Anxiety
I’ve come to realise that anxiety is a constant companion for many parents of children with ADHD. It’s something I’ve touched on before, but I want to go a little deeper - to explore what it was, specifically, about some of our experiences that shaped my parenting journey.
Ultimately, I hope that in future, kids with ADHD and their parents are less harshly judged. That’s why I’m writing this post - in an effort to share what it feels like when you are doing everything you can and it still feels like you’re falling short.
When Anxiety First Crept In
The earliest time I remember feeling judged by another parent was when Smiler was under two years old. We were at a parent and toddler group, and while the other toddlers sat nicely to sing songs or played quietly, Smiler was a whirlwind of energy. He couldn’t sit still, couldn’t play gently, and I was constantly darting after him, always on high alert.
One of the other mums there had a little boy the same age, just a few weeks apart. Whether she meant to or not, I could feel the comparison in her eyes. Her child seemed calm and compliant, mine was not. I could sense her quiet disapproval, that look that said, you’re doing something wrong.
That moment triggered something in me - I became hyper-vigilant. I didn’t want to be judged again, so I started following Smiler everywhere, trying to pre-empt anything that might attract criticism.
Of course, it didn’t work.
When he began hitting or lashing out at soft play, I followed him there too - squeezing myself through tiny tunnels and down slides, even while heavily pregnant with our youngest. At birthday parties, my husband and I would tag-team so that one of us was always nearby, ready to step in before things went wrong.
It was completely exhausting, and looking back, probably stifling for Smiler. The more closely we hovered, the more his frustration grew. Still, I couldn’t let go. The anxiety of being judged again felt unbearable.
Eventually we just stopped going to busy places. It was easier that way - though I didn’t realise at the time just how much easier it was for parents of neurotypical kids to let their children roam freely without fear of judgement.
The School Years
When Smiler moved on to nursery he had largely stopped lashing out, though things didn’t get any easier once Smiler started school. I’ve already written about the birthday party invitations that dried up and the playdates that were never reciprocated.
On the occasions he was invited somewhere, I spent the entire time wondering how he was behaving, often messaging the other parent for updates. I’d send extra snacks or generous gifts, hoping people would see that we were kind, responsible, and on top of things. I tried to make myself likeable and approachable, in the hope that it might compensate for my child being “harder” to like.
Looking back, I can see how anxious I must have seemed - hovering, over-apologising, constantly checking in.
When Smiler faced difficulties at school or with his friends, we hesitated to intervene, perhaps because deep down we still feared that his behaviour wasn’t “good enough”. We tried to raise concerns gently, but one parent told us, in no uncertain terms, that Smiler “just needed to learn to shut up”. He was nine years old. ADHD or not, what nine year old deserves that?
After that, we retreated again. It felt like we were carrying a secret, one that few people would ever understand.
The Weight of the Afternoon Bell
Some of my strongest memories from those years aren’t of the classroom or homework, but of standing at the school gates, waiting for that final bell at the end of the day.
The dread would build as I scanned the teacher’s face - would I get the signal, the quiet wave that meant “can we have a word?” in front of all the other parents?
Those moments were excruciating. It felt like a dark cloud hanging over us for years. Only now, looking back with a diagnosis in place, do I see just how heavy that weight was. And how invisible it must have looked from the outside.
Private Fears
Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and worry about what the future holds for Smiler. Not the academic stuff, but the bigger, adult things like relationships, independence and the ability to carve out a life for himself.
He’s so impulsive - what if that never changes? What if he can’t cope with the demands of adult life? What if he falls in with the wrong crowd or makes one reckless decision with devastating consequences?
I try to shake these thoughts off, but once they take hold, I am fixated, running through every possible future with most of them ending badly.
It’s not that I don’t believe in Smiler. I do. But the world isn’t built with much compassion for kids like Smiler when they grow up. And some nights, that daunting thought keeps me wide awake.
Seeing Things Through a Different Lens
It’s only with hindsight, and the clarity that comes after Smiler’s ADHD diagnosis, that I can finally see our journey for what it was.
Yes, there are things we could have done differently. But when you are consumed by worry, shame, and exhaustion, it’s almost impossible to see clearly. Anxiety made us hesitant when dealing with school, made us tread on eggshells with other parents, and pushed our people-pleasing tendencies into overdrive.
I feel sad that we weren’t always confident enough to stand our ground, that we tried to manage others’ comfort instead of protecting our child.
Reflection
Even now, judgement from others, especially those who still believe outdated ideas about ADHD, cuts deep.
I yearn for the day when I can move through life without worrying what people think of us. But slowly, things are shifting - I’m learning to lean into relationships with people who get it. And to let go of those that don’t. That’s been one of the most freeing lessons of all.
And then there are the nights when the old anxiety creeps back in. What happens when we’re not here to help him? I can’t offer much reassurance at this point - just the realisation that parenting a child like Smiler means living with uncertainty.
Part of the reason I write this blog is to build understanding - to show what it’s really like for a child like Smiler, and for the family trying to support them. Every day has its challenges, and many of them aren’t visible to the outside world.
I’m still learning to quiet the anxious voice that tells me we’re being judged. But I am slowly starting to let go.