ADHD and the Environments That Make or Break Us

This article was originally posted on Substack by Heather J. from Mosaic Minds Consulting.

What is ADHD? A brain-based disorder? A cluster of traits? A reaction to the environment? The New York Times Magazine article raises these questions and highlights how much we still don’t fully understand. But what stood out to me most was how many children are diagnosed not because they’re struggling in all areas of life, but because they struggle in school.

That’s what brings me here—not just as an educational consultant and former special education teacher, or as a mom to neurodivergent children, but as someone who has lived with ADHD since childhood. The article touches on so much I’ve seen and felt: the stigma, the over reliance on medication, the overlooked importance of environment, and the desperate need for curiosity-driven learning.

Most of my K–12 experience felt like a dissociated trudge through deep mud. What I do remember are the moments that engaged my body and curiosity: how many ways one could use a swing set (my favorite was “rocket ship”), the feel of grass under my feet, and one unforgettable project-based oceanography unit. I still remember learning that ice is less dense than water—not because I read it, but because I experienced it. That kind of learning sticks.

I see the same patterns in my own children with ADHD, in former students, and in the families I support. The pain of trying to push through something that feels meaningless isn’t laziness—it’s a full-body “no.” I’ve watched kids literally flee classrooms when presented with worksheets. Their nervous systems perceive the task as a threat, not a challenge.

At IEP meetings, I often hear, “They just need to do their work,” or “How will they survive in the real world if they can’t handle unpreferred tasks?” But what if we asked different questions? Is our school environment truly a reflection of the real world, or is it a system built for a narrow set of behavioral traits? Yes, persistence matters. But do we need to rehearse it six hours a day, five days a week, at the expense of joy, curiosity, and well-being?

The Times article calls for rethinking the framework, and I couldn’t agree more. We need to ask: What actually counts as learning? What kinds of environments support growth for all students? And how do we design systems that nurture all kinds of minds?

I love schools. I’ve made working in them my life’s work. But the system still carries too many echoes of its early 1900s design—created to produce compliant factory workers, not curious, creative, movement-driven thinkers. That legacy lingers. We continue to prize quiet bodies, compliance, and test scores over exploration, collaboration, and emotional safety.

Too often, teachers are unfairly blamed for the system’s limitations. As a former classroom teacher, I have nothing but deep respect for educators doing extraordinary work within rigid, under-resourced structures. I’ve watched them try to create neuroaffirming spaces, only to be blocked by policies that make it nearly impossible.

The truth is, for much of my K–12 experience, I thought I was dumb. I couldn’t make myself do the things I was “supposed” to do, and that chipped away at my self-esteem. Like many, I masked anxiety and depression throughout adolescence. Early college was still a struggle—except in the few classes that were both hard and interesting. Those lit me up.

I appreciated that the Times article emphasized how college students with ADHD often thrive when they’re deeply engaged. For us, interest isn’t a bonus—it’s the engine. When I found my major, human development and psychology, it was like a switch flipped. I started earning A’s, reading ahead, and eventually went on to graduate school. I’ve built a meaningful career doing work that fascinates me.

I’m not advocating for tearing down the system. Pendulum swings rarely find the sweet spot. I’m a “yes, and” thinker. Yes, the current model works for some kids, and that’s great. And we need more options. Yes, medication can help—one of my children has thrived because of it. And so can movement, play, autonomy, and interest-based learning. Reading, writing, and math matter—but they don’t need to consume the entire day. Many students thrive when building, performing, nurturing, or solving real-world problems. As Sir Ken Robinson warned, when we strip-mine for only one kind of intelligence, we lose the biodiversity of our humanity.

I’m privileged to work with schools and educators who are embracing the yes, and who are finding ways to incorporate movement, play, and passion-driven learning. I recently worked with a teacher whose student’s special interest is Star Wars. He encouraged the student to write an essay comparing it to Lord of the Flies. This student, who had never completed an essay, produced five beautifully cohesive paragraphs willingly. Why? Because the teacher had the support of his administration to step outside the box. I see beautiful things happen when leadership trusts and nurtures teacher creativity.

I’m also seeing more independent schools rooted in nature or structured around short academic mornings followed by afternoons of project-based, interest-driven work and life skills. (Spoiler alert: kids use all those core academics during this time, too.) Networks like Deeper Learning, hosted by High Tech High, are supporting educators across the country in building these kinds of experiences. These might be drops in the bucket, but they’re ripples in the pond. And they give me real hope for the future.

What gives me the most hope is that we don’t have to start from scratch—we just have to start noticing what already works. I’ve seen firsthand how engagement blossoms when teachers are supported to follow their creativity and connect learning to what students care about. I’ve seen it in schools that swap rigid schedules for curiosity, in students who write their first essay because it’s about Star Wars, and in classrooms where movement and autonomy aren’t exceptions—they’re built in. These are small things, but they ripple outward. They show us that a more inclusive, responsive, and joyful way of learning isn’t just possible—it’s already happening.

May the ripples become waves.