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.

A Lesson My Mentor Shared That Changed My Teaching

Coaching session

Early in my career, my Director/mentor mentioned to me during a conversation how she hated hearing people telling children “I don’t care”.  Like, “I don’t care if you were there first, we don’t hit”. She felt the child may only hear the “I don’t care” and not the rest.  Most of the time, the meaning would remain the same if the phrase were removed.

Her words had a profound impact on how I viewed what I said to children. I’m not sure how often I actually said, “I don’t care”, but I removed it from my vernacular. I’ve removed other phrases such as “I don’t want to hear..”  as I feel they may also convey an unintended meaning.

Children are literal. And, like most of us, dwell often on only a portion of what was said. Most of the time the focus is on the negative part of the message. The lesson I took away from the conversation with my director was that words matter. Even if the phrase is a well known saying, the children will pick out the literal words and not the more abstract meaning. After all, they only have a few years of experience and their brains just aren’t ready for the more abstract meanings in sayings and colloquialisms. 

Has a mentor or colleague shared something that made an impact with you that you could share with a newer teacher?