Learning to Let Go: My Journey Parenting a Teen Gamer with ADHD

If you had told me a few years ago that parenting would look like this, I don’t think I would’ve believed you.

I always imagined parenting a teenager would mean teaching life skills, guiding from the side, offering love and support, not constant pushback, screen time battles, or the emotional rollercoaster that comes with raising a child who’s wired differently.

My son is 16. He has ADHD. And like many neurodivergent kids, he found comfort and escape in video games, structure, rewards, predictability, and a space where he felt successful.

At first, I thought: Okay, this is his hobby. It’s fine. But then the games started taking up more and more of his time. And mine. Late nights. Power struggles. Emotional outbursts. Disconnection.

I tried all the “right” things, timers, screen limits, consequences. Some days it worked. Most days it didn’t. And if I’m honest, I wasn’t just upset because of the screen time. I was upset because I felt… ignored. I asked him to do something, and he didn’t. I tried to talk, and he rolled his eyes. That not being listened to, that loss of control, was what hurt the most.

And deep down, I wondered: Was I failing him? Was I being too soft? Too strict? Too reactive? I didn’t know. This isn’t a how-to. It’s a glimpse into what it’s really like to parent in the grey areas, the ones that don’t come with instructions, timelines, or quick fixes.

Realisation: Boundaries Don’t Work if the Brain Isn’t Ready

Eventually, I came across the idea of “readiness.” That kids (especially teens with ADHD) don’t just change because we set rules. They change when they're ready to see the problem for themselves.

There’s a kind of internal timeline every child is on—and it’s not always aligned with our parenting urgency. I had to learn the concept of phases of readiness, which changed how I saw everything:

• No Awareness: The child doesn’t think there’s a problem. They’re defensive. Dismissive. Every boundary feels like an attack.

• Some Awareness: They start noticing the consequences, missed sleep, grades dropping, feeling off, but they’re still unsure what to do about it.

• Ready for Change: They begin wanting something different and are open to experimenting with boundaries or solutions.

I realised I was parenting like we were in Phase 3, when in reality, my son was still firmly in Phase 1. That mismatch created so much frustration, for both of us.

I kept wondering, Why isn’t this working? And the truth was: he wasn’t ready. Not emotionally. Not developmentally. Not yet. And neither was I. I wasn't ready to let go, to trust, to stop trying to force it.

Shifting My Approach: Planting Seeds

Once I stopped trying to control and started trying to connect, things began to change. Slowly.

I began reflecting instead of lecturing. Observing instead of reacting. Dropping in curiosity instead of commands.

I also got curious about what gaming was actually giving him. I started asking questions, not because I suddenly loved video games, but because I wanted to understand him.

“What’s your favourite thing about that game?”

“What makes it exciting?”

“What part of it makes it hard to stop?”

“Do you think it helps you relax or feel more in control?”

At first, he seemed surprised I was even asking. But those conversations helped me see things through his eyes. I began to understand that gaming wasn't just about entertainment, it was about success, connection, identity, and a break from the constant feedback of not measuring up in other areas.

That shift helped me respond differently. I wasn’t fighting against gaming anymore. I was trying to understand the role it played in his life, so that I could support him in relating to it more intentionally.

Instead of:

"You’re gaming too much." I started saying: "I noticed you looked really tired this morning, do you think staying up late had something to do with that?"

Instead of:

"You’re ignoring your homework again." I asked: "Was there something about today that made it harder to switch from gaming to school stuff?"

Sometimes he shrugged. Sometimes he snapped. But sometimes… he paused. Thought. Reflected.

And that pause? That was the seed.

I reminded myself: I’m not here to force insight. I’m here to make it safe enough for him to find it.

Building Boundaries That Don’t Backfire

Eventually, when he started saying things like, “I stayed up too late” or “I forgot to pause,” I saw a small window open.

That’s when I started building boundaries, not rules for him, but agreements with him.

• Collaborative: We discussed what worked and what didn’t.

• Flexible: We adjusted things when they failed.

• Clear: “One hour after school” instead of “less gaming.”

• Rooted in relationship: It wasn’t about controlling him. It was about helping him take ownership.

Of course, he still broke them. That was part of it. And I stopped treating that as defiance. I treated it as data.

“What made it hard to stick to the plan?”

“Was there something we didn’t think through?”

“Do you want to try a different strategy?”

This wasn’t perfect. But it shifted the energy. Boundaries became part of the learning, not the punishment.

What Makes a Boundary Actually Work?

I’ve come to believe that good boundaries rest on five things:

1. Clarity: Be specific. Vague rules get debated.

2. Mutual understanding: If they don’t buy in, they won’t follow through.

3. Consistency: Calm, predictable follow-up, not harsh punishment.

4. Flexibility: When it breaks, we revise, not retaliate.

5. Emotional safety: If they feel judged, they’ll resist. If they feel safe, they’ll reflect.

   
   

I stopped measuring success by whether he followed every rule.

I started asking:

"Is he thinking about his choices more?

Is he starting to connect the dots?

That’s the kind of progress I care about.

When the Script Doesn’t Work

Here’s the reality: sometimes I said all the “right” things.

“I hear you’re upset… and we’re still turning the game off now.”

And he just… kept playing.

And I stood there thinking: What now? What’s the point of all this connection stuff if it doesn’t change anything?

But those moments weren’t failure. They were moments to pause and not react.

Because what I do after the script matters more than the script itself.

Do I yell? Do I pull the plug? Or do I stay grounded, let it settle, and revisit later?

Sometimes I still need to hold the boundary, like saying, “It’s time to stop now.”

But what’s changed is how I hold it. Instead of reacting with frustration or control, I try to stay calm, empathise, and hold steady.

It’s not about forcing obedience, it’s about showing him what it looks like to manage frustration, face limits, and come back to reflection without shame.

Progress, Not Perfection

So where are we now?

He still games more than I’d like. He still sometimes pushes limits. He still occasionally zones out when I talk.

But now:

• He reflects more often.

• He catches himself more quickly.

• He sometimes stops on his own.

• He talks to me—sometimes—even about the hard stuff.

Those things may look small. But they’re huge. Because they’re his.

It’s not perfect. It’s in progress. But it’s real.

Where I Am Now, Honestly

I still have doubts. I still feel afraid. I still sometimes want to shut it all down, take the controller, and make the problem go away.

But I’m learning to step back. To hold space. To stay connected even when I can’t control the outcome.

Letting go isn’t passive. It’s active. It’s messy. It’s deeply uncomfortable. But it’s also respectful.

And more than anything, I’m learning to trust that my job isn’t to make the choices for him, it’s to help him want to make better ones for himself.

That’s what this whole journey is about.

And if you’re in it too, figuring it out one hard moment at a time, you’re not alone.

Mirka