Hey Reader!
So, there I was again on that Saturday morning, staring down the chaos. The 16-year-old was barking orders like she was the commander-in-chief of the house (The Boss), the 14-year-old had already disappeared into her cave—er, I mean, her room—where she’d be for hours (The Burrowed), and the 11-year-old was attached to my side like a shadow, making sure he was never more than a foot away from me (The Backpack).
And of course, it got me thinking...
ADHD is a family trait, but it’s not a uniform one. Each of my kids experiences it in their own unique way. They share the same neurodivergence, but their personalities, their needs, and the way they navigate the world couldn’t be more different.
Let’s start with The Boss. She’s 16, and if you’ve ever met a teenager who’s constantly taking charge, you know what I mean when I say she’s the one who runs the show. She’s got an opinion about everything, and it’s usually the right one (or at least she thinks so). She’s the first to jump into action, organize the chaos, and point out when things aren’t going according to her plan. And while I’ll admit, at times it’s exhausting, I’ve come to realize that her version of ADHD is all about leadership. She’s not hyperactive in the traditional sense. She’s just hyperactive in her brain, which constantly spins with ideas, plans, and strategies. It can be a lot, but man, when she’s in her zone, it’s like watching a natural-born leader at work.
Then we have The Burrowed, my 14-year-old. If you’re the type of person who can understand the need for space, you’ll get her immediately. She’s not one for big crowds or loud conversations. She prefers to be in her room, headphones in, and away from the noise. At first, I worried. Was she shutting herself off from the world because of her ADHD? Was she withdrawing? But as I’ve learned, her ADHD manifests in a quieter, more introspective way. For her, that solitude is a way to decompress, reset, and recharge. The sensory overload of the world can be a lot, so she creates her own little world in her room, where she can focus and manage her thoughts. It’s not about avoiding people; it’s about finding a safe space to process everything in her head. And as a parent, it’s been a journey of learning when to give her that space and when to gently pull her back out.
And then there’s The Backpack, my 11-year-old, who might just be the most physically affectionate child I’ve ever met. If I’m sitting down, he’s right there, curling up next to me or leaning on me. If I’m standing, I feel his little hand on my leg or my back. If I’m moving through the house, he’s right there behind me, never more than a few feet away. Now, this can get a bit much, especially when I just want to sit down for five minutes without being climbed on, but I’ve learned that this is his way of staying grounded. The constant physical connection helps him feel secure and in control of a world that can feel chaotic. His need to be close, to be in the same space, is his way of managing the overstimulation that comes with ADHD. He needs to feel connected to me, to the people around him, to navigate the overwhelming world he’s processing at full speed.
So, what do I take away from this? ADHD doesn’t look the same on everyone. Even though my three kids all share the same neurodivergence, they each express it differently. And that’s a really important lesson for all of us, whether we’re parents, coaches, or teachers: ADHD isn’t a one-size-fits-all challenge. What works for one person might not work for another, and that’s okay.
As a parent, I’ve learned that my job is not to try and force them into a mold. It’s to understand their individual needs, respect their unique expressions of ADHD, and support them in the way that’s best for each one of them. It’s about knowing that The Boss, The Burrowed, and The Backpack all need different things, and that’s perfectly okay.
And if you’re in a position where you’re supporting a neurodivergent person—whether a child, an athlete, or a team member—remember this: there’s no universal solution. It’s about recognizing the uniqueness of each individual. It’s about seeing the traits of ADHD for what they are: strengths, weaknesses, and everything in between. Embrace it. Work with it. And celebrate the differences, because those are what make us who we are.
But this doesn’t just apply to parenting. As coaches, we have to recognize that each athlete comes with their own version of ADHD (or other neurodivergent traits) and adjust our coaching styles accordingly. When you’re managing a team, some players might thrive in highly structured drills—like The Boss—while others may need more freedom and space to process, like The Burrowed. Some may need constant support, reassurance, or closeness—just like The Backpack. As coaches, we have to be adaptable, flexible, and willing to meet athletes where they are, rather than trying to force them into a mold that doesn’t fit.
On a team, the way we approach communication, feedback, and even physical space can make all the difference. Think about how different players might respond to a timeout or a constructive critique. Some might need direct, firm feedback to stay engaged, while others might get overwhelmed and shut down. If we’re too rigid in our approach, we could unintentionally lose the player who needs a more sensitive touch.
Ultimately, coaching neurodivergent athletes is about recognizing the individual needs and strengths of each player, much like parenting. It’s about creating an environment where all athletes—no matter how they express their neurodivergence—can thrive. So, let’s break free from the idea of “one-size-fits-all” coaching and create spaces where every athlete can feel understood, supported, and empowered to be their best self.
Remember, whether you’re The Boss, The Burrowed, or The Backpack—there’s no wrong way to show up, just your way!