It was one of those casual neighborly encounters—just a quick chat during a walk, nothing remarkable. We spoke about the weather, my garden, and then, almost as an afterthought, he asked: “I didn’t see your daughter’s name on the honor roll this time—everything okay?”
That question caught me off guard and I don’t remember exactly how I answered—probably something polite and brief. But inside, the question caught on something. It stuck. Not because it was asked with ill intent or meant to question my child’s intelligence or effort, but because it carried the quiet weight of expectation: that good kids make the honor roll. And if they don’t, something must be wrong. When I look back on that moment, I don’t feel angry. Just… aware. Aware of how often we reduce our kids to bullet points: GPAs, test scores, behavior charts, and yes—whether or not their names appear in a local newspaper’s honor roll.
My Own Report Card Story
Here’s something I don’t talk about often: Before I Was Their Mother, I Was That Child. I know what it’s like to fall behind.
Up until about sixth grade, I was firmly planted at the bottom of my class. Not metaphorically—I mean literally, bottom 2%, no exaggeration. I struggled to focus, to keep up, to grasp what came easily to others. I knew the feeling of being the kid no one expected to shine.
Then something shifted.
My Aunt Rose, who led small private group tutoring sessions from her house, let me tag along. I sat in quietly at first, just listening. And for reasons I still can’t fully explain, things started to click. The noise in my brain quieted enough to let the ideas in. I began to feel capable. Not because I suddenly became more “intelligent,” but because someone created a space where I could learn differently.
So when I see my daughters struggle, I don’t jump to conclusions. I don’t panic. I remember. And I know that what looks like “falling behind” on paper might just be a mind waiting for the right moment, the right method, the right spark.
What ADHD Looks Like at Our House
Both of my daughters have ADHD—but the way it lives in each of them is completely different.
One has Inattentive ADHD—the daydreamer, the quiet drifter, the one whose mind wanders off mid-sentence to some far-off curiosity she hasn’t yet put into words. She misses directions, forgets deadlines, loses track of time, misplaces the pencil she just had a second ago. But she’s also incredibly insightful, observant, and emotionally intuitive.
The other has Hyperactive ADHD—and her energy could light a small city. I’ve lost count of how many emails I got during elementary school telling me she couldn’t stay seated. “She’s bright,” the teachers would say, “but she just won’t sit still.” The implication always hung there: that brightness should be quiet, orderly, still.
It’s not that they’re not smart—far from it. On standardized tests, they often score in the top 90th percentile. The potential is there. But the daily execution—homework, projects, group work, remembering what to bring to class—that’s where things fall apart.
They’re not failing. They’re over-functioning in a world that isn’t built for how they process, feel, and experience life.
And Then… There’s Tennis
Tennis has been more than a sport for them—it’s been a lifeline.
Out there on the court, things make sense. Movement isn’t a distraction—it’s the whole point. The rhythm, the structure, the rally, the dance between chaos and control—it fits.
What so often feels like “too much energy” in the classroom becomes an asset on the court. Their instincts, their quick feet, their ability to adapt and react—it’s all there.
And science backs this up: physical activity boosts dopamine, a key brain chemical that helps regulate attention, mood, and motivation—especially in people with ADHD.
Every time they play, they’re not just getting stronger or better at a sport—they’re actually helping their brains work the way they were meant to.
They come off the court focused, settled, glowing. Not because their ADHD is gone—but because tennis meets them where they are.
The Trouble With Honor Rolls
The world loves to reward what it can measure. Report cards, GPAs, test scores. We hand out stickers and certificates and bumper-sticker bragging rights. And that’s fine—achievement should be celebrated.
But so often, the achievements that matter most go unseen.
There’s no award for finishing your homework without a meltdown.
No certificate for the kid who remembered her planner three days in a row.
No public recognition for emotional regulation or resilience or effort.
There’s no line on the honor roll that says: This child worked twice as hard just to stay afloat.
A Letter to My Girls
To my daughters—
You, who have taught me more about courage than any textbook ever could.
You, who gets knocked down by systems that were never made with you in mind—but still lace up your tennis shoes and try again.
You are not missing anything.
Your brains are wild and electric and yours—full of wonder, ideas, empathy, and insight.
I’ve seen you light up after a perfect serve, beam after a strong return, walk taller after a match—even a hard one. Learned how to lose gracefully and show respect to your opponents. On that court, I see you for who you are: powerful, capable, present.
I wish the world could see you that clearly everywhere else.
So no, you’re not always on the honor roll.
But you are my honor, every single day.
If You’re Watching From the Outside
To the teachers, neighbors, and well-meaning adults—ask different questions.
Not “Why didn’t she make the honor roll?”
But:
“What brings her joy?”
“What helps her feel focused, grounded, proud?”
“What has she overcome this semester?”
And to other parents walking this same road—hold your kids close. Celebrate their quiet wins. Their messy progress. Their glimmers.
The ones that don’t come with trophies but mean the world.
What I’d Say Now
If that neighbor asked me the same question today, I’d smile and say:
“No, you won’t see her name in the paper. But you should’ve seen her ace that serve yesterday. You should’ve seen how she regrouped after a tough game and kept going. You should see how hard she’s trying in a world that doesn’t always understand how her brain works.”
Because that—that—is success too.
And maybe someday, we’ll have a version of the honor roll that recognizes all of it.
Until then, I’ll keep showing up for my daughters—not just as their mom, but as their translator, their teammate, their biggest fan.
– The Wallflower
Glimmers of The Wallflower 
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