By Angela Hampton 
In preschool, the teacher would sit right next to my cot because I didn’t want to take a nap. I couldn’t stand to lie still. I hated the quiet.
In kindergarten, the teacher’s eyes would shoot daggers at me to stop me from wiggling around and talking to my neighbor at circle time. Being forced to sit there was like torture. I just wanted to get up and dance.
In first grade, my teacher put my desk in the corner, facing the wall, so I would stop chatting with my friends. I learned how to fold paper airplanes so I could fly notes to my friends, so Teacher put four filing cabinets in an L shape around me to barricade me in and called it my “office.” I was so lonely . . . and a little embarrassed.
In second grade, I would get reprimanded for writing things like “My Top 10 Best Friends” instead of the assigned work. I loved to write. I just didn’t want to write a report on tree frogs.
In third grade, the teacher demanded a meeting with my parents. I had fallen weeks behind in my work. I will never forget her words. “If Angela would spend as much time focusing on her work as she does on her social life, she’d be an A student.”
I didn’t hate school. I loved seeing my friends, talking to people, creating things, but when it came to the time of day when I had to sit still and listen to someone drone on about something I couldn’t care less about, it made my skin crawl. When they read out loud to us, my brain couldn’t process the words. I describe it now as “making my brain itch.” If they had just let me read it on my own—or better yet, choose my own books—I could have shown them what I was capable of.
In sixth grade, a miracle happened. We switched classrooms a few times throughout the day, which gave me something to look forward to. I could stand up, move around. More importantly, one of my teachers was a gift from God. She would smile at me, read my poems, lovingly accept my artwork, and tell me how gifted I was. Mrs. Reagan—she made it bearable.
In later grades, the fear of being grounded put a healthy pressure on me to focus—except in math. Once they brought letters into the mix with the numbers, you may as well have been speaking Greek. The last math class I ever took was my sophomore year. I was failing, and I told the teacher I was going to retake the class. He said, “If I give you a C- will you promise me you won’t retake the class and you’ll just be done with math? You and I both know this isn’t your thing.” He was right, and that’s what we did.
The fire in my brain and the movement in my body caused me to be constantly seeking stimulation, excitement. This led to some risky and unhealthy behaviors. What most people call calm or peace and quiet, to me feels like loneliness, torment. I have too many thoughts to express, too much to get done. It’s not FOMO, it’s just that I love life so much I want to drink it in. I want to dive headfirst into loud, happy experiences. When I’m not in the middle of one, I’m thinking about what the next one will be. Heck, even when I am in the middle of one, I’m thinking about the next one.
Thank God he gently guided me onto a career path where all those thoughts, ideas, and stories in my head made me an asset. Sometimes I know I need to shut the door of my office, turn up the music, and get in my zone of creation. Other days, I get absolutely nothing done because my internal motor is just moving too fast. I’ve learned to give myself grace and try again tomorrow.
Things have changed since I was growing up in the ’80s, but for many girls with ADHD, they’re not all that different. We’re misunderstood. Maybe you think we’re annoying, weird, attention-seeking. You think we’re not trying hard enough, we aren’t working to our potential. You’re probably right, but our brains are tired. They never stop. They never calm. The light never goes out for us.
Be patient with those wiggly girls. Find out what interests their little minds enough that their motor can idle for a while. Tell them they have a superpower—if they can just figure out how to use it for good. The messages you give them in those early days will forever live in their minds.
by Alethea Mshar 
by Casey Hitchcock 
