“I’m sorry, but your child just doesn’t care about doing well.”

This was the middle school teacher’s only response when I asked her for ideas and suggestions to help my child with ADHD, who was struggling to turn in assignments in this particular class. My child did care about doing well but was having a hard time figuring out how to follow the system. And right to my face, the system was showing me how unforgiving and unhelpful it could be.

Despite her unfavorable conclusion about my child, I explained to the teacher that my child has ADHD, that all children want to do well, and that I wanted to work collaboratively to help my child figure out and outsmart obstacles at school. I thought to myself that if more teachers understood ADHD challenges, these prickly encounters between teacher, student, and parent could significantly diminish.

Thanks, in part, to this encounter, I decided to enroll in a graduate program to become a school psychologist. I began my studies with a thesis topic already in mind: teaching teachers about ADHD.

I had a hunch that teachers’ experiences in the classroom could also improve with education about ADHD. So I designed a study that would examine teachers’ knowledge of ADHD, as well as their self-perception of their teaching abilities. The research, and the findings that preceded it, were eye-opening.

Student and Teacher Challenges in the Classroom When ADHD Is Present

This should come as no surprise to anyone: Studies have found that the school setting intensifies ADHD symptoms. This is, in part, due to behavior expectations in the classroom and challenges in relationships at school. Students describe school as a place that leaves them “frustrated, angry, drained, and/or imprisoned.”¹

[Free! The ADHD Learning Series for Educators]

Similarly, teachers tend to have a hard time with ADHD behaviors. One study found that 63% of teachers reported stress when interacting with students exhibiting ADHD behaviors and 80% found it challenging to teach students with ADHD behaviors.²

But let’s not jump to blame the teachers. When I was designing my study in 2021, I looked at the top 10 general education teacher training programs in the United States and found no classes on ADHD. Within those programs, only a few classes focused more broadly on disability or special needs.³

While disheartening, this finding also increased my empathy toward teachers. In fairness, if teachers have not received any training on ADHD, how can they be expected to know what to do when inattention, hyperactivity, and executive functioning challenges come waltzing (or steamrolling) into the room?

Of course a teacher who has received no formal education about this population of students with unique needs is going to feel and act stressed.

[Read: Only 4 in 10 Educators Receive ADHD Training]

But there’s a glimmer of hope: In that same study and others, teachers reported that they wanted more information about ADHD, including how to manage students with ADHD.³

Even though I’m still annoyed at the teacher who said my child doesn’t care about doing well (yes, I can hold a grudge), it became clear to me that teachers aren’t the villains.

Teacher Self-Efficacy and ADHD

Armed with this knowledge, I set out to see how two groups of middle school teachers would be impacted if they participated in an ADHD workshop. Prior to the workshops, I asked teachers to take a survey measuring ADHD knowledge and teacher self-efficacy. Self-efficacy is the teacher’s own belief that they can help even the most difficult students.⁴

Teachers were then asked to take the same survey within five days of finishing the ADHD workshop. The results of the surveys suggested that my hunch was correct. Not only did knowledge about ADHD improve, but the results found that teacher self-efficacy showed a small increase following the workshop as well. Simply put, teachers felt better about their ability to teach once they had participated in a workshop about ADHD.

Why is this important? Teachers’ perceived effectiveness is related to how they work toward the success of their students in their classrooms. Teacher self-efficacy determines whether a teacher will continue with a difficult situation and how long they will continue trying when they are confronted with obstacles.⁵ It’s true that ADHD behaviors can be challenging, so it makes sense that teacher self-efficacy would increase alongside understanding about and strategies for those behaviors.

Teachers’ Attitudes About Students With ADHD

Another exciting result from my study was that attitudes about students with ADHD improved after taking the workshop. Results from the pre- and post-intervention surveys indicated a statistically significant decrease in negative attitudes and increase in positive attitudes about ADHD after the workshop.

Prior to the workshop, teachers responded in the following ways to this prompt, “Children who have ADHD affect the teaching process in the following ways:”

• “They can be disruptive and it can be hard to manage the disruptions.”
• “Can make it hard to manage the class as a whole if they are being overly disruptive.”
• “Can impact the pacing of the lesson and draw unnecessary attention to themselves.”
• “By distracting other students’ learning.”

Following the workshop, some teachers still shared that students with ADHD are distracting, but they added a level of positivity and empathy that did not exist earlier:

• “Can be distracting but also add to depth of learning.”
• “Distract other students and can come up with great ideas and connections.”
• “Cause distractions, sometimes add insight.”

Additionally, following the workshop, teachers noted that students with ADHD help teachers improve their teaching:

• “Make the teacher more deliberate and better.”
• “They encourage me to think on my feet and vary lessons in order to keep everyone interested and learning.”
• “Provide greater detail and clarification which helps the whole class.”
• “Expand possibilities for differentiated instruction, require targeting multiple senses, diversify the lessons we teach, the way we partition information.”
• “Help teachers build character.”
• “They make the classroom diverse and interesting because we do fun things to increase engagement.”

I found it heartwarming that teachers also noticed both the reality of ADHD challenges as well as the strengths of students with ADHD. For example, in response to the prompt “Children with ADHD are…”, respondents shared these comments after the workshop:

• “Still trying their best to be successful.”
• “Kids who may need more support at school but also have their own personality traits that are awesome.”
• “Capable of learning and behaving appropriately with behavior modification and medication (if necessary).”
• “Intelligent, fun, caring, and they truly want to do the right things.”
• “Creative, resourceful, and whole, and benefit from supportive accountability.”

What do these findings mean for caregivers, teachers, and administrators? While there will always be prickly teachers like the one who set me on a new career path, most teachers want to understand kids with ADHD. And that’s thrilling to understand.

We can all make significant changes for students and teachers by sharing about ADHD. Here are some ideas.

• Share this self-guided course about ADHD with your child’s teachers.
• Parents can approach school conversations expecting that teachers are eager to learn about their child’s unique, ADHD-specific challenges and accompanying strengths. This can ease any tension beforehand.
• Parents and teachers can ask the principal for in-service training about ADHD.
• Parents can share this article with a principal and/or teacher.

ADHD Training for Teachers: Next Steps

• Read: All Brains Are Beautiful
• Read: How to Create a Classroom Built on Respect
• Read: “How Educators’ Implicit Bias Stifles Neurodivergent Learners”

ADDITUDE IS HUMAN
Artificial intelligence does not create or edit any written content published by ADDitude. Our editorial team is 100% human, and our mission is simple: listen to and serve our readers with hand-crafted, expert-informed resources. To support ADDitude, please consider subscribing. Your readership and support help make our commitment possible. Thank you.

Sources

¹ Gwernan-Jones, R., Moor, D. A., Cooper, P., Russell, A. E., Richardson, M., Rogers, M., Thompson-Coon, J., Stein, K., Ford, T. J., & Garside, R. (2016). A systematic review and synthesis of qualitative research: the influence of school context on symptoms of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Emotional and Behavioural Difficulties, 21(1), 83–100. https://doi.org/10.1080/13632752.2015.1120055

² Yarde-Leavett, C. (2018). Teachers’ knowledge of and attitudes towards ADHD in the Western Cape. [Master’s Thesis, University of Cape Town South Africa]. http://www.psychology.uct.ac.za/sites/default/files/image_tool/images/117/Logos/thesis/ Claire% 20Yarde-Leavett% 20Thesis

³ US News. (2021). Best curriculum and instruction programs. US News. https://www.usnews.com/best-graduate-schools/top-education-schools/curriculuminstruction-ranking

⁴ Berman, P., McLaughlin, M., Bass, G., Pauly, E., & Zellman, G. (1977). Federal programs supporting educational change. Vol. VII: Factors affecting implementation and continuation. Santa Monica, CA: RAND. http://files.eric.ed.gov/fulltext/ED140432.pdf

⁵Bandura, A. (1978). Self-efficacy: Toward a unifying theory of behavioral change. Advances in Behaviour Research and Therapy, 1(4), 139–161. https://doi.org/10.1016/0146- 6402(78)90002-4.

One afternoon, I sat at my kitchen table in tears. I didn’t want to cry — I did everything I could to stop the tears, but they came anyway. My youngest child had just told me she wished I would put on my headphones to listen to my music instead of playing it through our Bluetooth speakers.

Totally harmless comment. No big deal, right? Not with rejection sensitivity.

When my kids were born, I had all these ideas about the kind of home I wanted them to grow up in. One of those ideas? A home filled with music. It was a memory I wanted them to carry and share with their own kids. Something I thought would be joyful.

As dramatic as it sounds, it hurt to hear that my dream for my daughter’s childhood was basically an annoyance. I reflected on years past when she did dance and sing with me in the kitchen, which only made the pain worse. But I made sure my daughter knew I was just sad about the situation, not upset at her.

[Read: It’s OK to Cry — and Other Lessons from a Sensitive Mom with ADHD]

Parenthood with rejection sensitivity means navigating many benign yet painful moments, knowing that our children don’t mean harm. Babies can make us feel rejected when they cry and cry and nothing we’re doing is soothing them. We feel rejected when our toddlers turn away from us, though we know we are their entire world.

Rejection sensitivity hits harder as they become older. They become embarrassed to be seen with us. The hugs get fewer and farther between. They test boundaries, disapprove of our decisions, and reject advice from us as they practice independence. They accuse us – the people who want nothing but their happiness – of not wanting them to have fun or be happy. They don’t yet realize how deeply their words sink. In many ways, our children can unintentionally make us feel like we’re falling short.

How to Parent with Rejection Sensitivity

1. Broaden your view.
My therapist told me that practically all parents struggle with feelings of inadequacy. After all, there are an infinite number of ways to be a good parent. Yet we tend to focus on the things we can’t do, and that convinces us that we’ve fallen short.

2. Stop mind reading.
If your child happens to point out that, hey, all their friends get to play baseball so why can’t they, and the reason is that you don’t have the money to pay for both baseball and cello and you chose cello, it can feel like your child is saying your parenting is not good enough.

[Read: How to Control Your Emotions and RSD in Real Time]

That isn’t what they’re saying. What they’re saying is, they want to play baseball. Notice when you’re developing a story out of nothing, and focus on the evidence.

3. Practice letting go (and practice some more).
Living with AuDHD, I often fall into the trap of taking everything people say, including the things said by my children, literally and to heart. And because I have those delightful additional negative messages in my brain from when I was a child, it is not easy to convince myself that I should brush it off and let it go. But I’ve gotten better at it.

As an adult, I have the ability and responsibility to look at the things my children say through the lens of them being teenagers – with developing brains and unstable hormones – and me being the grown-up.

When warranted, I tell my children their comment was hurtful or uncalled for, but I don’t let it settle into my heart.

4. Regulate and return.
Rejection sensitivity means that I sometimes have to walk away from a conversation with the promise to come back to it later, when I’m calmer. Sometimes it means switching to communicating through text so I don’t blurt out anything I don’t mean. Sometimes it means processing my feelings privately or with my therapist. I’ll go for a walk until my anger or frustration simmer, as losing my temper will help no one.

When I walk away or pause, I make sure my children know that I’m trying to regulate – not that I’m walking away from them.

My job isn’t to never feel rejected. My job is to make sure my rejection sensitivity doesn’t trigger a negative cycle that becomes theirs to handle.

Rejection Sensitivity and Parenting: Next Steps

• Read: “4 Rules for Taking a Mom Rage Break”
• Read: “My Child’s Short Fuse Lights My Short Fuse.”
• Read: How to Stop Emotional Distress from Snowballing

ADDITUDE IS HUMAN
Artificial intelligence does not create or edit any written content published by ADDitude. Our editorial team is 100% human, and our mission is simple: listen to and serve our readers with hand-crafted, expert-informed resources. To support ADDitude, please consider subscribing. Your readership and support help make our commitment possible. Thank you.

Some days, parenting leaves marks you can actually see: bruises on your arms, scratches that sting for hours, soreness that lingers long after the tears have stopped.

I never imagined this part of motherhood. I don’t think any parent does. And yet here I am, bruised, exhausted, and still loving my child with everything I have.

Parenting isn’t always bedtime stories and soft giggles. Sometimes it’s chaos that spills over, a storm that lands on your skin. You know your child isn’t trying to hurt you. You know they’re scared, trapped in their own overwhelm, clawing for a way out. And, still, it hurts.

Saying that doesn’t mean you’re blaming them. It means you’re human. You can love your child completely and still admit that it’s hard. You can see their struggle and acknowledge your own.

Autism Parent Burnout: Navigating Aggression and Explosive Moments

When my son was first diagnosed as autistic with ADHD, I couldn’t have imagined what would follow. The fierce aggression that would seemingly erupt without warning. The sleepless nights that stretched endlessly. The quiet fear that crept into the spaces between love. I saw a curious little boy who carried a red stuffed dinosaur everywhere and adored villains because “they’re more interesting than heroes.” I didn’t see the holes in walls, the broken glass, or the moments I’d lock myself in the bathroom and cry while waiting for the storm to pass.

[Read: “The Secret Grief of Raising a Chronically Dysregulated Child”]

People rarely talk about this side of autism. The world prefers tidier stories: the prodigy, the quirky genius, the uplifting transformation. Those narratives are hopeful, but they leave many of us out. They skip the nights you hold your child as they scream, praying they won’t hurt themselves. They skip the mornings you hide your bruises beneath long sleeves before beginning the day.

Sometimes strangers in the grocery store offer unsolicited advice about discipline. Others look away. Even within the autism community, there’s a divide between those who can celebrate neurodiversity and those of us simply trying to survive it. I’m grateful for the growing awareness and celebration of difference, but relentless positivity can become its own kind of silence. Sometimes love doesn’t look like joy. It looks like stamina.

Many of us stay quiet because we’re afraid. Afraid of judgment. Afraid someone might call the authorities. Afraid the world will stop seeing our children as the kind, complex humans they are. But silence doesn’t protect anyone. It just deepens the loneliness.

The truth is, parents like me are tired. We fight insurance denials for therapies that help our kids function. We drown in paperwork. We wait months or years for appointments that might bring relief. We spend long nights in emergency rooms when we can’t keep our kids or ourselves safe.

[Read: “10 Things People Say to You When You’re Raising an Extreme Child”]

Sometimes I look at my other child and wonder what this is teaching them. Their love for their brother runs deep. They’ve witnessed chaos, fear, and unpredictability most kids their age can’t fathom. They’ve had to grow compassion and resilience early, far earlier than they should have to. This life ripples through every member of our family.

It’s not the life I imagined. But it’s the one we have. And inside it, love still endures — stubborn, messy, unbreakable.

Parenting Sometimes Hurts But Doesn’t Erase Our Love

There are moments that stop me in my tracks. Small, quiet flashes that remind me why I keep showing up: a laugh that bursts through after a hard day, a text that spills feelings too big to say out loud, a whispered apology hours after a storm. Those moments don’t erase the pain, but they sit beside it, proof that connection survives even in the cracks.

I’m not writing this to shock anyone or to ask for pity. I’m writing because the raw, unvarnished truth matters. Too many parents carry this alone, whispering their pain in therapist offices or behind closed group chats, terrified of what might happen if they said it out loud.

I want a world where bruises can be spoken of without shame. Where we can admit that parenting sometimes hurts without being labeled ungrateful or cruel. Where acknowledging the hard parts doesn’t erase the love that holds it all together.

If you see a parent struggling in public, take a breath before you judge. What looks like bad behavior might be a meltdown beyond anyone’s control. Offer a kind glance. Ask if they need help. Sometimes being seen is enough.

To the parents walking this road, the ones who hold their kids through the fiercest storms, who clean up the wreckage, who let quiet tears fall before carrying on, I see you. You’re not alone.

I’ll sit with you in the darkness, waiting for the light to find its way back in, because it always does. And when it does, it’s softer now, filtered through everything we’ve survived. It shines differently through the cracks we never asked for but now wear as proof of what love can endure.

Maybe that’s what real parenting is. Not perfection. Not peace. But the steady, unshakable choice to stay and keep loving, even when it hurts.

Autism Parenting: Next Steps

• Read: “The Day My Extreme Child Brought Me to Tears”
• Read: Help! My Kid’s Having an ADHD Meltdown in Target
• Read: The Exhaustion Problem in Extreme Parenting

ADDITUDE IS HUMAN
Artificial intelligence does not write or edit any content published by ADDitude. Our team is 100% human, and our mission is simple: listen to and serve our readers with hand-crafted, expert-informed resources. To support ADDitude, please consider subscribing. Your readership and support help make our commitment possible. Thank you.