Finding Focus: An ADHD Journey (Part I)

The tricycle wheels spun against the pavement as two-year-old feet pedaled with determined energy down the street. It was naptime, but naps were for people who could sit still, and sitting still had never been an option. The crib had been conquered. One leg over the rail, then the other, a quiet landing, and freedom. Mom was asleep on the couch, finally getting a moment's rest after a morning of keeping up with a whirlwind of perpetual motion.

The quiet residential street stretched ahead, but quiet streets weren't exciting enough. The busy road beyond called with its promise of cars and people and things happening. The tricycle turned toward the main thoroughfare, little legs pumping with the same unstoppable energy that would define the years to come.

"Eleven-o-five, Converse Drive, man alive!" The rhyme tumbled out easily when the kind woman asked where home was. Mom had been smart to teach that little song, though she probably never imagined it would be needed quite so soon. The woman's face was stern as she carried the small escape artist back to the house, her lecture about responsibility and child safety falling on ears that were already planning the next adventure.

Mom's confusion at the door quickly turned to understanding, then to the familiar mix of exhaustion and relief that came with parenting a child who treated the world like a playground with no boundaries.

This was just the beginning.

Swimming became salvation.

The pool welcomed all that excess energy, channeling hyperactivity into powerful strokes and efficient kicks. Six years old, goggles fogged with determination, finding peace in the rhythm of breathing and the burn of muscles working hard. The water didn't ask for stillness—it rewarded movement. For the first time, being active wasn't a problem to be solved but a strength to be celebrated.

PE class was another refuge. While other subjects felt like sitting in a straightjacket, physical education meant freedom. Running, jumping, throwing, catching—finally, school had a place where energy was an asset rather than a liability. The gym teacher never had to ask for attention during sports; focus came naturally when the body was engaged.

But outside these safe spaces, the world remained full of dangers that seemed invisible to everyone else. The tendency to act first and think later led to scraped knees, worried parents, and situations that could have ended much worse. Trees that were meant to be climbed, fences that were clearly meant to be jumped over, and rules that seemed more like suggestions all created a childhood filled with adventure and anxiety in equal measure.

Adults were easier to talk to. They didn't seem as confused by the rapid-fire questions or the tendency to interrupt with what felt like urgent insights. They understood references and could keep up with conversations that jumped from topic to topic like stones skipping across water. Other kids, though, were harder to figure out. They had unspoken rules and social codes that felt like a foreign language.

The classroom was a battleground of restless energy. Legs bounced under desks, pencils tapped rhythmic patterns, and attention drifted to the birds outside the window or the interesting way light filtered through the blinds. Teachers meant well, but their frustrated sighs and reminders to "pay attention" only highlighted how different everything felt. Getting in trouble became routine, but not from defiance, from a body and mind that refused to be contained by desk chairs and quiet voices.

Fourth grade brought the label that finally made everything make sense: ADHD. The constant movement, the blurted observations, the inability to tell those little white lies that smoothed social interactions…it all had a name. While other kids learned to filter their thoughts and sit quietly, there was always another idea demanding immediate expression, another question that couldn't wait for the teacher to finish talking.

Ritalin didn't make the energy disappear—it gave it direction. For the first time, thoughts could form complete sentences before tumbling out. The world slowed down just enough to think before speaking. The constant internal noise quieted to a manageable volume.

Suddenly, sitting in class wasn't torture. Instructions could be heard and followed. Other kids became less mysterious as their social patterns became clearer. The urge to interrupt still existed, but now there was a pause, a moment to consider whether the thought really needed to be shared right now.

The medication didn't change who I was, it revealed who I had always been underneath the chaos. The creativity was still there, the curiosity still burned bright, and the energy still demanded outlets, but now there was control, choice, and the ability to channel all that intensity into something productive.

Swimming continued to be a sanctuary, PE remained a favorite class, and adults were still easier to talk to than peers, but the dangerous situations became less frequent as impulse control developed. The ability to pause, even for just a second, made all the difference between adventure and disaster.

Looking back from years later, that great tricycle escape seems like a perfect metaphor. A child with limitless energy and determination, ready to explore the world, just needing the right guidance to navigate it safely. The ADHD diagnosis wasn't the end of the story; it was the beginning of understanding how to harness a mind that had always been moving at full speed.

The little rhyme still echoes sometimes: "Eleven-o-five, Converse Drive, man alive." A reminder of where the journey started, and how far it's possible to travel when you finally learn to steer the energy in the right direction.