I have a 6-year-old son and a 3-year-old daughter who teach me something new every day—not just about themselves, but also a lot about myself. They are polar opposites of each other, yet both are equally strong-willed and adamant about doing things their way.
My son is especially like me. He’s an extremely active kid with the silliest laugh and a huge personality. I’m certain that anyone who meets him will never forget him. While I know all parents feel this way about their children, trust me, he is truly something special. He’s mischievous enough that, by all accounts, kids and adults shouldn’t “like” him. And yet, everyone loves him. He’s always the life of the party and never has a bad day. He loves school and all his classes, approaching everything with a huge smile. In many ways, he’s a mirror image of myself—very active, talkative, disruptive, clumsy, with an outsized personality.
When he was 2.5 years old, my son was diagnosed with a speech delay. Coupled with the pandemic, this made school extremely challenging. He struggled to express himself effectively, which led to frustrating incidents of hitting and biting at daycare. As a first-time parent with little experience, I initially just hoped for a “normal, no-complaint” kid. The isolation was profound—no one ever talks about the difficulties they face with their children, making parents feel intensely judged and alone.
As his speech improved through four years of weekly therapy, the behavioral incidents decreased. However, the teachers’ complaints continued. My son is very kind but clearly shows symptoms of neurodiversity. We’ve been advised to wait until he’s 7-8 for a clinical diagnosis, only pursuing it if his symptoms significantly impact his daily life. While I’m skeptical of this approach, I also want to ensure he doesn’t feel there’s something “wrong” with him all the time.
Watching my son has been like looking into a mirror. He finds it incredibly difficult to sit still, focus, take turns, wait, or listen attentively. But how can I judge? As an adult, I struggle with these exact same challenges. It takes every ounce of my willpower to stay quiet and let others speak. My brain constantly races with thoughts: “I’ll lose the moment,” “The punchline won’t land,” “We’ll move on to another topic,” “It’ll be weird if I circle back,” “I must speak NOW or never.”
A recent bouldering experience perfectly illustrated our shared traits. I unknowingly violated an unspoken rule about waiting when someone is climbing nearby. When my friend pointed this out, I immediately understood—but why hadn’t I recognized it myself? My son navigates the world similarly. When he needs to go somewhere, nothing else matters. His—and my—intention is never to intrude or hurt, but we both lack spatial awareness, both physically and mentally.
We share another fascinating characteristic: an inability to be fully present. My son will wait 20 minutes, trembling with excitement for a roller coaster, but the moment he boards, he’s already talking about the next ride. I recognize this behavior because it’s exactly how I operate. We’re constantly thinking about “what’s next” instead of enjoying the current moment.
Growing up, I was always labeled “talkative” and “hyperactive.” Now, I see the same labels being applied to my son. Unlike my experience, though, I’m committed to helping him navigate these traits. The world is becoming more understanding of neurodiversity, and I’m learning to embrace my high energy while becoming more mindful of my surroundings.
While my son and I are cut from the same energetic, sometimes chaotic cloth, my daughter offers a completely different perspective. She takes after my husband, sharing his calm and measured approach to life. Where my son and I are loud and immediate, she is quietly observant. She watches, she processes, she considers—traits that are so similar to my husband’s. Learning to appreciate her temperament has been a journey of understanding not just my daughter, but my husband as well. She reminds me that there are multiple ways of experiencing and navigating the world, and that diversity of personality is something to be celebrated, not controlled.
Now with learning so much about myself through my son, I realize that expecting him to be a “normal, no-complaint” kid is a hard ask. He is special and unique in his own way, and as long as I am providing him with the tools that I myself would have benefitted from, that is good enough. I also don’t “blame” him when he does something impulsively. Instead, I have started telling him about my struggles with similar things, so he doesn’t feel as isolated or “weird”. I want him to know he is special and that we may be different from others, but we can still be unique.
I’m dedicated to ensuring my son doesn’t struggle the way I did. I’m teaching him that our energy is boundless—like the Earth’s constant rotation—but we can learn to slow down, to appreciate the present moment, and to value the people around us.
Element J 