I Didn’t Know I Had ADHD—But My Classroom Did
Two years ago, I was officially diagnosed with ADHD. I was in my 60s. That diagnosis hit like a freight train—equal parts relief and grief. Relief because things finally made sense. Grief because I’d spent an entire lifetime—and an entire career—not knowing why I struggled with things that seemed easy for everyone else.
But here’s what really floored me: even though I didn’t know I was ADHD, I had been creating neurodivergent-friendly classrooms all along. My instincts as a teacher and center director weren’t just about best practice—they were about survival. I built spaces for children that looked like what I had needed. The flexible, forgiving, calm, and curious environments I created? They were my blueprint for belonging.
Teaching Without Knowing—And Still Getting It Right:
Looking back, I see how my brain worked overtime trying to navigate a world that didn’t always work for me. I was always juggling a thousand thoughts, jumping from idea to idea, living in what I now know was executive function chaos. I built systems to help myself cope—checklists, color-coded plans, visual reminders everywhere—and I instinctively gave those same tools to the children in my classroom.
I didn’t do this because a textbook told me to. I did it because I knew what it felt like to be misunderstood, overwhelmed, or labeled “too much.” I didn’t have the language back then to call it neurodivergence, but I knew what it felt like to be expected to fit a mold that just didn’t work.
I still believe that children thrive in classrooms that value them as individuals. I still believe that structure and freedom can co-exist.
Leading with Empathy (Even Before I Had the Words for It):
As a child care center director, I carried that same mindset into every policy, every room arrangement, every training. I set up environments that made room for different ways of learning and being. I prioritized calm spaces, flexible seating, predictable routines, and open-ended play. I encouraged teachers to see behavior as communication and to lead with empathy, not control.
At the time, I thought I was just doing what good educators do. Now I see it for what it was: I was building systems that would have supported me as a child—and they just happened to support a whole lot of other kids, too.
What I Do Differently Now (and What I’m Keeping the Same):
Since my diagnosis, I’ve deepened my understanding of how neurodivergence shows up in early childhood and in educators themselves. I would have added more intentional strategies—like sensory-friendly corners, noise-reducing tools, and even more flexibility in classroom routines—but the heart of my approach hasn’t changed.
I still believe that children thrive in classrooms that value them as individuals. I still believe that structure and freedom can co-exist. And I still believe that neurodivergent-friendly spaces aren’t just good for some kids—they’re good for all kids.
To the Teachers Reading This:
If you’ve ever wondered why your classroom instincts lean toward flexibility, or why you’re drawn to quieter setups and sensory supports—you might be like me. Whether or not you have a diagnosis, your experience matters.
And if you do know you’re neurodivergent? Welcome to the club. You’re not broken. You’re brilliant. And your classroom might already be a softer place in a hard world, just because of who you are.
Let’s keep building spaces we would have felt safe in. Because every child deserves that—and honestly, so do we.
