For three years, we hesitated to medicate Ethan for his ADHD. Like many parents, we opted for the “let’s try everything else first” approach. This served two purposes: it acted as a shield against potential judgment from those who might label us as lazy parents. “Sure, we’re giving our kid medication, but look at all we tried before this!” It also eased our guilt about medicating him—after all, we genuinely explored every other option first.
The pivotal moment in our “Should We Medicate?” debate came during a parent-teacher conference. Sitting with my partner on one side of the table, we faced Ethan’s four teachers. A wave of helplessness crashed over me as I realized just how difficult things had become. These educators were among the best in the state, yet Ethan managed to complete only about 40% of his schoolwork. His classroom behavior was chaotic—materials scattered everywhere, constantly making disruptive noises, and oblivious to instructions. The teachers spent so much time trying to reach Ethan that the education of his classmates was suffering. After that meeting, I returned home in tears. It was clear: we needed to take action. “Everything else” simply wasn’t cutting it.
Ethan began taking 10 mg of Focalin, an ADHD medication, on a Tuesday. Within just fifteen minutes, I noticed subtle changes. When I asked him to put on his shoes, he was already wearing them. When I told him to get into the car, he responded with an enthusiastic “OK” and jumped in. During the drive to school, he gazed thoughtfully out the window. I panicked, thinking, oh no, is he becoming a zombie? But when I asked what he was thinking, he shared an elaborate plan for his next construction project in Minecraft. Who was this organized child speaking in complete thoughts?
When he came home that day, he neatly placed his shoes in the laundry room, unpacked his backpack, and dove right into his homework. Even with his younger sister making a ruckus, he calmly asked, “Can you please be quiet? I’m trying to concentrate.” I had never heard him express himself like that before. He completed his homework in record time and rushed outside to play with friends.
The next day, I asked Ethan to clear off the kitchen table. A minute later, I turned around, ready to remind him, only to find he had already done it. Suddenly, it hit me: I wasn’t the only one who had been struggling. ADHD had taken a toll on our whole family, especially me, as his primary caregiver. I had spent years worrying that the constant negative feedback Ethan received at school would make him feel like he could expect nothing but disappointment. It was a valid concern, but I had nearly overlooked the impact ADHD had on me.
Over those years, I had conditioned myself to believe Ethan couldn’t do things without my constant supervision. I had become frustrated when he didn’t respond immediately and had resorted to shouting to ensure he heard me. To put it simply, I had become annoyed with my own child—and I didn’t even realize it. I thought this was just part of being a mother.
On Thursday morning, after starting the medication, I noticed something remarkable. During our drive to school, Ethan worked through his multiplication flashcards, reciting them aloud and organizing them on his own. He even told me, “Mom, let me know when a minute is up. I’m going to think about something else for a minute, then I’ll come back and see if I still remember everything.” A strange feeling washed over me—I saw myself in him. He had developed a study technique I had once used, and for the first time, I felt that deep genetic connection with him. It was a profound moment.
Later that day, I met with Ethan’s reading and social studies teacher, who was practically vibrating with excitement. “Look at this writing sample!” she exclaimed. “Just look at how much he wrote! His handwriting is fantastic. It reads like a science textbook!” Ethan then excitedly interrupted us to ask about the fire alarm on the ceiling, firing off a barrage of questions that showed he was genuinely engaged. My heart swelled as I exchanged glances with his teacher, tears welling in our eyes.
For years, I had seen myself as impatient and quick to react—a yeller. I often wondered if I was cut out for motherhood. But since Ethan started his medication, everything had changed. With his calmer demeanor, I discovered I was more patient than I had ever realized. The medication helped me remember that I could be a patient mother too.
Still, I grappled with mixed feelings. I found myself thinking, “Do I like my child better when he’s medicated?” He was more organized, easier to talk to, and less disruptive. But I also liked myself better in those moments. I didn’t yell; I could think clearly. I enjoyed this life. Yet, I questioned: is the medicated Ethan the real Ethan? Did I medicate him to make him conform to my expectations? Who was truly benefiting from this?
Now that Ethan has been on medication for six weeks, I have gained some clarity. We haven’t medicated on weekends and, surprisingly, I find myself more patient even without the meds. It seems that having him on medication during the week has prepared me to handle the challenges that arise when he’s off it. As for Ethan? He tells me school is fun now that he realizes he can do well. He enjoys learning and feels proud of his progress.
I remind myself that the medication doesn’t change who Ethan is; it simply clears away the distractions and allows him to access his true self. He was always a good kid—this just helps him shine.
In summary, navigating the decision to medicate my son for ADHD has been a journey filled with self-discovery. While medication has improved both Ethan’s life and mine, the essence of who he is remains unchanged. This experience has highlighted the importance of understanding the impact of ADHD not just on him, but on our entire family.
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