I always prided myself on being a good mom, yet raising a son with ADHD challenged everything I thought I knew about parenting — my child, my abilities, and our chances of making it through the toughest times without chaos.
His struggles became clear in preschool. While the other kids focused on coloring letters, my son upended a table, knocked over a bookshelf, and bolted from the classroom. When his teacher called me in for a meeting, her flushed face and hushed tone felt like a warning. I couldn’t recall her exact words; all I heard was a relentless voice in my head echoing, “You are a terrible mom. A terrible mom.”
When a doctor diagnosed him with ADHD and ODD, it brought both relief and weight. I was grateful to know he wasn’t a little demon, but I had to convince the rest of the world. Having a child with a developmental disorder turns you into an unintentional advocate.
It’s not your responsibility to educate everyone, yet it often feels like the least you can do. My sister, who has bipolar disorder, often says it’s tough to make others understand an invisible condition. The brain is an organ, not like a broken limb that you can display in a cast.
If convincing the outside world was challenging, maintaining harmony within our family was even tougher. With two boys at home, the well-behaved sibling grew increasingly resentful. He noticed my stress, my tears, and my constant frustration as his brother spun out of control. The whirlwind of behavior left him questioning why I seemed to treat his brother differently, why I allowed him coffee at breakfast and sent him to school with a bottle of Mountain Dew. I had heard that caffeine might help with focus. At that point, he was in fourth grade, and his doctor had prescribed psychotropic medications. I explored every alternative, from eliminating synthetic dyes to introducing fish oil, while facing relentless opinions from every Karen I met. I wished for a magic solution, but my life felt like an unending loop of the same struggles.
If there were a manual for motherhood, its rules didn’t seem to apply to us. I knew comparisons were pointless, but I couldn’t help but observe other moms — how they managed their time, kept appointments, and arrived on time. I compared their triumphs to my setbacks, and so did my son. He labeled himself as the “bad” child, while his older brother was “good.”
Such comparisons can be soul-crushing.
Back then, I didn’t know about the vast community of moms who felt overwhelmed too. Those who didn’t have everything together, who occasionally dropped F-bombs when stepping on stray Legos, or forgot to sign school forms. I was unaware there were mothers who sometimes mistakenly drove their kids to school on a Saturday. Oops.
Worry weighed heavily on my chest. Balancing a full-time job with the stress of divorce often felt unbearable. Our mornings resembled a chaotic heavy metal concert — loud, frantic, and far from enjoyable. Guilt consumed me: guilt for not having all the answers, for feeling perpetually frustrated, for daydreaming about losing my temper. I had no clue that my feelings were normal, that mothers could feel both love and rage.
There were days when it was tough to remember that my son was simply wired differently. According to the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, some areas of an ADHD child’s brain may be smaller than those of their peers. Although this doesn’t impact intelligence, the delayed development of the frontal lobe can hinder problem-solving, memory, judgment, impulse control, social skills, attention span, and motivation.
My ex-husband often claimed that a lack of discipline was the real issue, dismissing ADHD as an excuse for lazy parenting. To outsiders, my selective battles may have appeared as favoritism or neglect. Perhaps there was some truth to it; as a mom, I needed to rescue the child who seemed to be drowning. How could I not?
As my son entered his teenage years, the combination of hormones and underlying depression intensified his rage. He began skipping school, spending hours on video games, and angrily cursing anyone who entered his room. Experts advised to hate the illness but love the child. However, it’s difficult to express love when your kid is punching holes in his walls and wishing it were your face. Beneath his anger lay layers of sadness, anxiety, fear, and even self-loathing.
No matter how destructive his behavior became, labeling him as “bad” was never an option. Calling a boy “bad” can reinforce negative behavior and lead to resentment, as noted by Dr. James Greenblatt, author of Finally Focused.
Now, at 22, my son is stable, thriving thanks to therapy, medication, and exercise. It took years and many trials for us to truly understand his condition. I still find myself questioning how I raised both my sons. I remind myself that ADHD is a neurodevelopmental disorder, and even experts acknowledge it can be chaotic. Motherhood doesn’t come with a complete toolkit. But you adapt, you fight, you cry, and you keep moving forward. Sometimes, it all works out.
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