Just yesterday, my 9-year-old son, Ethan, enveloped me in a hug that felt profound. He wrapped his slender arms around my waist, leaned his head against my chest, and stayed there for a moment that felt like eternity.
It was like hugging a butterfly. Typically, butterflies flit from flower to flower, landing just long enough to tease us with their delicate beauty before taking off again. My son embodies that same spirit. He’s constantly on the move, words escaping his lips in a rapid-fire manner. He juggles his weight from foot to foot, sometimes adding a spontaneous bounce or a lift onto his toes. His gaze often drifts away, distracted by the world around him. At his computer, brief moments of silence are interrupted by quick dashes to the window or back to his chair; stillness is not in his nature—he literally bounces off the walls.
His hugs tend to be quick and stiff, like a cat reluctant to be held. While I cherish them, they are infrequent.
Ethan is in fourth grade, and every year has felt like a repeat of the same struggles. Since kindergarten, I’ve read the notes in his planner: “Ethan has trouble following directions. He distracts others. He can’t stay seated.” The handwriting may change, but the message remains the same. This bright boy, who once asked me to buy him sodium bicarbonate for a science project, is often labeled “that kid” at school—the one who can’t sit still, pokes others’ papers, and struggles to stay organized. It’s disheartening, to say the least. It’s not just sad; it’s heartbreaking to witness my son, who is so much more than his challenges, become a target for frustration instead of encouragement.
I often feel desperate to help his teachers see the amazing child we know—the one who shines through during calm moments, filled with kindness, creativity, and intelligence. I’ve tried to convey this in parent-teacher meetings, often fighting back tears as I explain that he is more than his behavior. I ask them to look beyond his struggles and see the wonderful boy he truly is.
About a year ago, during one of these meetings, it was suggested that Ethan might fall somewhere on the autism spectrum. We sought the help of a psychologist specializing in childhood developmental disorders. After extensive testing, we received a diagnosis: Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). Instead of feeling relieved, I was disheartened. I had long viewed the ADHD label as a way to categorize active children, believing it was merely an excuse to medicate them into submission. I didn’t want to take the easy route and feared that medication would dull his vibrant spirit.
“We’re not going to medicate him,” I insisted to Ethan’s therapist. So, we explored other non-medicated strategies, like teaching him focus techniques and allowing him to take breaks at school, even using a bouncy ball instead of a chair. These methods sometimes helped, but not consistently.
Eventually, after exhausting all options, Ethan’s dad and I considered the one path we had been hesitant to take—medication. His therapist, pediatrician, and teacher all agreed it was worth a try. “Let’s start with a low dose,” I said nervously. “If he experiences any negative side effects, we’ll stop immediately.”
So, we took that step. Ethan took his first dose, and I watched him closely that morning, ready to intervene at the first sign of trouble. I even called the school to inform them of his new medication, requesting they keep an eye on him.
When he arrived home that day, I was stunned. He walked straight to the car—no wandering, no distractions. He smiled, and once home, he hung up his coat and backpack without a fuss. He completed his homework in about ten minutes without any prompting from me. His teacher even left a positive note in his planner. For the first time, we had a real conversation—one without him bouncing around.
And that hug? It was incredible. For the first time, Ethan seemed genuinely relaxed, not disconnected but relieved, as if a weight had been lifted. “I feel so much better, Mom. Why didn’t we do this sooner?” he asked.
I realized we had been avoiding what could have helped him. I feared being seen as a parent who resorted to medication to control behavior, but in reality, it had the potential to allow him to flourish.
I found a paper Ethan wrote recently that encapsulates his thought process perfectly. It began with, “The brain! Did you know you can live without part of your brain? Answer this: 1 + 6 = ? You just used your cortex!” Then it jumped to the Loch Ness Monster, followed by a question about salt. Now, he can focus on one topic at a time, whether it’s brains, dinosaurs, or salt. His enthusiasm for learning is reignited, and I can’t wait to see how he continues to thrive at school. With each new day, Ethan approaches school with fresh hope and energy.
Those hugs mean the world to me now. When I look into his calm blue eyes, he holds my gaze longer than before, radiating warmth and connection.
And that is validation enough.
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Summary:
My son Ethan’s journey with ADHD has been challenging, but a recent decision to medicate has transformed his experiences. It has allowed him to focus and engage with the world around him, enhancing his ability to learn and connect. Through this process, I’ve learned the importance of understanding and supporting his unique needs.