Updated: March 30, 2021
Originally Published: May 22, 2017
I stood there, clutching those tiny pills in my hand, feeling utterly defeated. I had lost a battle, only to realize I was now fighting a different kind of war. Looking at my son’s innocent face, I uttered what felt like the most significant lie of my life: “It’s safe. You’ll be okay. I promise.” Deep down, every part of me screamed, “Liar! Terrible mother! You’ve failed him!”
The day I first gave my son medication for his ADHD was one of my most challenging moments. I had resisted for so long, trying everything I could think of to avoid that moment. I explored natural alternatives—avoiding food dyes, investing in pricey “natural light” bulbs, and buying a mini trampoline for him to expend energy. I even had him run laps around the living room during homework breaks. I poured my love into him and fought relentlessly for his well-being.
Despite my efforts, my son was hesitant about taking the pills. With a severe nut allergy, he was extremely wary of anything new, even if it was food. Convincing him to swallow that first pill turned into a battle of wills, filled with tears on both sides, promises, threats, and ultimately a bribe.
I assured him it was safe, but deep down, I knew I shouldn’t have made that promise. I had read the studies and learned about the potential side effects, and they scared me. The research was relatively new—only about 20 years old—and not specifically conducted on my child. How could I be sure he wouldn’t be the exception who experienced adverse effects? How could I guarantee it wouldn’t hinder his brain’s development during such a critical stage? Yet, because I was his mother, his protector, he trusted me. He swallowed the pill that day and continued to do so in the days that followed.
I meticulously monitored him for any changes—his mood, appetite, sleep patterns—everything. He began skipping lunch, claiming he wasn’t hungry. Teachers noted he was calmer but not necessarily more focused. He could sit still, but concentration was elusive. He wasn’t disruptive, which was a relief, but it didn’t feel like a true victory.
On weekends, I refrained from giving him the pills. I know it might sound odd, but my son shouldn’t be calm; he’s lively, energetic, and at times, can drive me to the brink of exhaustion. That peaceful, thin child who needed encouragement to eat more was not my boy! I couldn’t bear the thought of the changes the medication brought about, so I reserved the pills for school days only.
For five years, we tried different medications, each with the promise of improvement. Then came middle school, and he became more vocal about his dislike for the pills. “I want to want to eat lunch. I don’t like how they make me feel,” he expressed.
I found myself forcing medication on my child, who was pleading with me to stop. Middle school brought a barrage of parent-teacher meetings, with constant updates about his lack of engagement in class. The nightly struggles over homework were exhausting for both of us, and the joy in our relationship was fading. His self-esteem was plummeting, my patience was wearing thin, and we were both suffering. Yet, each morning, I handed him the pills along with a lunchbox that would inevitably return untouched. He accepted them without meeting my gaze, his silence saying more than any act of rebellion could.
My sense of failure and guilt weighed heavily on me. Each visit to the specialist for a prescription refill felt like a crushing blow. I kept hoping that time would bring change, that perhaps a new medication would work wonders. We cycled through four different drugs, each one accompanied by its own set of troubling side effects. Every new medication felt like another notch on my guilt belt. “Are you sure this one is okay?” he would ask, still trusting me. I would nod, but the lies became easier to tell while the guilt grew harder to bear.
Eventually, circumstances began to shift. He matured, and we found a unique school that catered to his learning style and pace. Most importantly, he stopped taking those pills. I finally shed the burden of guilt. This decision proved to be the best for both him and our family. I have the son I was meant to have—imperfectly perfect, just as we all are.
I share this story for those who believe that parents who choose to medicate their children do so lightly, or that we’ve simply been influenced by pharmaceutical companies. Deciding to medicate is never easy. I hope my experience sheds light on this difficult choice and encourages kindness towards parents navigating similar decisions. For some, medication may be a miracle; for others, like us, it may simply be a temporary solution.
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In summary, my decision to stop my child’s ADHD medication was driven by a desire for his well-being and our family’s happiness. It was a challenging journey filled with guilt and uncertainty, but ultimately, it was the right choice for us.