Finding Harmony

On stumbling, learning, and beginning again

If you’ve been reading here, even occasionally, you know my oldest son has ADHD. It has shown up in different ways over the years. Although he was first diagnosed at age eight, my worries about him began long before that. Growing up, we often described him as “intense.” That word came up constantly because intensity infused everything he did. All his feelings, the good and the hard, were powerful. There was nothing better than being loved by him, and nothing harder than being caught in his storm.

My husband and I used to call his intensity both his superpower and his Achilles’ heel. If he loved you, you felt it completely. If he lost a game or didn’t like what you had to say, his pain or upset was impossible to contain. Even in elementary school, he was either his teacher’s favorite student of all time or the kid they most wanted out of their classroom. There was no moderation, no in-between.

We sometimes wondered, half-joking and half-serious, whether he would use his “powers” for good or for destruction. To bend him toward the light, we packed his days with structure and activities: piano lessons, baseball practice, theater, debate, karate. He was his best self when he was excited and engaged. It was exhausting, and no doubt we missed the mark in many ways. We rarely gave him the chance to be bored, to stumble and recover. Still, we tried our best to scaffold him toward healthy development.

By eighth grade, it seemed to be working. He was thriving, even after tragedy knocked the wind out of him when his aunt, uncle, and three cousins died in a plane crash during his sixth-grade year. With support, he found his footing again. That lasted until COVID pulled the rug out late that year. Overnight, every one of his beloved activities disappeared, replaced by screens and isolation. That was when it felt like he began to turn his intensity toward harm instead of growth.

Eventually, as many of you know, things spiraled far enough that we made the painful decision to send him to wilderness therapy and then residential treatment. We could no longer provide the container he needed at home. We were losing him. He spent over a year away, and when he returned, none of us knew exactly who he would be or whether we would ever have back the son we remembered.

Those years changed all of us. We each had to learn new ways of showing up for one another. The bumps did not vanish, but slowly we saw him choosing differently. Instead of disconnection, isolation, and rebellion, we began to see him choose engagement, connection, and resilience. As it is for us, his path has not been linear, but the arc has been healthy.

This fall, he left for college after repeating a year of high school so he could get into his first-choice school. It just so happens that school is all the way across our very large country. The first days were not entirely smooth. There were stumbles that had my husband and me wondering if old patterns would resurface. But each time, he picked himself up, dusted himself off, and tried again. He returned to the healthy center he had worked so hard to build. He is excited about his classes, building friendships, and leaning back into music, one of his earliest loves.

A few weeks ago, he auditioned for four a cappella groups. He warned us not to expect much, since few freshmen make it in and the competition was fierce. As we waited for news, he was in constant contact with his dad, sharing the music that moved him and every detail of his internal world throughout the process. This may not sound remarkable. After all, he has always been in tune with his emotions, maybe even too in tune. But his relationship with his dad has carried tension over the years, maybe because they are so alike. In fact, my husband’s own college years revolved around his a cappella group, and we know every last story. Now our son was bypassing me, typically his point person, to tell his dad everything. As it had when he was younger, music gave them a shared language.

The day after his first audition, he was called back to audition again for all four groups. My husband stayed up well past midnight to process every detail with him. And then he did the same the very next night after our son found out he had been offered a spot in every single group he auditioned for.

Beyond the thrill of his success, our pride came when he made his choice. He did not pick the most prestigious group but the one that felt like the best fit. That decision mattered as much as the accomplishment itself. He has learned how to make healthy choices, how to take care of himself. He is the son we never knew we would find again, the one who has decided, at least for now, to use his superpowers for good.

To be clear, he is not doing things perfectly. He will make mistakes along whatever path he chooses. But perfection is not what matters. What matters is that he is choosing life, reaching toward connection, and letting us walk beside him as he does.