“I specifically asked the class not to use scrap paper for this project, and this is what Shara turned in,” my Grade 5 teacher told my parents as she slid my art assignment across the table. My parents, who were also teachers, had carved out time after work to hear about the ways I was failing.
They shifted in their chairs and looked at me expectantly, waiting for a reasonable explanation as to why I used a ripped piece of construction paper for my art project.
I shrugged and slumped in my chair. Whatever they said next was lost on me. I was ashamed. Again. My head was buzzing and I was starting to dissociate.
Even though I had tried — really tried — to do the assignment, I’d let them down.
My parents got up to leave the meeting and I trailed silently behind them, my cheeks wet with tears, my feet dragging.
As we sat in the car, waiting for it to warm up, my mom turned in her seat to face me.
“Did you not hear her say to use good paper?”
The weight of their disappointment was so heavy, it was physically impossible for me to speak. Between sobs I choke out, “I thought she said to use scrap paper.” I didn’t know how to explain why I’d heard things differently.
“You know Shara,” mom said, in a voice that made my chest tighten. “You are very smart. If you’d just apply yourself, you could do anything you put your mind to.”
“You need to learn to listen,” Dad snapped. He was mad and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d embarrassed them.
“Now Alan,” mom said, waving her hand at him to let it go.
“She needs to learn!” he interjected, but mom hushed him, again. He accelerates the car aggressively, intentionally spinning out on an icy corner. We got home in record time and a familiar sick feeling set in for the rest of the evening.
I’ve had dozens of experiences like this throughout my life. Struggles with attention, impulse control, over sharing, and emotional dysregulation. On school outings, I often trailed behind because I was living in my head. Scoldings to keep up and pay attention followed.
At other times, I rambled on to friends, not realizing they were ready to move on from the conversation.
This scrap paper episode would have been quickly forgotten by most people, but for me it is a glaring example of the shame and distress I felt for not being able to fit in where it seemed so easy for everyone else.
It wasn’t until a counsellor suggested my youngest daughter, at 10, be assessed for ADHD that I started to see myself more clearly and I sought out my own assessment. My older daughter was first diagnosed with autism at 16 followed by an ADHD diagnosis the next year.
Part of the process included going through my old report cards to look for comments that revealed evidence in childhood of my ADHD symptoms.
I dug through my parents’ storage room for my elementary school reports. They were filled with phrases like “Shara daydreams too much” and “Shara has a hard time sitting still.”
It was a real eyeopener.
Clutching my old report cards, an immense lightness came over me. I felt vindicated. But the feeling was coupled with a new anxiety. I feared losing this evidence of my lifelong struggles. Without these papers would I ever understand myself? Would anyone ever understand me?
Papers secure, I was quickly diagnosed with ADHD and with that I found myself finally at peace with who I am. I was able to release myself from the past and present expectations that I never could live up to.
I could now believe that even if I am frequently late, talk too quickly, and need to step back to manage my anxiety, I have value. I know I’m smart and talented. I’m kind and compassionate.
As I slide toward 50, I embrace my diagnosis, my squirrelly brain, and all its quirks. My daughters and I aren’t broken — we’re clever, creative, and capable in ways that don’t always neatly fit into the limited mechanics of society.
The day of the scrap paper incident back in Grade 5, I had been playing out an elaborate story in my mind with my pencil and eraser as key characters. When I heard the telltale shift in the teacher’s voice from the usual drone to her “this is important” tone, I snapped back to attention — almost in time to catch all the instructions. Almost.
The teacher must have said, “Do not use scrap paper,” but I had missed the first two words.
I now understand why my difficulties were chalked up to not paying attention and why my lack of focus was never picked up on.
because the traits tend to be internalized, giving them stereotypical female qualities. They talk a lot. They don’t pay attention. They daydream a lot. They are emotional.
What is missed is that they are struggling.
I now understand that “normal” is subjective. There is a high prevalence of chronic health conditions, mental health struggles and neurodivergence in our society. The odds of being normal are very slim.
This ADHD diagnosis has brought a piece of mind. I am now able to unwind moments I’ve been hanging onto with guilt and shame and reframe them with love and understanding.
I didn’t fail. I just didn’t fit a box. My parents weren’t ashamed, they were worried.
My daughters and I are learning to rewrite the expectations that larger society puts on us and define success in ways that honour who we are. We no longer bother trying to fit into someone else’s unobtainable mould — we understand we’re here to shape our own.
But still, I can’t help wondering, if my Grade 5 art project had been graded on the quality of my work, not the paper it was made on, would have learned to believe in myself much earlier?
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