I have a 7-year-old son who is ADHD, and I have been trying to manage family, motherhood, and my own small business all at the same time. Three years ago, in the middle of exhaustion and trial-and-error, I started writing down every intervention I tried with him — every method, every mistake, every approach that seemed to help even a little.
Those notes eventually became a book on Amazon. A self-published indie author with no readers, no reviews, and no buyers either. For a while, I thought my writing journey would end there. I thought my dream of sharing different approaches — the ones I had personally tested, the philosophy I shaped through an Asian parenting lens — would simply fade after the book was published.
But my desire to create a voice didn’t end. Neither did my observation, or my personal growth walking beside my son’s journey.
When he started Primary 1, everything changed.
I shifted from being a mother juggling survival to being a mother fully present in his school life. There were many sacrifices along the way, but his struggles were real. His reading level was closer to a 4- or 5-year-old; his handwriting was messy; his body was constantly moving. He was scolded almost daily in class, and his confidence dropped so low that he became even more hyperactive — as if noise could hide his frustration.
I realised no one else could see the brilliance in him.
Not the school system, not society, not the structure that rewards quiet, compliant children.
So I took matters into my own hands. I accepted the difficult path: juggling the slow trickle of my business, handling the family, squeezing what I could out of 24 hours, picking him up from school every day, cooking the most nourishing meals I could manage (because he burns through energy fast), and reteaching him everything from the foundations of a preschooler.
We weren’t afraid to admit we were starting from zero.
In fact, it became the best decision I ever made for him. Once the basics were rebuilt, the next steps became clearer — and easier.
Yet while spending so much time in his world, I started to see something else too.
Every day when I waited at the school gate, I found myself observing the people around me — other parents, teachers, children, and the small interactions that reveal who we are. Not judgmentally, but reflectively. As mirrors. I began to ask myself:
How can I be better?
How can I raise him with clarity instead of fear?
Because like any human, I have my weak moments. I lose patience. I grow tired. I feel unseen. And sometimes it feels as if no one understands what it means to mother a child who is “difficult” in a world that prefers easy children.
In these quiet moments of watching — the way a child hesitates before speaking, the frustration hidden in a parent’s sigh, the kindness of a teacher bending down to help a struggling student — I began to see a different side of parenting in Asian society. A Southeast Asian culture rarely spoken about, often misunderstood, and mostly invisible to the world.
I realised I didn’t want these reflections to stay in my head.
I didn’t want my writing to end with a book no one read.
I wanted to give these small observations a voice — not as universal truths, but as moments meant to evoke a feeling.
Somewhere between the school gate and the dinner table, I realised I wasn’t just surviving motherhood — I was documenting it.
This is why I write:
Because parenting is not a straight line.
Because raising a child with ADHD requires constant re-learning.
Because I needed a place to breathe, to think, to grow.
Because reflection is the only way I stay present.
And because somewhere in the quiet details, I began to recognise both of us — my child learning to be himself, and me learning to be his mother.
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