling at how much he had written and how well it read. Even more impressive was Ethan’s curiosity as he peppered her with questions about a fire alarm in the classroom, maintaining eye contact and engaging in a way I had never seen before. It was a moment filled with tears of joy for both of us.
For years, I viewed myself as an impatient parent, quick to react and often overwhelmed. But since Ethan started taking his medication, I discovered a newfound patience. With two children behaving as expected, I realized I was inherently more patient than I had believed.
However, this brought forth a complicated realization: I like my son better when he is medicated. He is more focused, organized, and communicative. More importantly, I like myself better in these moments—less frustrated and more present. But it raises difficult questions: Is this the real Ethan? Am I making him more like me? Who truly benefits from this medication?
After six weeks of medication, I’ve gained perspective. We’ve refrained from medicating on weekends, and I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find that I am still more patient even when he’s off the meds. It seems the weekday medication supports me enough to handle any ADHD challenges that arise during the weekend. As for Ethan, he now finds school enjoyable because he realizes he is capable of succeeding. He tells me that learning makes him feel smart, and he appreciates that his teachers are no longer constantly on his case.
Ultimately, I remind myself that the medication does not change who Ethan is; it simply helps clear the mental fog, allowing him to access his true thoughts and abilities. He was always a good person, just waiting to shine.
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