• I was diagnosed with ADHD at 38. I spent most of my life masking things I didn't know were ADHD.
• Instead of pretending I'm fine, I tell my sons when my brain is full and my battery is running low.
• I'm teaching them that everybody has different limits and it's important to know and respect them.

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.

• I thought being a good mother meant being fair and treating all of my kids the same way.
• But each of my six kids has different personalities and abilities and needs their own set of rules.
• It can be hard for my kids at times, but I am no longer compelled to make everything even.

For years, I thought being a good mother meant being a fair mother. And being fair, I assumed, meant treating all of my children exactly the same.

With six kids, this seemed especially important. I didn't want anyone keeping score — or, more accurately, I didn't want to give them anything to keep score about. If one child had a certain bedtime at 9:00 p.m., surely the next one should, too. Chores should be divided equally. Consequences should be consistent. Privileges should come at the same ages.

Equal meant fair. Except it didn't.

My thinking evolved

The longer I parented, the harder it became to ignore what was right in front of me: I wasn't raising six versions of the same child. I was raising six completely different people.

One of my children thrives when given independence. Give them a responsibility and some space, and they'll usually rise to the occasion. Another needs more structure, more reminders, and more check-ins. That doesn't make one child more responsible or the other less capable. They simply need different things from me.

The same is true of privileges. I used to think that if one child earned a later curfew at a certain age, every child should automatically receive the same privilege when they reached that age. Now I understand that age isn't the only factor. Trust is built through choices. A child who has consistently demonstrated responsibility may be ready for freedom that a sibling at the same age isn't ready for yet.

Sometimes, I feel guilty

My decisions can be hard to explain when the inevitable "But they got to!" comes flying across the room. And sometimes, if I'm being truthful, the difference has nothing to do with the children at all. My youngest gets more bedtime stories than my oldest did.

That realization could easily become another entry on the endless list of things mothers feel guilty about. But my oldest didn't have the same mother my youngest has. Back then, I was younger, less experienced, and more concerned with getting everything right. I rushed through routines because there was always something else that needed to be done.

Six children later, I understand how quickly those routines disappear. I linger a little longer now.

That doesn't mean I loved my older children less. It means motherhood has changed me. The mother raising my youngest has learned things the mother raising my oldest hadn't learned yet.

I know this is the right way for me to parent

For a while, parenting my children differently felt like admitting I was inconsistent. Now I see it as evidence that I'm paying attention. My 8-year-old, who has always been an early riser, requires more sleep than some of his siblings, so he is the first to go to bed, while his younger siblings stay up a little later. It is unusual from the outside looking in, but it is what best meets his needs.

Fairness doesn't always mean equal chores, identical consequences, or the same privileges at the same ages. Sometimes fairness means giving more guidance to the child who needs it and more independence to the one who is ready for it. It means recognizing that one child may need encouragement while another needs accountability.

My children still notice the differences, of course. They are children. Keeping track of who got what seems practically written into the sibling job description. But I no longer feel compelled to make everything even.

My job isn't to make sure all six of my children receive exactly the same childhood; It's to know each of them well enough to give them the childhood they need. After years of trying so hard to be equal, I've finally realized that might be the fairest thing I can do. I won't always get it right. I'm still learning these six very different people as they grow and change—and trying to grow and change with them. Maybe good parenting was never about getting everything exactly right. Maybe it's simply about paying attention, loving them well, and doing the best I can with the mother I am today.