When my eldest child was just a year and a half old, I decided to enroll her in a Gymboree Play & Music class. The promise was enticing: a fun environment where my little one would engage, make friends, and I could take some time to unwind.
As we entered the vibrant room filled with bright colors and cheerful music, my daughter’s eyes widened with both excitement and fear. The atmosphere buzzed with energy as children giggled and crawled toward the lively instructor. But instead of joining the fun, my daughter clung to me, tears streaming down her cheeks.
People around us looked puzzled, silently questioning what was wrong with my child. The instructor, though cheerful, seemed taken aback by my daughter’s reaction. I scooped her up, searching for a quieter corner, but everywhere was overwhelming—too many colors, too much noise. While the class was designed for fun, for my sensitive girl, it felt like a sensory nightmare. I couldn’t help but wonder why we felt the need to create such a stimulating environment when babies are naturally curious. I thought I was doing the right thing by bringing her to social activities, but clearly, I was mistaken.
Fast forward to her first day of preschool, and I received a call from her teacher. My daughter had spent the first half-hour hiding under a table, and after some coaxing, she remained silent for the rest of the morning. This pattern continued for weeks.
One night, as I watched a Dateline segment about a girl with selective mutism, I felt a familiar pang of concern. This girl was also overwhelmed by new situations, and her parents had sought help from a psychiatrist, even considering medication. That wasn’t going to be my approach. I believed I could help my daughter navigate her sensitivity on my own.
While she was indeed sensitive and shy, she thrived in familiar settings, whether playing with her baby sister or getting lost in her drawings. She loved outdoor play but avoided crowded restaurants and busy beaches. If she became too hot, tired, or overstimulated, her irritability would surface. Nothing seemed alarming; she was just a highly sensitive child.
As a writer and introvert, I understood her need for a calm environment. However, the real challenge lay in the outside world. The first week of kindergarten was particularly tough. My daughter found herself hiding under beds and in closets rather than face the school bus. With two younger siblings and a husband frequently away, I was torn between the logistics of getting her to school and my desire to comfort her.
One night, she confided in me her fear of being trampled at school. When I probed deeper, she explained how a teacher’s whistle signaled the end of recess, causing chaos as children rushed to line up. This experience left her terrified.
I wish I could say her school years became easier, that she learned to embrace the noise and busyness. Unfortunately, she continued to struggle with sensory overload and acute awareness of injustices around her. Despite her challenges, she was a model student, adhering to teacher directives and achieving high grades. But, unbeknownst to me at the time, this was an exhausting feat for her, requiring immense focus and energy.
As she engaged in extracurricular activities like dance, the pressure mounted. By the time she returned home, she often broke down in tears, lamenting, “I’m not free.” When the burden of traditional schooling became unbearable by fourth grade, I made the decision to homeschool her. By then, the damage from her experiences had already taken a toll.
The message she received from the world was clear: something was wrong with her. She was too sensitive, too quiet, too fragile. Throughout her upbringing, I grappled with feelings of inadequacy as a mother. It wasn’t until she completed college and sought counseling that she was finally diagnosed with attention deficit disorder (ADD).
She had never displayed the hyperactivity typically associated with ADD; she was quiet and introspective. It left me wondering how I could have missed it. What if I had known sooner? Would I have approached her upbringing differently? Was ADD simply her mind’s way of coping with a world that often feels overwhelming?
As an adult, my daughter has tried medication to manage her ADD, which has proven effective in improving her focus and organization. However, I recall her childhood—she often seemed disorganized compared to her siblings and us, which I attributed to her artistic nature.
The medication does come with side effects, stifling her creativity and causing sleep issues, appetite loss, and even depressive episodes. During one such episode, she called me in tears, expressing, “I am too sensitive for this world.” Listening to her pain brought tears to my eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder how medication would have affected her as a child.
Today, my daughter manages her ADD through a healthy lifestyle, including a balanced diet, acupuncture, and regular exercise. She rarely relies on medication, allowing her creativity to flourish as she dances, creates beautiful art, and shares her love with the world. In her own way, she’s making the world a little kinder and softer.
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In summary, understanding my daughter’s needs took time, and it required reevaluating my perceptions of her sensitivity. Now, she thrives in her unique way, and I take pride in watching her navigate life on her own terms.