How ADHD and Autism Support Shape a Child’s Self Worth
Three generations of ADHD and autism in one family
My Dad: The Undiagnosed Wild Child
My dad was the classic ADHD, autistic-leaning kid, and nobody gave him a diagnosis. They gave him space. At three, he pulled his Pekingese’s tail with pliers. At four, he stomped on a clown’s foot to light up the red nose. By eight, my exhausted grandmother dropped him off unattended at the Chicago Natural History Museum for the whole day. At ten, during World War II, he got into a rifle duel at camp and was shot. (And, was hospitalized.)
None of this was safe, and in today’s day and age, CPS would be called. But he was not labeled a “problem child,” despite being an oppositional teen who defied authority and often got away with it due to his athletic prowess as an All‑American swimmer. He certainly was not under my grandparents’ microscope; he was given outlets where he could be successful, like the swimming pool and art classes, where his creativity was nurtured. He developed a genuine love of learning despite finding school boring and earning a D average. In those days, an All‑American athlete with a D average could get into Northwestern. After a stint in the Navy and a more matured frontal lobe, he eventually went to medical school and had a wonderful career built on deep, intuitive diagnostic strengths. His life, for better and worse, unfolded organically and was ultimately fulfilling, his self‑esteem fully intact.
Me: The High-Achieving Kid Who Felt Like a Project
A generation later, the same wiring met a very different world. I had undiagnosed ADHD and learning disabilities, but now teachers had language and services for my struggles. In fourth grade, a teacher told my mother, “She needs tutors.” And I got them: tutors, structure, executive function support. There was a person to help me with any perceived deficit. The subliminal message was that who I was was not enough, and I had to do better. “Better” felt elusive, but maybe achievable with more and more support. By high school, I was the perfectionistic straight‑A student and a competitive tennis player. The programming I received around tennis matched the intensity of the support around academics, and I was good enough to play Division I. (Please don’t ask me to play with you now; I am thoroughly burned out.)
On paper, it all worked: acceptances to great schools with associated opportunities. Inside, I felt like a project, someone who only succeeded because of how much time, money, and energy my adult support system poured into me. The anxiety, OCD flavor, and depression grew quietly alongside the achievements.
My Son: IEP, Medication, and “I Must Be Dumb.”
Then came my son, another version of the same brain in an even more clinical era. He was bright, intense, and constantly in motion, so his nursery school teacher pulled me aside: “Jennifer, you need to get him evaluated.” Instead of wondering whether the environment was a poor fit for his learning style, I went looking for support to help him fit into the environment he was in. We went straight to a psychiatrist in New York City and straight to medication, trying Adderall and Focalin, and eventually landing on Concerta — at age four.
By second grade, he had an IEP. By middle school, he was in a resource room, sitting alongside students who had intellectual disabilities. Nothing against those kids, of course, but for my son, who has real cognitive strengths, it was brutal. His takeaway was simple and devastating: “I must be dumb.” That belief did a number on him and played a real part in his drifting into the “troubled teen” category. I wish I had known then what I know now. G, I am so sorry.
The Shift: Hands-Off Parenting → Helicopter Parenting → Bulldozer Parenting
Across sixty years, parenting moved from largely hands‑off to helicopter to full bulldozer mode. You can see it just by looking at the gap between my dad’s childhood and my son’s. Instead of letting kids’ lives unfold, we now layer on supports designed to reduce or eliminate every struggle in a world built for neurotypical people.
Much of that help is necessary and protective. The unintended side effect is the story many kids quietly absorb: there is something fundamentally wrong with me that needs to be fixed. A perfectionistic mindset creeps in: if you do not hit X, Y, or Z, you do not measure up. I sometimes envy my grandparents, dropping my dad at the museum and trusting that things would unfold, believing the universe would somehow support their son in getting where he needed to be. (And my mother might actually deserve the award for getting my dad on board. That speaks to partnership. Yay, Mom.)
What It Feels Like to Need Accommodations, Scaffolding, and Constant Executive Function Support
Parents are told , correctly, that scaffolding, medication, tutoring, therapy, and even therapeutic schools improve outcomes. What those recommendations do not capture is how it feels to grow up as “the one who needs help.”
We hear it in the teens and young adults we work with: “I’m just a money pit.” “I only get by because everyone else is carrying me.” These beliefs do not show up on test scores or IEP progress notes. They show up in negative self-talk, avoidance, self-deprecating humor, and eventually in anxiety, depression, school refusal, and other avoidant or addictive behaviors, like online gambling, THC (cannabis) use, or excessive gaming.
Support is not the problem. The story around it is.
Small Language Shifts That Protect Self-Esteem
The same tutor can phrase, “You need help so you can pass,” or, “You’re super smart, you just need these concepts explained in a different way that matches the way your brain works.”
How crossbridge finds schools where neurodivergent kids thrive
One of the favorite parts of our work at Crossbridge is changing that story by changing the environment. We love finding schools and programs where neurodivergent kids do not have to spend all their energy passing as “normal,” but can actually feel good about themselves. Places where they can embrace their quirkiness, creativity, and difference instead of hiding it.
Rebekah likes to say, “We find schools for the blue-haired trombone player who loves astrophysics.” That really is our sweet spot. My favorite kids to work with are the wild ones who remind me of my dad and my son. They are not problems to fix. They are beautiful little souls with limitless creativity, spunk, and genius who simply need environments that see them that way.
Helping Kids Hear “Different and Capable,” Not “Broken”
If you are parenting a neurodivergent child, it can be powerful to pause and ask yourself: What story might my child be absorbing about all this help?
If parts of this three-generation story feel familiar, that does not mean you should pull support. It means you have an opening to change the script, so that help feels less like evidence of a defect and more like a vote of confidence in who your child already is.
