My 10-year-old was just diagnosed with ADHD. I learned I had it in my early 30s, and I'm giving her the support I never got.

I had undiagnosed ADHD as a child, and it was difficult for me. My 10-year-old daughter has ADHD, and I'm giving her the empathy I wasn't given.

• My ADHD went undiagnosed until my early 30s. I thought many of my symptoms were "failures."
• Getting a diagnosis — and resources — changed the way I saw myself.
• My 10-year-old daughter has ADHD, and I'm giving her the empathy and resources I wasn't given.

Several years ago, while sifting through boxes in the basement, I found my third-grade report card. Conspicuous among the "exceeding expectations" marks for academics were bold red circles around the categories of "organizes self and materials" and "follows directions." Accompanying these was a sizable handwritten comment: "Chats and visits with peers at inappropriate times. Speaks out of turn and doesn't stay in seat."

It wasn't until my early 30s that I was finally diagnosed with ADHD. My childhood was riddled with memories of adults shushing me, mistaking instances of forgetfulness as carelessness and my tendency to interrupt others as disrespect. Though I have fond memories of my friendships, what looms larger is the shame of their irritation with my gregariousness and personality traits that a friend once told me were "too much to handle."

My 10-year-old daughter not only has my nose and laugh but finds herself on the receiving end of similar comments. Though she's sociable, empathetic, and enthusiastic, she struggles with impulsivity, time management, and organization. Unsurprisingly, conversations with her pediatrician over the course of the past year have revealed the likely culprit is ADHD.

I wasn't diagnosed with ADHD until later in life

ADHD affects practically every aspect of my life, and because it went undiagnosed and untreated until well into my adulthood, I internalized my symptoms and how they manifested in my relationships as personal failures. Each failure eroded my self-esteem and confidence, especially when I noticed how tasks I found daunting seemed easy for my peers. I inevitably began feeling broken from trying hard to meet expectations and constantly falling short.

Perfectionism driven by a fear of failure meant I was mostly a model student with excellent grades and participation. But the stress of operating in overdrive to accomplish basic tasks in an attempt to disprove my incapabilities produced a volatile, exhausted, overly emotional adolescent girl prone to outbursts and meltdowns.

When I was an adult, romantic partners criticized my oversensitivity and extreme mood swings. Emotional dysregulation, a low tolerance for frustration, and difficulty with follow-through significantly affected my friendships, professional life, and, eventually, parenthood. The increased mental and emotional load on top of sleep deprivation from newfound motherhood only exacerbated my symptoms. I felt as though I was stuck in rapidly hardening cement, and I experienced panic attacks and debilitating bouts of task paralysis.

After years of working with my therapist, she questioned whether I'd ever been screened for ADHD. She suggested I connect with my psychiatric nurse practitioner to discuss my symptoms and consider different medication. The ensuing conversations with my provider radically shifted my view of what I'd always assumed were acute personal defects. The diagnosis and learning about the existence of resources, strategies, and the right medication allowed me to release the guilt and shame I'd been harboring for so long. I also understood it to be a significant contributing factor to the chronic anxiety and depression I'd spent over a decade navigating. With an earlier diagnosis, maybe I could have also avoided self-medicating with alcohol to manage my symptoms, a ubiquitous occurrence in adults with ADHD.

I'm determined to make things different for my daughter

As they did for many families, lockdowns early in 2020 pushed us to previously unseen depths of our patience and resilience. Countless beautiful moments erupted from the unexpected isolation with only each other for company. Still, over time, some of my daughter's idiosyncrasies that hadn't been as apparent to me before became impossible to ignore.

Facilitating virtual school and helping her with her schoolwork eventually became overwhelming for both of us. She was understimulated and desperately seeking routine and socialization. She had needs I was realizing I couldn't meet on my own.

I saw a reenactment of the most difficult aspects of my childhood unfolding before me. But in this version, I had a superpower: the knowledge, the benefit of time, and the resources my parents never had. Now our communication and discipline challenges made sense.

With my recent diagnosis, I no longer saw defiance and difficulty; I saw unmet needs and lacking or underdeveloped skills. I wondered if I could help lessen her anxiety and save her from a lifetime of frustration and feelings of inadequacy. I knew one thing: I would do my best to try.

Examining the "why" behind the challenging behaviors she was exhibiting was like holding up a mirror to myself. The more I unearthed the roots of symptoms, the more obvious the answers for my daughter became. It took having compassion and empathy for my child to extend it back to myself. Now she teases me when I forget my wallet; we leave each other little reminder notes. We work on our visualizations and breathing techniques and make to-do lists and task breakdowns for projects.

I'm giving her the understanding, grace, and support that the adults in my life weren't able to give me

My parents didn't have the advantage of my diagnosis in their parenting toolbox. Now I can ensure my daughter knows her ADHD does not predetermine a lifetime of struggle. We discuss positive attributes like our creativity, conversational skills, and tenacity.

Knowing now that feeling emotions more strongly than neurotypical people is a common attribute of ADHD, I can apply my developing self-regulation skills to help guide her through the storm. Having grace with myself when I forget to pay a bill or lose my glasses for the 10th time in a week models the compassion I want her to have for herself.

Because she knows I also have ADHD, I try to point out to her when I'm employing a strategy, like setting a reminder or a timer on my phone, practicing mindfulness techniques, or prioritizing exercise and sleep. I want to empower her to actively participate in managing her health and well-being, and I hope to demystify her neurological differences.

What began as a fear that she was doomed to repeat my experiences and navigate the same dark path of unmanaged anxiety, self-doubt, and depression soon transformed into an opportunity. What if I could see her in a way that many adults from my childhood could not for me: a neurodivergent child with potential, not a problem to solve? And what if I could extend to myself the empathy, help, and grace I wanted to show her? I couldn't have imagined how her diagnosis would transform our relationship, my relationship with myself, and that little girl with the red-spattered report card.