There’s a quiet kind of grief that lives in the day-to-day of parenting a child with ADHD. It’s not always spoken aloud, but it’s there—the grief of what could have been, of what still feels just out of reach.
Before we go any further, let me say this: there are beautiful, remarkable things about ADHD, and I’ll be writing about those too. But today, I want to gently open the door to the harder side—the part many of us carry silently.
ADHD is often misunderstood. It’s not a behavior problem, nor is it the result of poor parenting. It’s a neurodevelopmental condition that affects how the brain manages attention, impulse control, emotional regulation, and executive function. It’s far more common than people realize, impacting roughly 1 in 10 children in the U.S.
But ADHD doesn’t just affect attention. It touches every part of daily life—organization, memory, flexibility, time management, and self-awareness. For many kids, especially boys, it can mean functioning two to four years behind their peers in these critical areas. What often looks like rebellion is usually just exhaustion.
In our home, that looks like a 10-year-old who, emotionally, often functions more like a 7-year-old. It looks like meltdowns over small things, missing homework (again), and frustration—his and mine. I’m not proud of how often I meet his fire with my own.
I’ve had to learn, slowly and painfully, that traditional parenting strategies don’t always work for a child with ADHD. Our son wrestles with emotional regulation, time management, organization, peer relationships, and significant sensory and sleep sensitivities. He feels things deeply and reacts with intensity. What can look like defiance is often overwhelm. What sounds like “I won’t” is sometimes really, “I can’t.”
The classroom brings its own challenges. Constant transitions, noise, and high expectations for focus can be too much. For our family, a 504 Plan has made a big difference in creating a learning environment that offers support instead of shame. (I’ll be sharing more soon about the differences between a 504 and an IEP, and how to begin the process of getting support in place.)
Socially, friendships can be complicated. Impulsivity and big emotions (oh, do I have stories to share!) can get in the way, but the desire for connection is still there—aching and sincere.
Structure has become a lifeline. We use checklists for everything: morning routines, after-school tasks, bedtime rhythms. It gives him clarity and confidence, and it brings a little more peace into our home.
But beyond structure, I’m learning to pause. To look past the behavior and ask better questions. What’s really going on here? What does he need in this moment? We’ve started using the phrase, “What’s the next right thing to do?”—a question I ask not only of him, but of myself, too. It helps reset the moment and gently guide us forward.
And in all of this, Aidan is grieving too. As an adoptee, he’s carrying layers of loss that aren’t always visible. And when that grief doesn’t have a safe place to land, it often shows up as anger, lying, or shutting down. So when he tells stories that aren’t true, I try not to shame him. Instead, I might say, “I love your imagination. Is that something that really happened, or is it a ‘what if’ story?” Because imagination is a gift—and I want to protect it, even as I gently guide him toward trust and honesty.
This journey has reminded me again and again: transformation doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in community. Sometimes that means reassessing the team around us—therapists, counselors, and support systems. I’m learning to speak up and advocate for care that sees both behavior and the heart beneath it.
And through it all, I keep clinging to this truth: God doesn’t call the equipped. He equips the called. Parenting isn’t about getting it perfect—it’s about faithful, grace-filled stewardship. Stewarding the child in front of me, and the heart within me.
So if you’re raising or teaching a child with ADHD, take a deep breath. You are doing holy work. Your love, your prayers, your consistency—they matter more than you know. These children may walk a different path, but it is a path filled with purpose, beauty, and hope.
You are not alone.
But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. — 2 Corinthians 12:9
Grace in the Disarray 