The hum of the fluorescent lights was doing something strange to the room. It felt like the air was vibrating, pressing in. For a moment, I had the distinct, phantom sensation of walking straight into a glass door-that jarring, invisible stop that leaves you blinking, trying to recalibrate where your body ends and the world begins. I’d done that on Tuesday, a full-speed, mortifying collision with transparency. Now, sitting on a chair designed for a much smaller person, the feeling was back. The school psychologist was talking, her voice a smooth, practiced melody of concern, but the words were hitting that same invisible wall.

I looked at the folder on the table. It was thick. It contained charts and graphs and observations from three different teachers. It contained, supposedly, my son. A collection of data points that concluded he was the problem. The folder didn’t mention that he can spend three uninterrupted hours designing intricate siege engines in a video game, or that he can explain the entire geopolitical history of a fictional universe he created. It only mentioned that he can’t sit still for 43 minutes of passive listening about the agricultural exports of Uruguay.

The suggestion of medication hung in the air, unsaid but implied, the next logical step on this neat, color-coded flowchart. And I felt a surge of something hot and protective. We weren’t talking about my son’s brain chemistry. We were talking about his non-compliance with a system that feels, to me, fundamentally unnatural.

The “Tree-Climbing Deficit Disorder”

We’re told the spike in diagnoses is about better detection. And I’m sure that’s part of it. I’m not anti-diagnosis; for many, getting a name for their struggle is a profound relief, a key that unlocks support. I used to believe that was the whole story. I advocated for it, this idea that we just needed to identify the outliers and get them the right help. My thinking on this was rigid, absolute. It was also wrong. I failed to see the bigger picture.

Are our children’s brains suddenly malfunctioning at an exponential rate, or is it possible we’re judging a fish by its ability to climb a tree, and then diagnosing the fish with a “tree-climbing deficit disorder?”

My friend, Jackson R., works as a grief counselor. It seems like a completely unrelated field, but he told me something that rearranged the furniture in my brain. He said that after a profound loss, people often turn inward with a desperate need to find a flaw in themselves. They think, “If I had just done X, this wouldn’t have happened.” It’s a way of reclaiming control in a situation that feels utterly random and cruel. By blaming themselves, they create the illusion that the world is otherwise orderly. He sees it every day.

We’re doing the same thing to our kids. We see them struggling, agitated, or bored in these rigid, block-scheduled environments, and we’ve decided it’s easier to pathologize them than to admit the environment itself is the source of the trauma. We put the burden of adaptation on a 9-year-old’s developing nervous system instead of questioning a classroom model designed over a century ago for a different society with different needs.

I made this mistake with my own child, years ago. I bought into the program completely. The first stop was a behavioral therapist who gave us sticker charts. We spent what felt like $373 on tiny rewards and elaborate systems. When that failed, we were told he needed more structure, so we created a home environment with the logistical precision of a military operation. Every minute was scheduled. Nothing worked. It only made him more anxious, more convinced that there was something deeply and fundamentally wrong with him.

We were trying to sand down all his interesting edges to make him fit into a perfectly square hole.

Think about the modern classroom. For six or seven hours a day, we demand stillness. We demand passive reception of information. We reward quiet compliance. This is a system that benefits a very specific type of learner, one who is naturally docile and can absorb information through auditory channels without needing to move, fidget, or interact. For everyone else-the kinesthetic learners, the visual thinkers, the kids who need to talk something out to understand it-it’s a nightmare. Their natural learning process is recategorized as a behavioral problem. Their energy is a disruption. Their curiosity is off-task behavior.

The system is a pressure cooker. We’re measuring the steam, not the heat. We’re putting a label on the kid who is vibrating because the world we’ve built for him is anathema to his wiring. It’s a profound act of gaslighting. We’re telling children, “Your natural, energetic, curious response to a boring and restrictive environment is a disorder located inside your brain.”

Changing the Container, Not the Child

So what’s the alternative? We can’t just burn the whole system down. But we can start by changing the container instead of trying to reshape the child. This means recognizing that one size fits none. True personalized learning isn’t about giving every kid an iPad; it’s about creating environments that honor diverse neurological needs. It might mean more project-based learning, more movement, more flexibility in scheduling, and more autonomy. For some, it might mean opting out of the conventional structure entirely.

It’s why so many parents are exploring options that were once considered fringe, like finding an Accredited Online K12 School that can tailor the curriculum and pacing to their child’s specific rhythm. This isn’t about escaping a problem; it’s about running toward a solution that fits.

We need a paradigm shift from “What’s wrong with this child?” to “What does this child need that this environment is failing to provide?” It changes everything. It reframes the conversation from deficiency to difference. It moves the responsibility from the student’s shoulders to the system’s.

I’m not saying that ADHD isn’t real, or that learning disabilities don’t exist. They absolutely do. But we are over-applying these labels as a convenient explanation for a systemic failure. It’s a release valve for schools that are underfunded, overcrowded, and shackled to standardized testing metrics. It’s easier to write a referral than to redesign a curriculum. It’s simpler to suggest a pill than to rebuild a school’s philosophy from the ground up. I’ve come to believe that a significant portion-maybe 13%, maybe 33%-of what we’re calling a “focus problem” is actually a “compulsory boredom problem.”

An Act of Translation

Back in that little room, with the humming lights and the thick folder, I finally knew what to say. I slid the folder back across the table. I told the psychologist that I appreciated her time and the data she’d collected. I told her we wouldn’t be pursuing that path. Instead, we were going to find an environment built for the way my son’s brain actually works, not one that punishes him for it.