I’ve always thought of life as a series of moments that can take us in entirely new directions.

One of these moments was the day I walked away from school forever.
It was a Friday, on one of those afternoons at the end of a week of school that feels as if it will drag on forever. Twenty restless students were fidgeting in their seats and stared out the windows, the weekend ahead filled with promise.

I didn’t share much of their anticipation. I was focusing only on what the next forty minutes would bring. Sitting under those bright fluorescent lights in class, it felt like the walls were closing in on me.

When the teacher finally strolled in, holding a stack of test results like a judge ready to hand down a verdict, my stomach started doing backflips. I’d worked hard on our most recent assignment, and this was the afternoon we were meant to receive our grades.  This was the moment I had been freaking out about all week.

As the teacher handed out the marked essays, everyone got theirs… except for me. Confused, I spent the rest of the class wondering why my results hadn’t been given back to me like everyone else’s. This teacher was very strict and was famous for having an acid tongue when displeased. He liked his students to remain silent unless called upon, and I felt too nervous to raise my hand or approach him to ask about my work.

As the lesson dragged on, my anxiety just kept building. A lump formed in my throat. Had he just forgotten about me? Was there some kind of mix-up? Just as he told us to pack up for the next class, I mustered up the courage to ask,

“Hey, sir, can I please have my work back?”

He paused and made his way towards my desk, and the chatter filling the room stopped. The sound of his shoes on the floor clicked loudly and echoed in the silence. I looked up, heart racing. With a smirk that sent my heart sinking, he replied,

“Honestly, it’s probably better if you don’t see your mark,”

his tone laden with mockery. He shot me a long, disdainful look, then patted my head before adding,

“Don’t worry, at least you’re pretty.”

Every student in the classroom jeered as they cracked up, and their taunts felt sharp and unforgiving. My face blazed red as I kept my eyes on my desk, feeling the weight of everyone staring at me.

Did that really just happen?

My hands were clenched into fists under the table. My nails dug into my palms, nearly drawing blood as I fought back the tears. Their laughter rang in my ears, and each comment they made was even crueller than the last. I felt mortified and beyond angry.

When he finally dropped my results on my desk, I didn’t even bother to look. The grade no longer mattered; what lingered was the sting of being humiliated in front of everyone. As I walked out of that classroom that day, I didn’t just leave behind my hopes for a good grade – I released any hope I had for my future. My inner voice was screaming LOSER so loudly at me, it was almost unbearable.

When I got back to my boarding school that afternoon, I was feeling depressed and angry at not only myself but the whole world. My supervisor was watching as I walked in, head down, and dragged me into his office, where he started ripping into me for something I hadn’t even done… and that was the final straw. The last scraps of my self-control disappeared, and I absolutely lost it. All the frustration, hurt, and shame I had been bottling up just flooded out.

I told him very precisely where he could stick his accusations, stormed out, went upstairs, and hid under an ancient desk in an unused dormitory, where I cried and raged at how unfair everything felt. I’d tried so hard, and for so long to be ‘good,’ to keep everyone happy, to get decent grades and somehow justify all the money my parents were pouring into my education. It didn’t seem matter how much I tried  –  it felt like I was always in trouble, like nothing I did would ever be enough.

When the people searching for me eventually tracked me down and coaxed me out of my sanctuary, my eyes were almost swollen shut from the tears. I walked stiffly past the dining room where everyone was eating dinner and called my parents, begging them to let me leave school. I told them I was DONE. Done with feeling small, done with being perceived as a problem. I couldn’t take it anymore, and I didn’t let up until they agreed to come get me the next day.

It hadn’t always been like this.

I’d finished primary school absolutely brimming with energy and passion for learning – especially the arts. Music, creative writing, literature, photography, and drama fascinated me. Some teachers had taken the time to fan that spark of interest into a flame, instead of just seeing me as a girl who couldn’t sit still.

Early high school was a slightly different story. I went to boarding school for the first time and suddenly, I was hardly ever alone. I had always been a bit of a loner as a child and got bullied for being different, but it hadn’t really bothered me too much. I mostly preferred my own company outside of class and often found myself hiding away during recess or lunch in the library or on the oval with a good book. I liked taking time out to recharge.

At boarding school, I was not only an easy target for bullies throughout the day, I now had them around 24/7. I felt my energy being zapped constantly, but now there was no escape after school. I ate, studied, and slept in big groups of people, and I couldn’t even use the bathroom or shower without someone else being in the stall next to mine. Hopelessly disorganised and easily distracted, I got into trouble a lot more than I was used to. It was usually for small things – like forgetting to make my bed before heading to school or losing my belongings when I got distracted or stressed.

Despite the challenges of adapting to life away from home, I began to make a few friends. Mainly other kids who, like me, had struggled to find their “people”. I now understand that many of these friends were kindred spirits, with some also discovering their own neurodivergence in later life. Whatever the case, we found comfort in one another’s presence. For the first time ever, being around other people was exciting rather than filling me with indifference or anxiety. Back then, I didn’t know that one significant early indicator of ADHD is how being around others is either invigorating or utterly draining, depending on who the people were.

I was generally a decent student, despite being easily distracted. I worked hard and got solid results. Before I left school – just a year before I was supposed to graduate – I had previously earned lots of awards for writing, art, music, photography, and debating. I’d attended specialist camps, participated in numerous extracurricular activities and programs for gifted students, and watched my passions flourish into real achievements.

I also had met a wonderful English teacher – an intelligent and empathetic woman who believed in my potential and understood that with the right encouragement, I could genuinely excel. Sure, I had gaps in my skills, but she focused on my strengths and my willingness to put in effort. She was among the few key teachers who took the time to understand how I learn, helping me not just get by but truly thrive.

By tenth grade, I was an A student across the board. But by year eleven, I transferred to a new boarding school where the change in routine, the rigid structure, and the absence of family support made everything feel tougher for me, but I felt determined to tackle these challenges head – on and was optimistic about the transfer.

This would all change when I encountered the teacher who would eventually drive my decision to quit school. This man taught one of my arts electives, and TEE English, one of my best subjects. He was irritated by the fact that I had managed to convince the administrators to allow me to participate in both his class and TEE English Literature as well – a combination that had a very high workload and traditionally had been discouraged. The year coordinator had viewed my academic records and agreed that I could enrol in both. This man had literally called me an idiot at our first meeting for attempting both classes and went on to mock me every time I raised my hand in class.

“You should know this, Ms. Smarty Pants, maybe YOU should be teaching my class.”

He marked my work very critically, and brushed off any attempts I made to do better based on his feedback with barely concealed contempt. I had no idea why he seemed to hate me so much, but I constantly blamed myself for his criticisms and tried repeatedly to rise to what I now realise as an adult were impossible-to-meet standards. I had always respected all of my teachers, and I believed him when he told me that my best efforts had missed the mark. I never stopped trying to improve my performance in his classes, but over time, I began to internalise those harsh words. He was right. No matter how much I pushed myself, my work was never going to be enough.

My love of the arts began to fade. I fell behind, and no matter how hard I tried to reignite the interest I’d once had, I just couldn’t make myself care enough anymore to want to catch up. The door to those interests had closed in my mind, leaving me outside. The view from out there was a future without passion, one that felt small and dim.

My other grades also began to suffer, and eventually, this led to the day I gave up entirely. But hey, at least I was “pretty,” right?

After the day I refused to return to high school, what followed was a downward spiral I couldn’t make myself even want to control. I felt empty and exhausted. I didn’t so much as glance at a book or pick up a pen. I didn’t want to spend a single moment thinking about the future I’d left behind. Instead, I got a job washing dishes.

On the rare occasions I allowed myself to spend any time thinking about my education, all I could do was wonder…

when did it become okay for teachers to crush the spirit of their students at will?

It wasn’t until I was much older that I began to see beyond his authority and understand how wrong it was of him to humiliate me so often in front of the entire class. Kids with ADHD already face enough hurdles in school. With the added weight of a teacher’s harsh words, it’s no wonder the dropout rate for those students is three times higher.

As I resigned myself to a future without hope in the way that only hormonal and angry teenagers truly can, I’d also decided that the only point of working was to make enough money to drink with the handful of friends I had. My parents were understandably concerned at the changes they saw in both my actions and attitude, and I am ashamed to say that I fought with them pretty often – especially when I met and started dating an older guy who encouraged my new found love of partying. Less than a year after I’d left school, I was pregnant and living with him in Perth.

My world was now completely removed from everything that I used to know. Instead of being a time for growth and discovery, my teen years had turned into a struggle just to get by. I felt defeated. Alone. Forgotten. That fateful afternoon hadn’t just marked the end of my education, it had triggered a cascade of events that I mostly experienced on autopilot. A life I had never planned for, one filled with challenges I had never imagined I would be facing at sixteen.

Looking back now, I understand that having a child so young wasn’t some grand act of rebellion… deep down, I think I was just done with being seen as a problem. In a way that only someone with ADHD might get, I went ahead and created my own set of challenges  –  ones I could actually own and tackle head-on.

The birth of my son transformed me in ways I could never have imagined. Suddenly, I was no longer only living for myself. There was this tiny little human with me, one who was depending on me for everything. The increased sense of responsibility fuelled me in a way that academic pursuits never did. I had discovered a source of strength I hadn’t even known was a part of me. Life had thrown some wild twists my way, but I was determined not to let things spiral any further. I could finally take charge and have a shot at redemption, and the stakes were so much higher now.

The road I once stumbled down through a dark and scary forest had transformed into this steep path up the side of a mountain – one that looked difficult to climb but also held the promise of being lifted to new heights. High above me, light shone over the horizon at the peak of this summit. I could do this. I had to do this… for both of us. Channelling pain into purpose, I strapped my baby into his pram, and, using the lessons I’d insisted on learning the hard way, I began to climb. My son’s journey was going to be different.

Before my little boy had turned one, I’d finished my secondary education at TAFE. This experience gave me power – real power – especially when it came to taking charge of my physical and mental health. I started digging into the symptoms that were always brushed off as ‘laziness’ when I was younger. I booked an appointment with my doctor, and shared the struggles I had faced at school. That discussion led to a referral to a psychiatrist, who, after extensive testing, confirmed what I had suspected from all my research: I had ADHD. His words as he announced my diagnosis felt like someone flipping a light switch on in my brain. Everything clicked – and all the years of confusion and struggle finally made sense. As he went on to explain the high chances of my children inheriting the same condition, I made a promise to myself right there in his office: no one would ever treat my son the way I had been treated.

These days, I not only have a successful career of my own that allows me to use my passions for creativity – I am also the fiercely proud mum of four incredible neurodivergent kids, each with their own unique gifts. The moment I see even a flicker of doubt in their eyes about school – if they ever start to question their own brilliance – I’m at that school before you can blink. And I’m not just there – I’m ready to fight for them, tearing down any barriers that get in their way. Their right to a good education isn’t negotiable – I’m fully committed to helping them realise their full potential.

My firstborn son is now a confident young man with a bright future ahead of him. He stands tall, knowing his worth – and that fills me with so much pride. Seeing him succeed and own his future? That’s the best feeling a parent could ask for. I’m so thankful for how far he’s come and how strongly he believes in himself. That confidence was hard-earned, but now it’s just a part of who he is. I’m committed to making sure all my kids have that same strength – helping them see that ADHD isn’t a flaw  –  it’s just a different way of being. It doesn’t have to hold them back.

We need to drop this outdated idea that kids with ADHD are just troublemakers. They’re already climbing a steep hill. When self-esteem takes a hit in environments that don’t support or understand these kids, they become very vulnerable.

Kids with untreated ADHD are nearly three times more likely to drop out of school. And for girls, the risk of teenage pregnancy is way higher as a result of a tendency to be more impulsive. They’re much more likely to struggle with long-term unemployment – and almost three times more in danger of getting into trouble with the law. Addiction is another risk factor, with these kids more prone to issues of substance abuse. They face higher chances of being diagnosed with anxiety, depression, eating, and personality disorders…. and as they get older, these issues can also spill over into personal relationships, with recent  studies linking adults with ADHD with greater risks of social isolation, breakups, and divorce. Without early interventions, what starts out as a manageable condition can result in lifelong challenges… but with the right supports in place, allowing these children the chance to develop their unique gifts and shine, they have the potential to become the brightest of stars.

You’ll find people with ADHD leading the way in many creative fields, where their ability to think outside the box sparks new ideas that push boundaries. In business, what some might call impulsivity or risk-taking becomes the driving force behind ground-breaking success. These are the entrepreneurs who jump headfirst into new ventures, fearless and fired up, making bold decisions that turn industries on their heads. In high-pressure jobs – like emergency medicine, firefighting, stock trading, or crisis management – those same traits of quick thinking and adaptability aren’t just useful, they can be lifesavers. People with ADHD also have sharp intuition and problem solving skills, often sensing the right move to make while more neurotypical folk are still frozen with indecision. Then there’s that magical thing called hyperfocus which (when channelled well) turns into a superpower. When the stakes are high, people with ADHD aren’t just participating – they’re setting the pace, zeroing in with an intensity that turns challenges into wins.

With the right support, ADHD doesn’t just become manageable – it is a force to be reckoned with, letting kids excel in spaces that celebrate creativity, quick thinking, and innovation. It shouldn’t matter if a teacher knows which students are neurodivergent – every child deserves respect and understanding, no exceptions. We need unwavering awareness in our classrooms. Real learning can’t happen without it. Our children are all unique, and these differences need to be nurtured. When schools are an environment where every student is embraced and empowered, we all win.

Our educators can only do this if they have the tools, resources, and support they need. We can’t expect them to help all of their students succeed if they’re left to figure it out on their own. That’s why investing in our education system is so important – providing the funding, resources, and training required to meet the needs of these curious, creative, and innovative minds.

Many people fight to spread awareness about ADHD and other neurodivergent conditions, but let’s be real – getting a diagnosis and finding the right support for ADHD, autism, or anything like it can be a nightmare. It drains you emotionally, financially, mentally – all of it. A lot of parents and students feel beaten down before they even get close to the help they need. We as a society need to step up to help make this happen. Our kids deserve better. It’s time we work together – teachers, parents, advocates – to make sure every child gets the support they need, both in school and at home. The key is open communication and teamwork.

When I think about that day in the classroom – the day I walked out and didn’t look back – I know now it was just the start of a fight I never saw coming. I might have left school that day, but I found a new kind of education as well as a burning determination to make sure no child of mine – or anyone else’s – ever feels the way I did. That teacher’s words might have knocked me down for a bit, but they sparked something in me that burns brighter with every challenge I face and with every win my kids achieve. Watching them grow, I can see that while one path ended, another – full of purpose, strength, and love – was just starting.

This is where I am today, holding tight to the promise I made at 16, because I believe in my children, and I still believe in that angry teenage girl I used to be. She wasn’t a lost cause; she was only lost.

I believe in a future where every child, no matter who they are, gets their chance to shine.