TO ALL "HYPERACTIVE" CHILDREN

This year’s shout-out goes to the hyper kids, the ones always told to sit down, calm down, pipe down.

The ones constantly punished for being too loud, too fast, too curious. The social butterflies.

You know them.

Never in one place for more than a second, but always the heartbeat of the class.

The “troublemakers.”

The unforgettable ones.

They’re the ones who leave a trail of laughter, questions, scribbled notes, flipped chairs, and sometimes, tears.

The ones who exhaust the adults around them, yet somehow make everything more alive.

Let me tell you about one of mine.

Teaching has its share of beautiful chaos, but nothing prepared me for Destiny.

I used to pray, literally pray before stepping into class, not just for wisdom and strength, but for Destiny to just behave today.

I mean, what did I ever do to deserve this divine assignment?

This little whirlwind with sneakers and endless stories?

I wasn’t even his parent who I sometimes feel bad for, but every teacher knows the unspoken rule: once they walk into your classroom, they’re yours. You carry their joy, their fire, their unpredictability. You carry their world. They are our children.

And Destiny?

Oh, he was mine; heart, headache, and all.

Every day, a new episode.

There were no dull moments for him. None.

He was the busiest human I’d ever met—always up to something, and not always the kind you’d want.

If silence was gold, Destiny was a thunderstorm with no off switch. 

I remember, the most times I was queried were because of him. So yes, it wasn't just his mates that he picked on, not just his parents that he made to be summoned more often but I took part in shouldering the troubles he landed me in.

I thought he needed more structure, more discipline, more “behave yourself.”

But over time, I realized something: I wasn’t just trying to discipline him… I was trying to change who he was. I wanted him easier, smaller, more manageable.

But Destiny wasn’t made to be managed.

He was made to be—loudly, boldly, beautifully.

Then came the day everything flipped.

It was during a basic science class on force and motion.

Barely ten seconds into the teaching, Destiny shot up from his chair like he’d been waiting all year for this moment.

“Miss Grateful! Is that the same force that makes our swing go up and down?”

“Yes, Destiny.”

He blinked. “So is that why I can’t sit still too? Because something inside me is always moving?”

The class roared with laughter.

But I didn’t laugh.

Because… what if he wasn’t joking?

What if that was Destiny trying to explain himself in the only language he knew—movement?

What if his body wasn’t misbehaving but simply speaking for his mind?

That day, I stopped seeing him as a problem.

I started watching him, not like a ticking time bomb, but like a puzzle.

A child holding pieces I didn’t yet understand.

Destiny wasn’t distracted. He was curious.

He wasn’t defiant. He was wired differently.

While others scribbled answers, he asked why the answers mattered.

While others memorized rules, he reimagined better ones.

While others followed quietly, he blazed new trails.

He wasn’t ignoring instructions, he was interpreting the world in his own vivid, dynamic way.

Not hyper. Just alive in his own way.

Destiny cracked something open in me.

I realized the real problem isn’t hyperactivity.

It’s a system that treats energy like a defect.

That wants every child to be neat, quiet, and easy to manage.

But Destiny wasn’t built for a box.

He needed direction, not restriction.

He needed trust, not tension.

He didn’t need to be less.

He needed to be seen.

So I started teaching with him, not against him.

I used his questions to drive lessons.

I gave him group tasks where his energy became leadership.

And slowly, the chaos that used to wear me out began to work for us.

Did it solve everything? No.

He still had his outbursts, his wild ideas, his extra-large presence.

But it saved me from resenting a child who was only trying to be himself.

And in saving him, something in me softened too.

For every hyper child, there’s a Destiny.

And if you’ve met one, you’ll never forget.

So to the teachers, parents, uncles, aunties, big siblings, or maybe even the little you hiding in your own memories, here’s your reminder:

They don’t need louder punishment.

They need quieter understanding.

They don’t need to be tamed.

They need to be trusted.

They don’t need to be changed.

They need to be championed.

Because children like Destiny?

They don’t just stir up noise.

They stir up change.

Happy children's day to all children wired differently as hyperactive.

27/5/2025

© Agredecido 🥰