October 2022:
The official diagnosis… oh boy. Mixed emotions doesn’t even begin to cover it. On one hand, we needed that diagnosis to unlock accommodations, resources, and the treatment our son deserved. On the other hand, it meant officially coming to terms with the reality that, yes, our child is neurodivergent. That’s a truth we weren’t entirely prepared for and didn’t quite understand, but knew we had to face head-on.
I’ll never forget those early days. Right after R started kindergarten, I had what I’ll generously call a spirited discussion with the school. You know the one—the meeting where they smiled politely while basically saying, “We’re not sure he qualifies for an IEP…” Meanwhile, I was sitting there waving every red flag I could find like I was directing traffic at a Taylor Swift concert. At that point, the official diagnoses were sensory integration disorder and hyperkinesis. (Yes, that’s the medical way of saying, “This kid has the energy of a squirrel on espresso.”) Honestly, anyone who’s ever spent five minutes with him didn’t need a professional to tell them that. But we followed the process. We started with occupational therapy and braced ourselves for the ADHD diagnosis.
Let’s be real—I wasn’t surprised. I had known for a while. So, naturally, I did what I do best when overwhelmed: I dove headfirst into research like a caffeinated grad student during finals week, soaking up every strategy, accommodation, and treatment option out there. I was determined to figure this out, even if it meant developing a borderline unhealthy relationship with my search history.
Luckily, we got the official diagnosis within two months of school starting. This is record time in the world of healthcare, that’s practically light speed—someone hand me a medal or at least another iced coffee.
When the medication conversation came up, we paused. We weren’t against it but we also wanted to see what we could do with sensory regulation strategies and behavior interventions first. Plus, we were hoping to buy a few more years before we needed them—kind of like holding off on opening a bottle of wine until the perfect occasion.
I cannot overstate how lucky we were to have a pediatric healthcare provider who was basically the Yoda of ADHD. Wise, patient, and never judgmental. She laid out every tool, strategy, and option without pushing us in any particular direction. She didn’t act like there was one right answer—because spoiler: there isn’t.
At this point, naïvely, I thought getting the diagnosis would be like being handed a key. Open the door. Get the services. Everyone does their job. Cue the smooth sailing. Right? WRONG.
Turns out, the diagnosis isn’t a golden ticket—it’s just the entry fee. I had to turn on my Mama Bear charm and keep advocating, because this journey was far from over. Endless meetings. Phone calls. Emails. More meetings. Lots of “Well, technically, his diagnosis doesn’t mean he needs an IEP…” followed by me pulling out resources and suggestions from the occupational therapist and pediatrician. (Pro tip: there is nothing more intimidating than a parent holding a color-coded binder with Post-it tabs.)
I quickly realized that while the diagnosis gave us a name for what we were dealing with, it didn’t hand us a roadmap. It was like being dropped in the middle of the woods with a compass… but no map, no signal, and a kid who hates bugs.
It was exhausting. And overwhelming. And sometimes infuriating. But it was also empowering. Because as scary as it was to hear the official words, it meant we finally had a starting point. We could stop second-guessing ourselves. We weren’t imagining things. We weren’t bad parents. Our kid wasn’t broken. His brain is just wired differently.
It didn’t erase the fear or the stress or the grief that sometimes crept in when I’d picture the road ahead. But it gave us a foundation. Something to build on. Something solid to stand on when we had to fight for him—and believe me, the fighting was just getting started.