Coming Home to Dixie

We’re now just weeks away from our big move, and the packing has officially taken over every corner of our home—and every ounce of my mental energy. It’s not just about sorting, taping, and labeling. It’s about managing two children with ADHD, helping them regulate their emotions and focus long enough to fold a shirt or sort a toy bin, all while juggling my own full-time job and the endless logistical checklist of a cross-country relocation.

Today was hard. Really hard.

My youngest, full of energy from the moment she opened her eyes, was extra hyper. While my oldest and I were trying to pack up the bookshelves, my youngest danced around us, interrupting every five seconds. At one point she was literally jumping on the bed and throwing stuff across the room. Redirecting her became a full-time job on top of the one I already have. But what made it harder was watching the subtle shift in my youngest’s behavior as she realized I was spending more focused time with her sister. That old, painful instinct from her foster care days kicked in: Compete for attention. Compete for love. And I was suddenly a referee instead of a mom, torn between both girls, trying to meet their very different emotional needs.

That competitive spirit was ingrained in them long before they came to me. They were starved for attention in their early years—neglected, emotionally overlooked, and in survival mode. My oldest spent most of her time in foster care in front of a TV, with almost no adult interaction. She was never read to. No one encouraged her academically or even noticed how smart she was. When Jim and I were preparing to bring the girls home, we had to decide whether our oldest—who was finishing second grade but years behind academically—should be held back or pushed forward with support. As a former teacher, I believed in her. We had two and a half months before the school year started, and I made it my mission to help her catch up.

I filled our summer with homemade lesson plans, daily reading time, workbooks from Amazon, and a structured school schedule. That was 2020, right in the middle of COVID, which meant the school year started virtually. And honestly, it was a blessing in disguise. It gave us more control over her learning environment and the time she needed to catch up. She worked so hard. And I watched her slowly start to believe in herself.

By the end of third grade, she was not only on grade level—she was above it. In fifth grade, she was invited into an advanced math program. I knew she had it in her. She just needed someone to sit next to her and say, “You can do this.”

But ADHD is tricky. Even as she started succeeding in school, she struggled with focus, memory, and organization. We’d remind her to brush her teeth or get her shoes, and she’d forget by the time she stood up. It wasn’t defiance—it was disconnection. After an official diagnosis and starting medication, the change was almost immediate. She could focus longer, finish tasks without breaking down, and follow through with less prompting. But memory and self-management are still hurdles. And now the hardest part is teaching her to take ownership of what she can control. Therapy helps. We’ve made progress. But growth is slow, and some days feel like we’re walking uphill with a heavy load—literally and figuratively.

My youngest was always our little firecracker. When we first met her at age four, we thought, “She’ll grow out of it.” But by second grade, it became clear that her hyperactivity was escalating. Her diagnosis came that year, and once she began medication, the difference was undeniable. But the meds aren’t magic. Sugar sends her into overdrive, and even with structure, some days she just… can’t. And neither can I.

Some days are battles—hour by hour. I find myself losing patience, raising my voice, frustrated at how little we’ve accomplished. And then I remember: they’re not trying to make it hard. They’re struggling, too. So I regroup. I shift tactics. I offer choices. I try incentives. I pivot a dozen times before noon. I plan everything I can—right down to what time we’ll eat lunch or which room we’ll pack next—to minimize surprises. I try to predict my oldest’s questions and preempt them before she starts her anxiety spiral. Because once she’s overwhelmed, the floodgates open: Where are we going? Will the pets be okay? What happens if it rains during the drive? Will we have Internet right away? She doesn’t ask to be difficult. She asks to cope. And I try to honor that—but it wears me down.

We get stuck. Packing stops. Progress halts. And I can’t move forward until I’ve answered every single question—sometimes twice.

At the end of the day, I lie in bed and replay everything. What I said. How I responded. What I could’ve done differently. I try not to beat myself up, but I always end with a vow: Tomorrow’s a new day. I say it to the girls all the time. I say it to myself too.

Some days I feel like I’m failing. But then I remember how far they’ve come. And how far we’ve come. They try. Even on the hardest days, they try. And so do I.

Being their mom is the most exhausting, humbling, rewarding thing I’ve ever done. It’s not easy—but it’s so, so worth it.

Even on days like today, when the packing gets derailed, the questions don’t stop, and I feel like I’m being pulled in opposite directions—I remind myself why we’re doing all this. We are building a life together. One box, one deep breath, one hard-fought victory at a time.