I stood in my kitchen, clutching those small pills, feeling as if the weight of the world was on my shoulders. With my son’s innocent eyes fixed on me, I uttered a promise that felt like a betrayal: “This is safe. You’ll be fine. I swear.” Deep down, my conscience screamed, “Liar! Terrible mother! You’re failing him!” The day I decided to medicate my son for his ADHD was one of the most daunting days of my life. For so long, I had resisted this choice, exploring every alternative I could find. I eliminated food dyes, invested in “natural light” bulbs for our home, and even purchased a mini-trampoline for him to expend energy. I created obstacle courses in our living room and read to him, pouring all my love and effort into finding solutions.
My son was hesitant about taking the medication. With a severe nut allergy, he was naturally cautious about anything unfamiliar, including food. New experiences filled him with anxiety. So, persuading him to take that pill became an intense struggle, one that ended only after tears were shed (from both of us), promises were made, and ultimately, a bribe was offered.
I assured him it was safe, but my heart was heavy with doubt. I had read the studies, learned about the side effects, and they terrified me. The research was relatively recent and not specific to my son. What if he was the one child who reacted negatively? What if this affected his developing brain? What if it didn’t even work? But he believed in me, and as his mother, his protector, I promised him everything would be okay. He took the pill, day after day, while I silently bore the burden of uncertainty. Each morning, opening that bottle reminded me that I was navigating this journey in the dark. I monitored him for any shifts in mood, appetite, or sleep. He started skipping lunch, claiming he had no appetite. Teachers noted he was calmer, yet still unfocused. He could sit still, but his concentration did not improve. More often than not, he was not a disruption in class.
I chose not to give him medication on weekends. It might sound irrational, but seeing him subdued felt unnatural. My son is full of life—wild, loud, and exuberant. Yes, he has moments that test my patience, but that chaotic energy is part of who he is. The calm version of him was a shadow of my boy; he was growing thinner, prompting his doctor to advise that we increase his calorie intake. I couldn’t bear watching the transformation caused by those pills, so I limited his medication to school days.
Five years passed, and then came middle school. He began expressing his discomfort with the medication. “I want to want to eat lunch. I don’t like how this makes me feel,” he confided, and I realized I was now forcing him to take something he didn’t want.
Middle school brought a flurry of parent-teacher meetings. His struggle to keep up with schoolwork was overwhelming. Daily emails about his inattentiveness felt like a weight pressing down on us both. Our nightly homework battles were exhausting, leaving little joy in our relationship. His self-esteem plummeted, and my patience ran thin. Each weekday morning, I handed him those pills, and he took them without a word, his silence speaking volumes.
The shame and guilt I felt were suffocating. Each doctor visit for his three-month prescription refill was a reminder of the burden I carried—hopeful that time would bring change or that a different medication might yield better results. We experimented with four different drugs, each bringing its own troubling side effects. The morning of each new trial was another notch on my guilt belt, as he would ask, “Are you sure this one is OK?” Trusting me despite my growing uncertainty, I nodded, though the lies became easier to tell and the guilt heavier to bear.
Fortunately, circumstances began to shift. He matured, found an alternative school that catered to his learning style, and he no longer takes those pills. I no longer wear the heavy cloak of guilt.
I share this narrative for those who believe that parents who choose to medicate their children do so lightly or without sufficient effort. The choice to medicate is not easy, and I would be hard-pressed to find a parent who hasn’t wrestled with this decision. I hope this piece offers insight into this challenging journey, and I urge compassion for parents who face such difficult choices. For some, medication can transform lives; for others, like me, it provided some relief but fell short of being a miracle solution. For many, it leads back to square one.
Be kind, withhold judgment, and may you never face a decision that requires you to promise your child something you’re unsure you can deliver.