ADHD Medication

It started with a lockdown.

Not a COVID lockdown.

A preschool lockdown.

Because our child, mid-meltdown, was trying to smash the windows.

I got the call from the preschool director, voice tight with worry. Staff had gathered the other children in another room. I walked into that preschool, and the tension in the air was thick. The staff looked at me—not just worried, but shaken. They had seen meltdowns before, but nothing like this. They weren’t just trying to keep the other kids safe; they genuinely didn’t know what to do. And neither did I.

This wasn’t our first rodeo. By this point, we had years of experience dealing with emotional regulation and behavioural challenges.

Psychologists? Yes, multiple.

Occupational therapy? Weekly sessions.

Speech therapy? Check.

Parenting courses? Many.

Books? Read every neurodivergent, sensory, and trauma-informed parenting guide I could get my hands on.

Expert advice? Followed to the letter.

We weren’t new to this. We had tried everything. Every strategy, every technique, every intervention. And yet, here we were.

A preschool in lockdown.

This wasn’t just a bad day. This was unsustainable. This child needed more than we could give. This was the moment we knew.

Chalk needed medication.

Two Kids, Two Very Different Journeys

If Chalk and Cheese were opposites in personality, their medication journeys followed suit.

Cheese needed medication to survive school. Chalk needed it to survive, full stop.

Chalk was a dream baby. Slept well, ate well, zero issues. And then, at ten months old, separation anxiety hit like a freight train. Daycare started, and drop-offs became impossible. I physically couldn’t leave without triggering an hour-long meltdown, so eventually, my husband had to take over.

Unlike Cheese, whose struggles exploded in the school environment, Chalk struggled everywhere.

Public outings? Hid behind me and refused to speak.

Clothes? Wouldn’t leave home unless wearing pyjamas.

Behaviour? Drawing on walls, painting the carpet with food colouring, pulling apart anything and everything just to see what was inside.

Constant movement. Impulsive. Impatient.

Curious to the point I finally understood how it killed the cat.

Chalk’s brain was fast and also sharp. 

Reading fluently before preschool? Yep. But there were no flash cards in our house. 

Playing chess after watching Bluey’s ‘Chest’ episode once? How on earth? But yes.

Noticing tiny details no one else saw? Also yes.

And then there was the counting.

Chalk’s separation anxiety was so extreme that multiplying by 60 became second nature—converting the number of hours until pickup into minutes to countdown. If preschool staff said, "Mummy will be here in three hours," Chalk would instantly reply:

"That’s 180 minutes."

It wasn’t about being bright. It was survival. A desperate attempt to control the one thing that felt unbearable. But that same fast-processing brain made focus nearly impossible.

Tasks were never finished. Because something more interesting always popped up.

Tantrums were frequent. Big emotions, no regulation.

Needed physical support to stay regulated. Hugs, deep pressure, constant movement.

Personal space? Non-existent.

Waiting? Never an option.

Preschool was fine, until structure was introduced.

Then the cracks split wide open.

Kindergarten: The Inevitable Struggle & The Medication Journey

When kindergarten started, it was everything I had expected, and everything I had feared. The rigid structure was unbearable.

The social demands were exhausting.

The anxiety skyrocketed.

I met with the school early on and said:

"If the right supports aren’t in place, this isn’t a matter of if, but when, Chalk will be suspended." I wasn’t wrong.

At home, Chalk was a fluent reader, but at school? Refused to read at all. The teacher was convinced Chalk couldn’t read. It didn’t matter how many times I explained it—so I had to secretly record Chalk reading at home just to prove it. Chalk wasn’t struggling academically. Chalk was hiding. We needed help.

For three years we trialled stimulant and non-stimulant ADHD medications. Different doses. Different timings. Some helped a little. But nowhere near enough. We adjusted, tweaked, started over. SSRIs were added for anxiety. Still, it wasn’t enough.

Then came the hardest decision of all: an antipsychotic, off-label, to treat extreme dysregulation. I cried for a week. And then?

It worked. Not a little bit. A lot.

For the first time, we had moments of calm.

Not perfection, never that, but manageable.

Saying Goodbye to School

When we finally made the decision to leave, Chalk’s teacher looked at me and said,

"It’s not just Chalk. The majority of kids struggle in a classroom these days."

And that made me stop and think.

If the majority of kids are struggling in classrooms, what is that telling us?

The system isn’t broken for just a handful of kids, it’s broken for so many.

Maybe it’s not the kids who need to change. Maybe it’s the education system.

What I Know Now

ADHD brains crave dopamine, and if they don’t get it from the task at hand, they’ll seek it elsewhere. Dopamine is the brain’s motivation chemical, responsible for focus, impulse control, and feeling rewarded for effort.

So what does engage an ADHD brain?

Novelty – Anything new, different, or unpredictable.

Challenge – Difficult, but achievable tasks that require deep thinking.

Urgency – A sense of immediacy, like racing the clock.

Passion-based learning – Tying lessons to personal interests.

Immediate rewards – Short-term motivation boosts along the way.

Movement – Learning through action, hands-on activities.

Social connection – Talking, debating, engaging with others.

Instead of forcing low-dopamine tasks, I started adapting learning to Chalk’s brain. The difference was huge. With the right environment and the right medication, Chalk now has a real chance at life. A chance to embrace the best parts of who he is, rather than constantly fighting to fit into a world that wasn’t made for minds like his.

And if that means a lifetime of tweaking meds, navigating the complexities of an ADHD brain, and explaining (yet again) why the “naughty” label isn’t fair?

Well, here I am. Still fighting. Still learning.

Still choosing what our child needs over what the world expects.