the girl with the messy backpack

the little girl i was, the mom i became and the grace i’m still learning to give myself

It’s been a while since I’ve hit a low this low. Over something quite ridiculous. The funny thing is I deal with way harder, way more difficult, and way more exhausting things on a daily basis. But why was this so much harder?

I was the kid who would come home from school every day with a backpack that looked like an atomic bomb exploded within it. One time, my mom actually cleaned out my backpack at the end of the year and found an actual food item (a Chinese steamed pork patty) from Home & Careers rotting at the bottom. My locker would start the year cute and fun and end the year a disaster.

I’d clean my room, or better yet, my Mom would clean my room, and by 5:30 p.m. it was a mess again. I couldn’t close cabinets, twist on drink tops, or put away food after eating it.

My poor mom would spend hours driving me around town after school and practice, picking up my missing belongings. I’ll never forget my lacrosse coach from middle school calling my mom, while I’m a senior in high school at this point, and saying, “I’m having my youth practice and I found Traci’s stick bag and a bag of her jewelry.”

My poor clarinet spent more time around town being abandoned than it did in the actual band.

In college, I had to take summer courses because of my lacrosse schedule and student teaching commitment. I’ll never forget lounging in my backyard with my mom sunning and then jumping up out of nowhere saying, “Oh my God, my classes started today, I need to get to Boston.” I literally threw everything in my car and drove from NY to Boston that night.

It took a while for me to get an official ADHD diagnosis. I feel like I was so supported growing up by my mom, my dad, and my coaches. They were the safety net that always prevented me from falling. I know it had to drive my mom insane to work all day and then have to chauffeur me on a collection tour around town, but she did it and did a great job of hiding her frustration.

I excelled and juggled so much athletically that I think it was easy for people to simply say, “She has a lot on her plate.” People rarely got mad at me. Even my teachers gave me grace when I didn’t have my homework done in time because they knew I was going to work my ass off to finish it as soon as possible with maximum effort. They could see the shame and terror on my face. My first grade teacher shared this tidbit about me with my mom: “She’ll never be a poker player.” Every feeling is always all over my face.

My mom and others didn’t need to get mad at me, because I would get so mad at myself.

I earned a scholarship to play lacrosse at Boston University. I walked onto campus with an entire team of academic advisors assigned to me with one goal — to get me across the finish line.

I honestly don’t know how I survived playing a Division I sport and managing school. I still have nightmares that I forgot my cleats for an away game. I still have nightmares that my locker was a mess and the team had to do a 20-mile Airdyne as a result. I still have nightmares I forgot to turn in my weekly journal to my coach and the captains were going to have a stern talking with me.

I ended up surprising a lot of people, not because I magically developed skills to overcome my undiagnosed ADHD, but because I had that underdog chip on my shoulder. One of the coolest yet most aggravating ADHD traits is when you tell us we can’t do something, we’re going to prove you wrong with every fiber of our body. And I did.

There were signs, and there were challenges. I remember getting out of practice and getting myself ready to attend my “History in Film” class on the other side of campus. I had to take the BUs (Boston University Bus, best name ever), and I wasn’t in a rush because the professor was super laid back and it was mostly classmates who were just taking grad classes.

I strolled into class and saw blue books everywhere. IYKYK, it was the day of the final exam. I was convinced it was the week after. I had to bring my own research and write a paper. I had nothing. I had research for a capstone I was doing in another class, and somehow I wrote a paper about nutrition and history. It made no sense. I got an A- which makes even less sense.

I continued to struggle into adulthood. Projects half completed, physical space a mess, but professional space always neat as could be. Personal mail that hasn’t been opened in weeks. Constantly needing reminders and systems in place because I worried I would forget something important.

Motherhood is where the masking and coping came to an end. Now I wasn’t only managing my own schedule and life, but I was in charge of two others (not including husband, he is very well capable of handling his own schedule). I was now a part of group chats with 30 other people and would come back to a phone with 62 missed messages. Paralysis. My inbox exploded with unread emails.

So much of my brain power is spent trying not to forget anything. The reminders, the lists, the mental checklists, the constant scanning of what needs to happen next. It’s exhausting to always feel like I’m trying to prevent the next mistake. And when so much energy goes toward remembering everything, there isn’t much space left for anything else.

My colleagues would actually tell you I’m very “Type A” and “incredibly organized,” and that’s because I have to be. Being the teacher my students deserve takes so much effort behind the scenes that most people never see. I put so much effort into my 7 a.m.-3 p.m. job that I am burnt out by the time I get home. I have no executive functioning fibers left in me to manage my actual family. And sometimes I fail. Sometimes I fail in ways that hurt the people I love the most.

I forget to RSVP to the party. I get confused with times and locations and show up late or am rushing because I’m in the wrong town. I miss the turn. I make mistakes that affect other people. I fail. And now it’s not just me being angry with myself, which is a battle I’ve had for 38 years. It’s knowing that my mistakes don’t only affect me anymore. There are people I love counting on me. And that is a pain deeper than any failure I’ve ever had.

It’s not easy being what feels like the “disaster” Mom. I try to wear it as a badge and make it my personality, or turn it into a joke. Sometimes someone will send me a separate message because they know I might miss something buried in a group chat, and I am genuinely grateful for that. But it also embarrasses me because it feels like proof of the things I already fear about myself — that I can’t always be counted on unless someone steps in. The shame hits differently when my mistakes don’t just affect me, but the people I love.

In addition to all of the fun inattentive traits I have, I struggle with rejection sensitivity disorder. It’s a phenomenon that involves sudden and overwhelming pain that is triggered by real or perceived criticism, rejection, or failure.

I will go to great lengths to avoid disappointing people. I will give up on hobbies (most recently watercolor painting, lol) to avoid failure. I know I’m not perfect, but I desperately don’t want to fall short. I’m constantly scanning and reading the room and conversations for subtle signs of rejection.

I also feel secondhand rejection sensitivity, or rejection by proxy, with my own kids. I internalize their exclusions and see them as my own failure to protect them or help them fit in. I get angry with myself. Suddenly, I’m scanning for every sign of exclusion, wondering what I could have done differently.

And that same fear doesn’t stop with my kids. It spills over into how I see myself as a mother and how I imagine other people see me.

I want my children to know that my struggles were never because I loved them less. If anything, they are the reason I work so hard to understand myself and become a better version of myself for them.

I worry, is it because I’m not in the PTA? Do they think I think I’m better than them? I wish they knew it’s simply because my plate is overflowing and I don’t want to burn out.

Sometimes another parent will ask, “Why weren’t you at the game?” And I never know how to explain that it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because by that point, I am running on empty. I’m trying so hard to remember everything and prevent myself from dropping the ball that sometimes there’s just nothing left.

After my formal diagnosis, I found treatment that has definitely helped in so many ways. Talk therapy helps with the negative self-talk, but I still struggle, and I still have really hard days.

I still talk negatively to myself and refuse to give myself the same grace. When my kids make a similar mistake, I can frame it to them as, “That is a really hard feeling. It’s okay to make a mistake. Let’s learn from this and move forward.” (Dr. Becky would be proud.) But I can’t offer that same forgiveness, compassion, and understanding to myself.

So much of my mental space can be easily taken over by feelings that I’m disliked, unworthy, and alone.

I’ve had ADHD coaches say to me, “But look at how much you’ve accomplished, there are so many strengths!”

I don’t see them. I see myself being viewed as a joke. I see the constant putdowns about myself to make my mistakes feel smaller. I see a little girl who masked so hard. A little girl who wanted to be accepted. I see the college student who tried to prove everyone wrong despite being exhausted. I see a new Mom who felt so much shame she couldn’t finish the dishes. I see mountains of laundry that was embarrassingly unfolded. I see a “veteran mom” who had a hard parenting moment yesterday.

I see a person who can give everyone in the world grace and compassion, but reserves nothing for herself.

Of all the great I have done in the past few months — a fundraiser for my daughter. Building my Substack. Reaching out to new people, trying to make friends. Hosting playdates. Arts. Crafts.

All I can see is the mistake I made yesterday. All I can feel is the shame of letting someone down. No need to be mad at me, because it will never measure up to the anger I already feel toward myself.

The first step was a diagnosis. The second step was/is support. The third step is to learn about myself and give myself the grace to reflect and grow. And the irony is, I would never want my own children to speak to themselves the way I speak to myself.

There’s no nice lesson to learn or ending here. Yesterday was a hard day. On the surface, it probably sounds trivial. It was one small mistake that opened up 38 years of feelings. But we all have layers.

The girl with the messy backpack was never the problem.

She was just a girl trying really hard to navigate a world where she spent years trying to prove she belonged.

And maybe reflecting on it here is a small step toward self-forgiveness.

But mostly, it’s a reminder to anyone who resonates with this: You’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re doing the best you can.

Onward,

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A Note:

I also want to give a huge thank you to ⋆˖ ࣪⭑ meredith ⋆˖ ࣪⭑ for the piece she published this morning that inspired me to finally write this. I’m not sure how she does it, but she always seems to publish exactly what I need to read at exactly the right time.

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