There are nights when I look at my two boys, 13 and 10, and announce, “My battery is at 1%.”
They know what this means.
I get much quieter. The pile of clothes I told myself I was going to fold gets moved to the floor and becomes tomorrow’s problem. Video game sounds that normally wouldn’t bother me suddenly send my whole system into overdrive. If both kids are talking to me at once, I sometimes have to say, “I can’t process what either one of you is saying right now.”
Eventually, I can hit what feels like an actual wall. I go into a burnout shutdown where decision-making becomes almost impossible. My brain feels frozen. I know there are things I should be doing, but I can’t organize them into a next step. If I’m overstimulated enough, I can barely formulate a cohesive thought.
Sometimes the only thing that helps is going into my room, closing the door, and sitting in complete silence.
I don’t hide this from my kids. I let them see it on purpose.
I spent most of my life not knowing my brain worked differently
I was diagnosed with ADHD at 38. Until then, I genuinely didn’t know other people’s brains worked the way mine did. The best way I can describe my brain is that there are three musicals happening on three different stages at the same time. There are songs, conversations, ideas, and a constant stream of thoughts all competing for my attention.
From the outside, I looked highly functional. I was an A+ student. I worked hard. I got things done. I became an entrepreneur.
Internally, I was exhausted to the point that it sometimes felt like an existential level.
I remember hitting this same wall when I was around the same age as my sons. My parents didn’t understand what was happening, and why would they? ADHD wasn’t something anyone was considering for me. I wasn’t physically hyperactive. All of the pinging was happening inside my head. So I learned to push through it and, eventually, to look calm while doing it.
In our family, we talk about our batteries
Our family therapist gave us an analogy that has become part of our language: Everybody is like a cell phone. Our batteries drain differently, and they recharge differently.
My older son is an introvert like me. We can love being around people and still need significant quiet afterward. For me, recharging means real quiet — a chunk of time when nobody is talking to me, asking me a question, or needing me to make a decision.
My younger son, who also has ADHD, is almost the opposite. I always say he’s fueled by people. Talking to friends and being around other people can actually charge him. I love that distinction because even people whose brains are wired similarly don’t necessarily need the same things.
There isn’t one correct way to recharge.
I want my kids to know before they’re 38
Being a single parent means I can’t disappear into silence every time my battery gets low. Sometimes the video game is still playing. Somebody still needs something. Life keeps happening.
I’ve stopped believing that being a good mother means hiding the fact that I have limits. I’m not asking my children to take care of me. I’m letting them know me.
I want them to understand that people who love each other get to be human in front of one another. You can say, “I need quiet.” You can say, “I need people.” You can say, “My brain is too full right now.” Limits aren’t character flaws, and rest isn’t something you earn only after you’ve completely depleted yourself.
For most of my life, I thought strength meant pushing through until nobody could tell I was struggling. I’m trying to teach my kids something different: learn what drains your battery. Learn what charges it. Tell the people you love what you need. And don’t wait until you’re at 1% to plug yourself back in.
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