I’m seeing it — this child who has ADHD: he can’t sit still during Sunday school group prayers, forgets his pens and notebooks, talks to himself or to his imaginary friend (in this case, a spider called spidey), and gets reprimanded for his senseless blabber.
In our culture where children are expected to behave with quiet obedience, do well in school, and carry their family’s hopes, a child who doesn’t fit that mold is often seen not with understanding but with frustration.
This child isn’t misbehaving, but he simply has a different kind of mind. As Filipino writers and mentors, we are familiar with the pressures of tradition and expectation. What happens when a child’s story doesn’t fit the page of what is considered “normal”? How do we, who use narrative, help others see that some stories must be told differently?
The Page We Inherited Isn’t Always Big Enough
Many of us were raised on clear rules: obey your elders, study hard, avoid shame. Academic success wasn’t just a personal achievement, but a family victory. “Sayang ang talino” was a warning and a judgment.
But for children with ADHD, focus is not simply a matter of discipline. Their struggles with attention, memory, and impulsiveness aren’t signs of disrespect. Their minds process the world differently. Yet in many Filipino homes and classrooms, these differences are met with punishment rather than understanding. The traditional page for raising children often leaves no room for those who don’t follow the lines. Some children, like some stories, meander. And that’s not failure. That’s difference.
When Shouting Becomes the Default Response
We know many Filipino parents shout. Not from lack of love, but from exhaustion, fear, and the hope that discipline will set the child straight. These shouts often echo with words we’ve heard ourselves:
- “Ang kulit mo!”
- “Kailan ka ba matututo?”
- “Nakakahiya ka!”
These words are shaped by a deep concern: What if my child can’t survive in a society that demands conformity and achievement?
And sometimes, in our frustration, we begin to label children as indifferent — as if they’re incapable of empathy, even from a young age. But that’s not true. Children are naturally attuned to emotion. They notice tone, silence, tension in a room. What may seem like indifference is often a protective adaptation — a quiet withdrawal when a child feels unseen or misunderstood. As writers, we cannot assume that children are immune to difference. The pressure to conform often starts not in school, but in the home. Children learn early what is rewarded, what is silenced, and whom they’re expected to become. Shouting rarely brings clarity. A child with ADHD does not learn focus through fear. Instead, they learn shame. And shame doesn’t nurture growth. It silences it.
What a Different Page Might Look Like
At pageawriter.com, we can hope and try to make space for stories that don’t follow conventional arcs. We can do the same for children. Imagine a parenting style that allows for:
- Asking instead of accusing
- Curiosity instead of control
- Compassion instead of comparison
What if we saw a child’s kulit as creative energy? Their talkativeness as rich imagination? Their forgetfulness not as rebellion, but as a sign of overwhelm — or a mind joyfully full? My nephew, for example, is deeply visual. He loves the logos that appear at the end of film credits and looks forward to movie nights every Saturday — he even Googles what’s showing. He cuts and glues cardboard into three-dimensional shapes: fire alarms, sprinklers, odd little inventions. He has an uncanny sense of direction; he can lead us to his favorite shops in the mall without hesitation and recites train stations in perfect sequence. He often carries a small toy panda when we go for walks, like it’s a companion on his adventures. His favorite meals are chicken nuggets from McDonald’s, sinigang na hipon, and chicken pepper rice at Pepper Lunch. None of these traits would appear on a report card, but they tell you who he is. But this is only part of the kind of knowing I need to make room for. I am wary of forcing the child into a similar outline, but confused as to how to give him more space so he can discover his own rhythm.
So How Do We Witness This Child on the Page?
As writers, we often linger at the edges of conversations — observing, listening, weighing our words. But there are moments when we are called to speak, gently but clearly. Sometimes we see a child being misunderstood, or a parent reaching the edge of their patience. It’s tempting to offer advice too quickly, to sound instructive or judgmental. But perhaps our first task is to ask: how do we lead them toward something that might help?
Do we write about a compassionate health worker? Share a story about a therapy group or a quiet classroom where difference is welcomed? Recommend a book that helped us see things more clearly?
The harder work, of course, is lived — not written. Modelling gentler discipline at home, especially when we’re tired or uncertain, takes more than conviction. It takes practice. But even as we wrestle with this, we return to the page. Because in writing, this is our advocacy. We are not just storytellers. We are reshapers of how others might read the world — and the children within it.
Turning the Page Together
Filipino families value closeness, resilience, and sacrifice. These are powerful strengths. But we must also learn to value difference. Not all children will shine through medals or rankings. Sometimes, our task is to gently widen perceptions — to give space for empathy, creativity, and persistence to be seen as forms of success, too. Especially for the child who doesn’t quite fit, or the parent quietly reaching for help.
As I write my stories, I’m often tempted to rely on words. But my nephew’s story is being written in real time — and he, more than anyone, will witness the truth of my attitudes. Not just what I say, but how I show up. So I try to pursue a deeper understanding of who he is, even as I struggle to describe him. Like all living beings, he remains partly unknowable. But still, I must respond in love — especially when it’s not easy.