My Daughter Is Not the Problem. The System Is

Editor’s Note (Spark Launch): At Spark Launch, we believe lived experience matters. This guest essay reflects one parent’s personal journey navigating school systems with a neurodivergent child. While individual experiences vary, the patterns described here echo what many families share with us every day. This piece is offered to invite reflection, awareness, and more compassionate conversations about how we support children who learn differently.

My Daughter Is Not the Problem. The System Is

Why am I writing this

I am not writing this blog because I enjoy putting my private life on display.

I am writing this because Spark Launch invited me after I reached out about a book I am writing with my daughter. A book about ADHD, dyslexia, and school. About what happens when a child is asked, every single day, to fit into a system that was never built for her.

Yes, the book is about my daughter. But this story is about far more than just her.

It is about how schools talk about children. And what that language quietly does to them.

This is not a subtle problem

This is not a subtle problem. This is a structural failure wrapped in polite sentences.

“0/10.”

“You do not follow instructions.”

“You do your own thing.”

“With this attitude, you are not welcome in my lesson.”

These are sentences written about an eleven-year-old child within a system that describes itself as inclusive.

What keeps striking me is not that she struggles with structure. It is how quickly behavior is translated into character.

“Rude.”

“Arrogant.”

“Not welcome.”

As if a child consciously chooses overstimulation, impulsivity, or emotional overwhelm on a Thursday morning at 9:25 a.m.

The same child, two readings

In the very same school report period, I also read:

“Very good work.”

“Nice grade, congratulations.”

“Shows effort.”

The same child.

The same timeframe.

Apparently, a child can be talented and a problem at the same time.

Or, a more uncomfortable thought: maybe that contradiction tells us something about how we interpret behavior.

The switch mentality

School systems sometimes treat ADHD like a switch.

“Can you just turn that off during math?”

Dyslexia gets treated like a preference.

“Try it without aids.”

Impulsivity gets renamed as “attitude.”

And suddenly, a neurological difference becomes a moral judgment.

I once said this to a teacher, very clearly:

“I cannot reprogram my daughter. And honestly? I would not want to.”

The ritual of waiting

Every school year, I hear the same well-intended sentence:

“We want to get to know her first. We will not go through the full report yet.”

It sounds kind. Even human.

In practice, it often means weeks or months without tailored support. Time spent falling behind. Time spent relearning the same painful lesson: something is wrong with me.

Meanwhile, the report sits there. Full of tools, strategies, and insights that could be applied immediately.

Time lost does not magically return. Especially not for a child who is already working twice as hard to keep up.

When labels do not protect

ADHD. Dyslexia. Clean words on paper.

Labels meant to bring clarity often do the opposite. They quietly mark a child as difficult, exhausting, or “too much.”

My daughter did not receive these labels because she lacks ability. Quite the opposite. She is above-average gifted. She has a mind that never stops, a body that is always in motion, and emotions that are intense, honest, and unfiltered.

At home, we call her our little emotion bomb. With love.

At school, the interpretation often sounded different.

“She does it on purpose.”

“She is rude.”

“She does not listen.”

“She is never organized.”

Not always out of malice. Often, it is out of a lack of understanding.

When inclusion backfires

At one point, my daughter was invited to give a presentation about ADHD. We hoped it would create understanding.

It did not.

Instead, visibility came with unintended consequences. ADHD became a joke. Bullying increased.

The message she received was subtle but clear: You can be yourself, but please do not be too visible.

What often gets missed in inclusion debates is that ADHD is not only academic. It comes with a developmental lag of two to three years emotionally as well. Social expectations rarely adjust. The child is expected to keep up anyway.

That mismatch has consequences. And they are not trivial.

This is not teenage drama.

This is an alarm signal.

A sentence I will never forget

During a school meeting, a statement was made that left me with the clear impression that my child was perceived as unintelligent.

There was a psychologist present.

I was speechless.

How many children internalize messages like this, directly or indirectly, without anyone there to interrupt the damage?

The voice that is rarely heard

My daughter once told me she wished schools had something like a mailbox.

A place where you could quietly leave a note when something does not feel right.

Where someone might occasionally ask, “Are you okay?”

So simple. So human.

What she is missing, many children are missing. And what parents experience is still rarely structurally included in policy or practice.

Why are parents and neurodivergent young people not permanently included in advisory roles?

Why is training on neurodiversity still optional?

Why do we invest so much in labels, but so little in lived understanding?

The knowledge already exists

What makes this even more painful is that the expertise already exists.

Toolkits. Research. Guidelines. Organizations are working with these families every single day.

What is missing is not knowledge. It is implementation.

Time.

Training.

Funding.

And above all: listening.

Support still too often depends on chance. On how much time a teacher has. On how much knowledge happens to exist in a school. On how much energy parents still have left.

In other words: equal opportunity, unless you are unlucky.

That is not justice.

It is roulette.

What actually helps

Language matters.

Words like “late,” “unprepared,” or “rude” do more than describe behavior. They shape expectations. They influence how a child is approached. How peers perceive them. How they start to see themselves.

If the language we use makes a child smaller, that is not feedback.

That is harm.

What helps is often not revolutionary.

Clear, step-by-step instructions.

Predictable routines.

Brief, timely feedback.

Room to move.

Practical aids used consistently, not reluctantly.

These are not luxuries. They are solid teaching practices that benefit all learners.

When they disappear because they are “too time-consuming,” that is not a personal failure of teachers. It is a systemic signal.

Quality care requires structural support.

I am not the expert. And I still speak up.

Am I the expert? No.

Do I know every policy detail? Also no.

But I am a mother.

A person with ADHD.

A future clinical psychologist and socio-cultural worker.

Someone who sees, every single day, what a system does to a child who does not fit the average.

Maybe we should stop asking whether children can behave better.

And start asking whether our systems can see better.

My daughter is not a problem to be fixed.

She is a child who wants to be understood.

And she is not alone.

For now, start here: notice the words schools use about children. Write them down. Patterns tell stories that numbers often hide.

Why Spark Launch is sharing this

At Spark Launch, we believe change begins with listening. Stories like this remind us why we build tools, language, and systems that honor neurodivergent minds rather than asking them to disappear. When we design with empathy and science, children do not have to shrink to belong.