12/04/2025
Growing up, I always knew I was different—long before words like ADHD, dyslexia, or neurodivergence became part of the vocabulary. I struggled with certain things that seemed easy for others, while excelling in ways that didn’t fit the standard classroom.
As a child, I had separation anxiety so severe that I couldn’t stay in early kindergarten. Later, I developed selective mutism: I could speak freely with classmates, but not with teachers. Not out of defiance, but because my brain couldn’t make sense of certain expectations. Why repeat nursery rhymes endlessly when the teacher already knew them? My inner logic didn’t match the system around me.
No diagnosis. No accommodations. No specialized support.
But also — no aggressive attempt to “fix” me.
My differences were tolerated more than understood, yet I was allowed to remain myself. And that mattered.
A Call From a Remote Community Shifted Something in Me
Recently, I received a heartbreaking call about a four-year-old girl An exceptionally bright child — advanced for her age in both physical and linguistic skills.
Her “problem”? She talked too much. She interrupted. She was “annoying” to the structure of the classroom.
Without exploring her emotional needs… Without considering nutrition, movement, or behavioural approaches… Without acknowledging her strengths…
She was immediately prescribed a stimulant medication for ADHD.
When the side effects appeared — insomnia, loss of appetite, irritability, dizziness, signs of malnourishment — she was then prescribed an antipsychotic to control her behaviour.
This is the reality in many regions: Medication isn’t the last resort — it’s the first and overwhelming default.
When I finally spoke with this little girl, she told me quietly:
“I’m dizzy. I’m sick. No one believes me.”
No child should be left to articulate their suffering alone.
The Missing Question: Are We Helping the Child, or the System?
Medication has a place but it should never replace • understanding • context • holistic care • emotional support • nutrition • movement • or a child’s voice.
Many children labeled “difficult” are simply overwhelmed, under-stimulated, misunderstood, or developmentally out of sync with rigid structures.
Supporting the system is not the same as supporting the child.
In my adult life, non-suppressive modalities such as homeopathy helped me enormously — not by silencing symptoms, but by strengthening my overall regulation, focus, and emotional resilience.
I am not promoting it as a miracle cure. I am simply advocating for this:
Before altering a child’s neurochemistry, explore approaches that help them thrive without suppressing who they are.
Children deserve more than symptom control. They deserve understanding, creativity, movement, relational support, and individualized care.
As I grew into adulthood, I realized something profound: the very traits that once made me feel “different” were the exact strengths needed in my current profession.
I see the whole picture long before others notice the pieces. I make connections most people overlook. I understand emotional and behavioural patterns intuitively. I create and strategize in unconventional, multidimensional ways.
As a pharmacist, these qualities weren’t valued — sometimes they were even seen as distractions or weaknesses in a system focused on protocols, linear processes, and standardized solutions. But in homeopathy, they became my superpowers.
Homeopathy requires seeing beyond symptoms, understanding the entire human experience, and recognizing patterns—emotional, physical, behavioural—that interconnect in subtle and meaningful ways. It requires intuition, holistic thinking, and the ability to hold multiple layers of information simultaneously.
My neurodiversity didn’t push me away from pharmacy. It pulled me toward a profession where my mind could finally thrive.
I didn’t “escape” something. I aligned with something that matched who I truly am.
My neurodiversity didn’t limit me — it shaped my purpose.
This is what I told the worried mother of that little girl:
Your child is not broken. She is gifted. Her difference is not a disability — it might become her greatest strength.
The Real Risk: Suppressing Potential
When we rush to medicate When we silence a child’s expression When we demand conformity When we prioritize convenience over curiosity —we don’t just suppress symptoms. We suppress their future.
What if our focus shifted from controlling behaviours to cultivating potential?
What if we saw neurodiversity as a source of innovation rather than disruption?
What if every child was supported in becoming more of themselves, not less?
Because these children are not here to blend in. They are here to evolve the way we think, learn, create, and connect.
And with the right support — compassionate, holistic, and non-suppressive — they won’t just survive.
They will thrive.
