“You’re giving your child too much attention,” the doctor told me. But I’m not nervous—I’m just a mother.
If my son were a toddler, perhaps I wouldn’t worry. But he’s nearly fifteen and still can’t sleep at night. He sleeps during the day when he should be studying—when he should be active, socialising, living. We even moved him to homeschooling, not as a whim but out of necessity: he simply can’t function on a normal schedule.
No, he isn’t glued to a computer or buried in his phone. He reads. He writes. He draws. He listens to online lectures. He’s fascinated by biology, coding, and history all at once. He just can’t sleep—as if his brain doesn’t know where the “off” switch is.
At first, I just observed. Then I began noticing odd habits—a drawer slammed shut ten times in a row, the rug tugged out of place, fingers tapping against the wall. I got scared. Not because he was disruptive, but because it was clear: his nerves were fraying. That’s when I knew we needed professional help.
We went to a neurologist. She sent us for tests. Everything came back normal. Next, a psychiatrist. He greeted us with a stiff smile and spoke to *me* first, not my son. Polite, measured, until he delivered his “diagnosis”:
“*You*,” he said, “are the issue. You spend far too much time with your son. You’ve… smothered him with love.”
I was stunned.
“Excuse me?”
“Normal parents,” he carried on, smug, “see their child at breakfast and dinner. You? You’re always there. No wonder his mind can’t switch off—he’s been raised in a greenhouse.”
“I work from home. Is that a crime?”
“The crime is your anxiety!” he snapped. “You’ve dragged him halfway across London for tests, chasing a problem that doesn’t exist. You watch him, listen to him, obsess over him. You *want* to find something wrong—just to feel needed.”
“With respect,” I replied evenly, “I didn’t order the tests. The neurologist did. I was following advice.”
“A sensible mother would’ve refused—do you know how much this costs? And look at you now, gazing at him like he’s made of glass, while he’s over there digging in his pockets. No discipline. No respect. And you—soft as butter. No wonder he runs the show. *I’d* be on medication if I were you.”
Then… it began. Nearly half an hour of our appointment—for which I’d paid a small fortune—he spent monologuing… about *himself*.
His daughter, who refuses to speak to him, dyes her hair blue, and runs around in shorts in December. How she smokes on the landing and hangs with a rough crowd. How he takes sedatives just to cope. *That*, he claimed, was how you “accept” a teenager’s personality.
I listened. I waited until he finished. Then I thanked him—and left.
Outside, the air felt lighter.
And you know what? I’m not nervous. I’m just a mother. One who wants to understand her child, to help him navigate the chaos of hormones, fears, and sleepless nights. Yes, I’m there. Yes, we face it together. And if that unsettles someone—then they’ll never understand what real care looks like.
Now, I’m searching for another doctor. One who’s calm, respectful. Not the sort who vents during appointments, but who actually *listens*. Because I know this much: loving your child isn’t a diagnosis. It’s normal. It’s motherhood.
