Fear kept me from getting help for my son with ADHD—but not for long

When my son was nearly 4, his preschool teacher sternly suggested we have him evaluated. For what, exactly, she didn’t say. But she obviously felt something was wrong.

He kept fiddling with his new shoes and pulling them off. He got up during rest time and walked around the room — for which she made him stay even longer on the mat. And there was something about him throwing away his lunch despite being told to eat it. (He’d had a big breakfast that day and wasn’t hungry.)

I was upset and angry, but not really surprised. We’d seen behavior like this at home. It was confusing and could be hard to manage. But he was just a little boy with a lot of spirit, I rationalized.

It was easy to dismiss the teacher’s concerns. The way she approached the conversation was terrible, and she clearly didn’t understand my son. Were the shoes really that big a deal? Why couldn’t they just let him walk around in socks? So, I did nothing.

If my son pulled his shoes off all the time the following year, we didn’t hear about it. His pre-K teacher loved him. She thought he was charming and creative, which he was. The school director suggested we have him tested for giftedness.

I liked that message a lot more, but I didn’t follow up on her suggestion, either. Clearly, I didn’t want to open that box even just a little — no matter what was inside.

Then came kindergarten, and the problems were undeniable: lack of focus, difficulty sitting still, trouble following directions. My son also talked so fast it could be hard to understand him. The school jumped in before I had a chance to, providing speech and language therapy without a formal evaluation.

I hoped that intervention would make it all go away, in a case of dread meets magical thinking. Of course, it didn’t.

In first grade, trouble appeared on a new front — reading. At this point, I couldn’t keep dragging my feet. I finally had my son fully evaluated and heard what I’d pushed off hearing: He had dyslexia and ADHD.

The school seemed to be on top of it. My son got the specialized reading instruction and accommodations he needed. And to help him catch up, I found a reading specialist to tutor him once a week. I was on top of that situation, at least.

The first day, I drove a half hour to the tutor’s home. Five minutes after we arrived, we were back in the car. It didn’t go well.

From the second we arrived, my son was walking around the living room, touching things. He got up from the table they were sitting at and wandered away. The reading specialist turned to me and said accusingly, “When are you going to put him on ADHD medication?”

I was furious. But I also felt exposed and ashamed. I started to think: When was I going to put him on medication? Or even consider it? Or ask the doctor about it? By now, it seemed that the feet I’d been dragging were stuck in cement.

I knew why, too. As a teenager and young adult, I lived with unpredictable behavior and uncertainty because of mental health issues in my family. I felt responsible for making the situation better, even though there wasn’t much I could do.

Of course, as a parent, I was responsible for making things better for my child. But what if I couldn’t? What if I made things worse? Thinking about it was overwhelming, so I crept toward acceptance instead of rushing to meet the challenges head on.

I wish I had acted earlier and with more confidence instead of tripping all over my own baggage. I would have understood my child better. I could have gotten him support sooner. But it was like anything else: Once I took more control, my confidence grew.

My son did start taking ADHD medication in second grade. It was a painful decision for me to make, but a life-changing one. Within minutes of taking the first dose, he was able to sit still and have a real conversation. It was an absolute joy. In school, it was easier for him to focus on the instruction he was getting in reading.

That one move was empowering to both of us. Would it have made a huge difference if he had started six months earlier? Maybe. Probably. But in the end, the important thing was that I got there.

This story is part of an ongoing series exploring the relationships between neurodivergent people and their families. Read more.