Both of my sons were labeled as having ADHD or being “special needs” during their school years. From senior kindergarten through grade five, teachers and principals repeatedly tried to convince us that placing them in a “special” school would be in their best interest.

Why? Because, as they put it, the school didn’t have the “right resources.” But what exactly are the “right” resources? Couldn’t that mean assigning a teacher, assistant, or even a trainee to spend a little extra time reviewing homework with them or reading a book together? That kind of attention could have encouraged and motivated them enormously.

The more I spoke with school staff, the more it seemed as though ADHD was being treated like an infectious disease—something that meant my children didn’t belong in a “normal” classroom. But why not? My boys looked the same, thought the same, and were just as capable as their peers. The only difference was that they needed a bit more patience, support, and understanding from their teachers. Is that really too much to ask?

Boys often have vivid, imaginative minds. That doesn’t make them abnormal—it simply makes them children. Instead of separating them and making them feel “different,” teachers should focus on finding new approaches that work for diverse learners. After all, teaching is about meeting children where they are.

When my children were placed in special programs, they didn’t flourish—they became embarrassed, restless, and more frustrated than before. How could that possibly be in their best interest? 

By grade six, however, my oldest son began to change. He grew calmer, more mature, more engaged with his lessons, and no longer rocked in his chair the way he used to. And this happened without medication. Despite strong recommendations from nurses and child psychologists to try Ritalin, I chose not to. I could only see short-term benefits, and I questioned: Who does this really help—my son, or his teachers? What are the long-term effects? Would he come to rely on these drugs forever? How would they affect his future—or even his future children? No. My sons didn’t need medication. They needed time to be children, to move, to play, to grow naturally into their teenage years. Childhood is a cycle, and you cannot rush it.

Today, looking at my oldest son in grade nine, I see a thriving young man. Yes, he struggled, but with encouragement and a supportive environment, he succeeded. He is now a B+ student, independent, confident, and proud of who he is. He no longer needs extra help, and he’s planning his future in aviation.

My younger son is now facing the same labeling process, being placed in “special” classes. But I make sure he never feels less intelligent or less capable than his classmates. I work with him daily on homework, read with him, and maintain constant communication with his teachers and assistants. Together, as a team, we are making progress. And you know what? We’re succeeding.

The truth is that every child is special in their own way. Our responsibility—as parents and educators—is to support, guide, and encourage them. To listen, to be patient, to give them the tools they need to succeed.

When we are there for our children, they will grow into the best versions of themselves—and they will be there for us in return.