Looking back, I watched my childhood best friend move into her own apartment, experiencing parties, different friend groups, and dating. I envied her confidence and independence, especially when she began working with my mom at a dental clinic 45 minutes away from our little village. It was another blow to my relationship with my mother — someone else was building a bond with her, while I longed for that connection myself. I need to be clear: my parents are not bad people. They provided me with opportunities, vacations, dance lessons, and music. But I struggled with communication and trauma. I often got tongue‑tied when trying to express my needs and wants. I believe my mom spent many hours trying to figure me out as a child and teen, but eventually gave up, resorting to angry bursts of frustration. One memory stands out: egg salad sandwiches thrown down the stairwell at me because I couldn’t express that I wanted the same sandwich she was having. I wasn’t ungrateful — I just wanted to share a moment of sameness with her. But my inability to communicate turned into conflict. It is incredible to see how far society has come with resources for parents of children with ADHD. My parents had no idea, and I don’t blame them for the misdiagnosis or for not understanding my unique brain. I was a child who couldn’t communicate on the fly, who struggled with sensory overload, processing time, and language. I can only imagine their frustration with me at times. Still, they tried. They offered me dance lessons, encouraged my love of singing, and took us on vacations to the interior of BC. Summers at Shuswap and the Okanagan gave me joy and planted the dream of living there one day. Today, I am blessed to raise my two children in the Okanagan with my love, Colin.

An Education System That Failed Me And My Parents!

After high school, I graduated with a Dogwood diploma — something I never understood. I believe the district feared being sued by my parents. Years later, I discovered documentation from Children’s Hospital that never recommended placement in a Special Education classroom. It said I needed a learning assistants teacher to help provide support and adapted work, not modified work. That distinction mattered, and my parents had every right to challenge the system. But they trusted the educators, and I was pushed through a system that didn’t fit me. I attempted college after high school, longing to study music. But I didn’t meet the English 12 requirement, and I failed the LPI exam that could have allowed me into the program at Malaspina College. Another disappointment. I tried to study, but I couldn’t grasp the concepts. How do you tell your parents you don’t know how to study? More stress, more shame, more “I told you so’s.” I couldn’t take it anymore. I moved five hours away with my best friend J into a townhome. Schooling didn’t last a month before I quit. I remember walking by the fine arts building, hearing vocalists and piano players, sitting outside in awe, crying because I felt like a failure again. Why not me? Why was life so tough? What did I do to deserve this? I loved my first psychology class and women’s studies, but textbooks felt like a foreign language. Listening in class worked for me — auditory learning made sense — but studying alone was impossible. I dropped out, lied to my parents, and spent the money they had given me. Without a car or license, I tried working, but social skills, understanding the fast pace of serving food in restaurants and clothing stores, held me back and being fired was tuff, yet another failing moment. Everything felt like confusion. J and I fought constantly. I envied her confidence, even though she hated school. My jealousy and lack of life skills drove us apart. I drifted back to Carter, though I briefly reconnected with S, a boy from high school who had treated me with kindness and respect. He should have been my first relationship — he showed me what safe love looked like. But by then, I was obsessed with Carter. I felt I couldn’t do anything on my own and needed him to guide me through adulthood. Carter wasn’t cruel, but he had his own issues from a troubled home. We connected on certain levels, but he was guarded and struggled with emotional connection, even more so then me at times. He was smart, confident, and controlling in ways I didn’t even recognize. I eventually proposed to him myself, too scared to face the world alone after my college failure. He said “fine, will you marry me,” and I accepted. Instead of seeing the signs, I chose the safety of familiarity over the fear of venturing out again.