For three long years, my partner and I hesitated to medicate our son, Ethan, for his ADHD. Like many parents, we opted for the “try everything else first” approach, which served two main purposes: it acted as a shield against any hidden judgments of lazy parenting, and it allowed us to feel less guilty about the decision to medicate—because we genuinely attempted every other option first.
The pivotal moment in our “Should We Medicate?” dilemma came during a parent-teacher conference. Sitting across from Ethan’s four teachers, I felt an overwhelming wave of helplessness wash over me as they shared their struggles. These educators, some of the best in the state, had implemented every strategy they could think of, yet Ethan was only completing around 40% of his assignments. His classroom behavior was chaotic; materials scattered everywhere, perpetual disruptions, and a complete lack of awareness of his tasks. The teachers spent so much time trying to reach him that the rest of the class suffered. After that meeting, I went home and cried. We had to take action. “Everything else” simply wasn’t effective.
Ethan began taking 10 mg of Focalin on a Tuesday. Within 15 minutes, I noticed subtle changes. When I asked him to put on his shoes, they were already on his feet. He calmly got into the car when I asked—what was happening? During the drive to school, he gazed thoughtfully out of the window. I panicked for a moment, thinking he was zoning out, but when I inquired about his thoughts, he articulated a detailed plan for his next Minecraft project. Who was this articulate child?
That afternoon, upon returning from school, he neatly placed his shoes in the laundry room, unpacked his backpack and lunch, then eagerly began his homework. Even when his younger sister was running around making noise, he asked her to quiet down so he could concentrate. I’d never heard him express that before. He completed his homework in record time and dashed outside to play with the neighbors.
The following day, I asked Ethan to tidy up the kitchen table. A minute later, I turned to remind him, only to find he had already done it. That realization struck me hard: Ethan wasn’t the only one struggling. Our family had been affected by ADHD, particularly me, as his primary caregiver. I had been so consumed with worry over the negative feedback Ethan received at school that I hadn’t seen how it was impacting my own well-being. I had conditioned myself to expect that he would never follow through with tasks unless I constantly hovered and repeated instructions. I had unwittingly become annoyed with my own child.
That Thursday morning, as we drove to school, Ethan was using his multiplication flashcards in the car. He sorted through them, reciting each one multiple times, and even developed a study technique similar to one I had used in the past. It hit me then—my son and I were connected in a way I had never fully appreciated.
When I picked him up later from chess club, I encountered his reading and social studies teacher. With palpable excitement, she shared how well Ethan had been doing. She presented a writing sample that showcased his growth, praising his handwriting and content. Ethan, intrigued by a fire alarm he had just noticed, peppered her with questions, maintaining eye contact and engaging in a way I had never seen before. We exchanged glances, both a little teary-eyed.
For years, I labeled myself as impatient and reactive, often feeling overwhelmed by motherhood. However, since Ethan began his medication, things have shifted. The effects of the medication lasted into the evening, granting me a calm and focused version of my son for a few hours each day. I discovered that with two children behaving as expected, I was far more patient than I had realized.
This leads me to a bittersweet realization: I like my child better when he’s on medication. He’s more coherent, easier to interact with, and organized in his tasks. More importantly, I like myself better during those times. I find myself yelling less and experiencing less frustration—this newfound calm is quite appealing.
Yet, I grapple with the question: Is the medicated Ethan still the real Ethan? Did I medicate him to mold him into someone more like me? Am I making his life easier at the cost of his authenticity?
Reflecting on the past six weeks, I’ve gained more perspective. We haven’t medicated on weekends, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I’m still considerably more patient during those times. I believe Ethan’s weekdays on medication help me remain emotionally equipped to handle any challenges that arise. He enjoys school now, feeling competent in his abilities, and he’s happier knowing that his teachers aren’t constantly on his case.
I remind myself that the medication doesn’t change who Ethan is; it simply alleviates the noise in his mind, allowing his true self to shine through. That’s a perspective I’m learning to embrace.
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Summary:
The author shares her journey of navigating her son Ethan’s ADHD and the decision to medicate after years of resistance. She reflects on how the medication has positively impacted both Ethan’s behavior and her own mental well-being, while grappling with questions about authenticity and identity.