When my first child, Mia, was just 18 months old, I decided to take her to a Gymboree Play & Music class. “It’ll be a blast!” they said. “She’ll have fun, make friends, and you can kick back for a bit!”
As soon as we stepped into the vibrant, well-lit room, Mia’s eyes widened. Upbeat children’s music blared while a cheerful, bubbly woman led the group, singing loudly. Babies crawled excitedly toward her, eager for the fun. But not Mia. She clung to me and began to whimper, which quickly escalated to full-blown screaming. I could feel the stares. It was clear: everyone wondered what was wrong with her. The jovial leader looked taken aback, perhaps even irritated.
I scooped Mia up, desperately searching for a quieter corner to calm her down, but every inch of the space was alive with color and noise. For many kids, it was a delightful experience, but for my little one, it was sensory overload. And honestly, it was a bit much for me too.
Isn’t everything new for little ones? Why create a world that bombards them with stimuli when they’re already so easily overwhelmed? I was there to socialize, having agreed to join a friend and her child. I thought I was giving my sensitive baby a chance to engage. Big mistake.
After her first preschool day, the teacher called to tell me that Mia had spent the initial half-hour hiding under a table. When she was coaxed out, she didn’t speak a word. This silence dragged on for weeks.
One evening, my mother-in-law suggested I watch a Dateline segment on a girl with selective mutism—an otherwise healthy child who became overwhelmed in new settings. Her parents sought psychiatric help, even putting her on Prozac. A four-year-old on medication for a coping mechanism? Not for my child. I resolved to navigate this on my own.
I recognized Mia’s sensitivity and shyness. But in familiar surroundings, she radiated joy—playing with her little sister, dancing in the living room, or listening to stories. She relished outdoor play but was less keen on restaurants or movie theaters. Heat made her irritable, and she was easily overwhelmed by hunger or tiredness. Nothing alarming, just a highly sensitive child.
As an introverted writer, I was comfortable in calm environments, so accommodating her at home was a breeze. But outside our home? That was a whole different story.
Nothing broke my heart more than the struggle to get Mia onto the school bus during her first week of kindergarten. She sought refuge under beds, in closets, and even the bathroom. With two younger siblings at home and a husband who traveled frequently, driving her to school was a logistical nightmare. But getting her on the bus was just as challenging.
One night, while tucking her in, Mia confessed her fear of being trampled at school. The chaos of children rushing in after recess, triggered by a teacher’s whistle (which felt like an assault on her senses), terrified her.
I wish I could say that her school years became easier, that she learned to toughen up against the noise and chaos of the world. But that wasn’t the case. Not only did she struggle with sensory overload, but she also felt every injustice and irritation around her, real or imagined.
Despite her struggles, she was a good student—doing her best to follow instructions and earning straight As. What I didn’t realize then, but she later revealed, was how exhausting it was for her to focus and complete assignments that bored her. It drained her energy.
Mia formed friendships and passionately embraced dance classes, but by the time she returned home to tackle her homework, she often collapsed in tears. “I’m not free,” she sobbed. “Is anyone really free?”
By fourth grade, I could no longer watch my child suffer through the school system. I allowed her to be homeschooled, but the damage had already been done. The world had instilled in her a sense that something was wrong with her—she was too sensitive, too cautious, too quiet, too fragile. She later shared that to survive in school, she had to suppress her true self. As a mother, I often questioned my adequacy.
It wasn’t until after college, following several counseling sessions and medication trials, that Mia was diagnosed with attention deficit disorder (ADD). She had never been hyperactive or impulsive as a child. I was blindsided. How had I missed it?
What if I had known earlier? Would I have done things differently? I often wondered if ADD was simply her brain’s way of coping with a world that didn’t understand her sensitivity. To what extent do we shape our environment, and how much do we accommodate it?
Today, as an adult, Mia manages her ADD through a healthy lifestyle, acupuncture, and regular exercise, rarely relying on medication. She continues to create stunning art, dance beautifully, and love deeply. Her gifts enrich the world, making it a little softer.
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In summary, understanding and accommodating a child’s unique sensitivities can be a challenging journey. As parents, it’s crucial to navigate these waters with compassion and awareness while also recognizing the potential for growth and resilience.