When my first child was just 18 months old, I enrolled her in a local playgroup, eager to introduce her to new experiences. The organizers promised that she would have fun, develop vital skills, and make new friends while I could relax and enjoy the moment.
As soon as we entered the colorful, vibrant room, my daughter’s expression shifted from curiosity to distress. The lively music filled the air, and a cheerful facilitator led the group with enthusiasm. While other children giggled and crawled excitedly, my little one clung to me, her cries escalating quickly. I could feel the stares of other parents, questioning what was wrong with her, while the bubbly leader seemed taken aback by her reaction.
In search of a quieter area, I picked her up, hoping to find some solace. Yet, calming her proved impossible; every corner was brimming with colors, noises, and movement. While this environment was exhilarating for many children, for my daughter, it felt overwhelmingly chaotic. I had assumed that all babies thrive in stimulating settings, but I was mistaken.
After her first day of preschool, her teacher contacted me to report that my daughter had spent the initial thirty minutes hiding under a table, and after being coaxed out, she remained silent for the rest of the morning. This pattern persisted for weeks. One evening, my mother-in-law called and suggested I watch a Dateline episode about a girl with selective mutism who was treated with Prozac. I dismissed the idea, determined to handle my daughter’s sensitivity on my own.
I recognized that she was easily overwhelmed and cautious in unfamiliar situations. However, at home, she was vibrant, playing with her younger sister, dancing, drawing, and enjoying stories. She loved outdoor play but was uncomfortable in bustling restaurants or crowded beaches. If she became too hot, tired, or overstimulated, she would become irritable, but I attributed this to her being a sensitive child.
As a writer and an introvert, I understood her need for a calm environment, yet it was outside our home that the challenges arose. The first week of kindergarten was particularly painful; she attempted to hide under beds, in closets, and even the bathroom to avoid getting on the school bus. With two younger children at home and a husband who traveled often, driving her to school daily was unfeasible.
One night, as I tucked her in, she expressed her fear of being trampled at school. She explained that the sound of a teacher’s whistle at the end of recess terrified her, causing all the children to rush towards the building. I longed to say that the subsequent years would be easier, that she would adapt and grow more resilient. Sadly, that wasn’t the case.
Not only was she grappling with sensory overload, but she was also acutely aware of every injustice and distressing tone directed at others. Despite her struggles, she complied with her teachers and maintained good grades. What I didn’t realize until she was older was how exhausting it was for her to focus, complete assignments that didn’t engage her, and conform to school expectations.
She did manage to make a few friends and fully immersed herself in dance classes. However, upon returning home, she often broke down in tears, lamenting, “I’m not free. Is anyone really free?” By fourth grade, I could no longer bear to see her suffer, and we decided to homeschool her. However, the impact of her experiences lingered, leading her to believe that something was inherently wrong with her.
It wasn’t until after she graduated college, following various counseling sessions and medication recommendations, that she was diagnosed with attention deficit disorder (ADD). Throughout her childhood, she had never been hyperactive or impulsive, leaving me to wonder how I had missed the signs. Could understanding her condition earlier have changed our approach?
As an adult, she has experimented with medication, finding it helps her focus and organize. Yet, she has also experienced side effects, including creativity suppression and mood swings. One day, during a particularly difficult moment, she shared with me, “I am too sensitive for this world.” Hearing her pain brought tears to my eyes, and I questioned what medication might have done to her as a child.
Today, my daughter manages her ADD through a balanced diet, acupuncture, and regular exercise, rarely relying on medication. She continues to express herself through art and dance, bringing beauty into the world. For those interested in more about ADD and other parenting tips, resources like this article can be quite helpful. Additionally, Make a Mom offers authoritative insights on self-insemination, while UCSF’s Center provides excellent resources on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, my journey navigating my daughter’s sensitivities led to a revelation about her ADD, demonstrating the importance of understanding and accommodating individual needs in a world that can often feel overwhelming.