What If It’s Not Misbehaviour? Parenting Neurodiverse Children

Parenting Outside The Box

As a mum, I’ve often felt the weight of responsibility on my shoulders.

Every decision I made, every mistake, felt like it would shape the person my daughter would become. Her struggles, I feared, would be rooted in my own shortfalls. And as a perfectionist, I was never enough.

I know I’m a brilliant mum. I really do. But with 24/7 meltdowns and so much anger directed at me, there have been moments when I couldn’t hold it together — when I exploded in frustration. And while people around me told me I was a saint for staying so calm, for managing more than most could, all I could focus on were the 5% of times I didn’t. Not the 95% of times I was patient, empathetic, and present. Just the moments when I was human.

I was juggling her emotional needs, my job, the financial pressure, the house, and still felt like I was failing at the one thing that mattered most: supporting her in a meaningful way. And when things felt like too much — the meltdowns, the aggressiveness, the sensory triggers — and I reacted not with empathy, but with frustration, I didn’t give myself any grace.

I should know better. I must do better.

They said discipline is what was needed, when deep down, I knew it was empathy. People judged me — even the very systems that were meant to support us. They frame emotional dysregulation as a parenting failure, not as a response to a brain that processes the world differently and needs different support.

I used to doubt myself constantly. But what changed everything was when I stopped listening to everyone else and started listening to my child instead.

She didn’t need me to shout or threaten consequences. She needed me to smile when she was losing control, to stay calm when everything in her world felt too much. It took practice, but I became the steady anchor she needed. I embraced a new way of parenting: child-led, gentle, empathetic — with clear boundaries and consequences rooted in connection, not shame. And no matter how judged I was, this is what worked for us. This is what I stand by.

Of course, doubts still creep in during quiet moments:

“What if this never changes?”
“What if it’s all my fault?”

Dr. Naomi Fisher addresses these questions beautifully in her blog post, which I cannot recommend enough. Here are a few takeaways that continue to guide me:

✨ Children change dramatically as they grow. Their brains evolve, and what they can handle shifts too.
✨ We can’t control who they’ll become — but we can meet them with compassion right now.
✨ We can show them they are loved, fully and unconditionally, just as they are.
✨ One day, when they are adults, we won’t be able to go back and be more patient, more gentle, more accepting. We only have now — so let’s give them our compassion in the present.

Parenting Takes Its Toll

Let’s begin with a necessary truth: neurodivergent children are not inherently more difficult to parent than neurotypical ones. I say this as someone who was, myself, an “easy” child to raise.

But when a child struggles with things like sensory processing, social anxiety, emotional dysregulation, or hyperactivity, it can take a very real toll on a parent’s mental health — especially when support is scarce and understanding is limited.

More often than not, that toll falls disproportionately on mothers.

In many families (whether split or not), children tend to mask — they hold it all together at school or with one parent, and decompress only when they’re with the person they feel safest with. For many children, that’s their mum.
Which means mum sees it all: the meltdowns, the refusals, the aggression, the overwhelm.

Meanwhile, others look on and see a child who seems “fine” — and a mother who must be doing something wrong.

It’s exhausting. And it’s lonely.

While dads are still often praised for doing a fraction of the parenting, mums are expected to carry the rest — with patience, grace, and no recognition.
And when a neurodivergent child’s challenges show up only with mum, people (including family members and professionals) are quick to assume she’s the problem. Not the system. Not the expectations. Not the overwhelm.

This is where the emotional load becomes unbearable.

Now layer on something even more complex:

Many of these mothers are neurodivergent themselves — often undiagnosed.

They’re supporting their child’s emotional storms while battling their own.
They’re struggling with emotional dysregulation, sensory sensitivities, executive dysfunction, or the need for quiet, solo time to reset — which is almost impossible in the whirlwind of parenting these type of children.

And they don’t always know why it feels so hard. They just know they’re burning out — trying to meet their child’s needs while constantly overriding their own.

This is a recipe for mental overload, and for many, it leads to real consequences:
Depression, anxiety disorders, emotional eating, panic attacks, chronic fatigue, and even physical health issues linked to years of elevated stress hormones.
Living in survival mode every single day, for years, is not sustainable. And yet, so many of us are doing just that.

I speak from personal experience. I’m a single mum with no family nearby, no support network, and I work while raising my daughter alone. I carry all the financial, emotional, and domestic responsibilities.
And while I wouldn’t trade my child for the world, there are days when parenting feels like survival.

Mornings can be traumatic. Sensory struggles with clothes and shoes mean we’re often late — or I’m carrying her to school barefoot on my shoulders, just to get out the door.
Some times we skip extracurriculars not out of laziness, but because she couldn’t manage to get dressed or into the car seat — and I couldn’t push her without pushing her (and myself) over the edge.

Even when things go well, it can cost me everything.
I give 200% and some days it still isn’t enough. Other days it is — but it drains me so much that I can’t do it again the next time. Because your 200% is needed not once, but several times a day — and that’s just not sustainable.
It’s relentless. And it’s invisible.

I often work from home, which helps reduce external stress — but also means the only time I leave the house is for school runs, which adds to the isolation.
And even when I make it through the morning and get to work, I sometimes find myself crying on the way — not because something has gone wrong, but simply to release the pressure.

When the weekend comes, I try to get out, see friends, breathe different air. But some days, just getting my daughter ready doesn’t happen. Other times, friends are busy with their own families, birthday parties, and plans — and I’m reminded again how easily community can slip through your fingers when your life doesn’t follow the same rhythm as others.

I rely on WhatsApp calls with family and voice notes with other mums I’ve met over the years — and I’m grateful for them. But sometimes, it’s just not enough. My need for deep connection with other adults often goes unmet.

This is what it looks like behind the scenes. And no one sees it all — not the exhaustion, the mental gymnastics, or the strength it takes to keep going.

If you’re in survival mode too, living one day at a time, feeling burned out and overwhelmed, please know:
You are not alone.

Some days will be better than others.
And even within the same day, there will be better moments than others.
This won’t last forever. But in the meantime, compassion for yourself is essential.

Some days, all you’ll manage is to keep going.
Other days, you’ll shine.

And both are enough.

Whenever you feel like giving up, remind yourself:
You’re showing up. You’re adapting. You’re advocating.
And that matters more than anyone who isn’t in your shoes could ever understand.

Put Your Oxygen Mask On First — So You Can Help Them Breathe Too

As a mum, I’ve been the one holding it all — the logistics, the advocacy, the emotional scaffolding. I’m the one who’s always booked the dental and medical appointments, who spent two relentless years fighting the gatekeeping systems just to get her seen by the neurodivergence team. I advocate for her everywhere: in nursery, in school, in the health system — in every space where her needs risk being overlooked.

At night, we have long conversations in bed about how she feels. She tells me she knows she’s different from other children — and I remind her that different it’s ok. That our minds may work differently from most, but that doesn’t make them any less brilliant. I tell her that being part of the herd might feel easier sometimes, but it’s the ones who stand out that have the chance to do extraordinary things.

When she shares her struggles — with sensory processing, with emotional dysregulation — I don’t dismiss them. I validate every word. When she says she wishes she were better behaved, I remind her that it’s not about being “bad” or “good.” Her struggles are real. Her efforts are massive. Just getting dressed can be a mountain to climb when your body feels everything more intensely than others. So when she pushes through, it means even more than it might for someone who can throw on clothes without a second thought, and I make sure she knows how amazing that makes her.

We talk endlessly about ways to manage frustration — how to walk away and reclaim your space, how to ask for cuddles, how to express without aggression. And she’s finding her own coping mechanisms. We turn getting dressed into imaginative role plays — it takes time and patience, and sometimes we’re running late, but rushing her only makes things worse.

So I choose what matters most.
Sometimes that means we’re late.
But her mental well-being will always matter more than being on time.

She’s taught me to embrace the chaos. To let go of what doesn’t serve us.
And to always choose connection over control.

But this parenting life can be incredibly intense. And when my daughter gets lost in her frustration, and I’m already carrying the weight of life’s responsibilities on my shoulders — the work, the finances, the household, the emotional labour — sometimes I break too. I snap, I shout, and the guilt hits instantly. So I take space to calm down, and then I come back to her.

I always apologise — it’s important to acknowledge your mistakes as a parent. Our children don’t just learn from the things we do right; they also learn from when we make mistakes. They learn from seeing us accept that we’re not perfect, that we make mistakes, and that we can own them. And she does the same. I don’t even need to prompt it.

We talk through what happened — what wasn’t okay, and what we could have done differently.

But when she tells me, “It’s okay, Mum,” I always say, “No, it’s not.”
Because she should never tolerate someone shouting at her or making her feel small — not even me. Not someone who loves her. Especially not someone who loves her.

That’s something I want her to carry with her forever — to understand her worth, to know that love and respect must always come hand in hand. Especially as a girl growing up in a world where too many of us have experienced coercive control or emotional harm from people we loved. I’ve lived it. And I want her to expect better — always.

Most people wouldn’t guess she’s neurodivergent. Outside our inner circle, she’s the queen of masking — just like I was. She’s sociable, makes friends easily, is beloved by everyone at school. She’s kind, empathetic, always the first to share, the first to help. She’s the “perfect” student. But she doesn’t take nonsense from anyone. If something doesn’t feel right — how someone’s being treated, how someone’s acting — she’ll say so, clearly and confidently. And I love that fire in her. I hope she never loses it.

I remember when a psychologist first met her. I was riddled with insecurity, wondering if I was doing anything right. My instincts told me I was — but parenting doesn’t come with a manual, especially when your child’s struggles are as unique as their brilliance.

But the psychologist told me something I’ll never forget:
“These children often believe they’re less than others. But your daughter doesn’t. She knows she’s capable. She knows she’s good. And that’s on you.”

That’s when I realised — Yes, I helped her get there.
I helped her feel enough.

And she’s made huge progress with emotional regulation. These days, she recognises her feelings before they boil over. She’ll come in for a cuddle — that’s something I taught her, slowly and gently, over years. I’ve helped her build a healthier relationship with all her emotions — even the messy ones: anger, sadness, fear. They’re all valid. They all have a place. And that’s also on me.

We’ve read books, watched films, had big talks about hard things — death, separation, family diversity, managing big feelings. And through all of this, while navigating life with CPTSD, parenting solo, and lacking a strong support network, I discovered my own oxygen mask:

I needed to look after me, too.
And that included choosing my battles.

I needed to understand my own neurodivergence, how my brain worked, what I needed to be well. I had to stop giving her every ounce of my energy and every minute of my day — because it wasn’t sustainable. I had to carve out time for me. Time to read, to reflect, to be creative, to connect with people outside the bubble of parenting.

If she watches TV while I rest or recharge, that’s okay.
If we eat pasta or order takeaway some nights, that’s okay too.

I even make sure to build her social life, going above and beyond to connect with other parents so we’re included in playdates, invited to parties, remembered for park meet-ups. I do that on top of my job, my advocacy, my parenting — alone.

Now I’m the one bringing other parents into the fold, creating those memories for her.
And when she forgets to appreciate it — as kids sometimes do — I press pause. I gently ask her to reflect. I give her a few examples… and she quickly adds to the list. We’ve started saying something simple and powerful to each other:
“I value you.”

Because at the end of the day, she is loved, understood, and held.
And I am proud — not just of who she is, but of how I’ve shown up for her.
Even when it’s hard. Especially then.

And if you ever find yourself giving your everything, only to be eaten by doubt like I was (and still am sometimes), break it down like I have here. You’ll see that you didn’t just show up — you excelled.

Having a child is a great gift, but not everyone gets the privilege of raising a child as uniquely extraordinary as mine. So when I see other parents seemingly having an easier time, I remind myself that my child is teaching me something profound: perspective, resilience, and the privilege of guiding an exceptional individual who will stand out in her own way. She’s a reminder that every child, neurodivergent or not, is a remarkable human with infinite potential to shine in their own way.

What Are We Even Looking For?

Now that I understand what neurodivergence can look like, I see it everywhere. In children at the park, in kids at school, in conversations with other parents. I see the signs — the struggles, the intensity, the overwhelm — and I recognise myself in them. I remember being there, trying everything, wondering what I was doing wrong.

The truth is, unless neurodivergence touches your life directly, it’s not something you’re taught to see. Many parents struggle for years without realising their child might be neurodivergent — especially if they’re girls, who are so often missed or misunderstood. And so many parents still don’t know what they’re supposed to be looking for.

Over the last couple of years, I’ve had countless important conversations with parents asking that very question:
“What are we even looking for?”

It’s not always obvious. Diagnoses are often delayed, and many systems still rely on outdated stereotypes. But if you’ve started to wonder whether your child might be neurodivergent, here are some early signs that helped guide my thinking:

Emotional Dysregulation

Monumental meltdowns beyond the toddler years may be more than just typical tantrums. These could point to sensory processing difficulties or emotional dysregulation.

Pay attention to the circumstances:

Are they overwhelmed by loud or busy environments?
Are they hungry or overtired?
Are they reacting strongly to certain clothes, textures, or pressure from things like shoes, jackets, or seat belts?

Likewise, aggressiveness or defiance isn’t always a sign of disobedience—it might be fear, stress, or an inability to self-regulate.

And to feel some sense of control, children (and also adults) may have a strict preference for routines or rituals — And big emotional responses when those routines are disrupted.

Unique Communication Styles

Communication can look very different in neurodivergent children. You might notice:

Being non-verbal past a certain age
Becoming non-verbal or selectively mute when overwhelmed
Using unusually advanced language, abstract thinking, or complex logic for their age

You may even find yourself thinking, “Am I having a conversation with a tiny philosopher?”

Hyperactivity

For some children, hyperactivity is easy to spot — like they’ve got ants in their pants and can’t sit still for a second.

For others, it shows up differently. They struggle to wind down, becoming more active the more tired they get, like their bodies are stuck in fast-forward when they really need to rest.

But hyperactivity isn’t always physical. Sometimes, it lives entirely in the mind — racing thoughts, constant worries, anxiety, or a drive for perfection that never lets up.

**What Doesn’t Help (Even If You Mean Well)**

As a parent of a neurodivergent child with unique emotional and sensory needs, I’ve experienced the unspoken pressures:

The stares in public
The unsolicited advice
The comparison culture that judges your child’s challenges—and your parenting—without understanding the full picture

People often jump to conclusions about “bad behaviour” without ever considering that your child might simply be responding to a world that wasn’t built with them in mind.

So some of the hardest moments as a parent haven’t come from my child—but from how others respond to my parenting.

Here are a few well-meaning but deeply unhelpful comments that I have faced:

“Don’t cuddle them during a tantrum—they’re just seeking attention.”

Actually, my child isn’t being manipulative. She’s overwhelmed—by fear, stress, or anxiety—and she comes to me because I’m her safe person.
That cuddle isn’t a reward for “bad” behaviour; it’s a tool for emotional regulation.

“Have you tried…?”

Yes.
I have tried everything. And unless your child shares the same needs, your suggestion can feel more like a quiet accusation than a solution. It implies I haven’t done enough—or am not a good enough parent for not thinking of it myself.

“Mine was already dressing themselves at that age.”

Please know that when a parent is struggling just to get through a morning without tears or meltdowns, hearing how your child is thriving can come across more like comparison than conversation. Children don’t play on a level field, and comparison only adds to the pressure.

“They’re too big to be in a stroller,” or “Why aren’t they wearing shoes?”

When you see a child in a stroller past toddler age, or barefoot, or in clothes that don’t seem weather appropriate, try not to judge. That child may have sensory sensitivities you can’t see. Telling them they’re “too big for that” can damage their sense of self and teach them to mask who they are to be accepted.

Please remember: you’re seeing one moment in a child’s life, not the full story.

When the System Fails to See Our Children

Many of the services meant to support neurodivergent children still operate on outdated, one-size-fits-all criteria.

In some areas, children are only referred for support if they show signs in more than one setting — ignoring that many girls mask at school and fall apart at home.
Health professionals may still say: “If they were neurodivergent, they wouldn’t be able to hide it.” Which shows a clear lack of understanding about masking.
In parts of the UK, parents are required to attend courses during working hours to access support — if they can’t, the child misses out entirely.
I’ve had professionals tell me, “Children don’t need tools; they need discipline.”
But my child didn’t need the naughty step. She needed someone to understand what she was trying to communicate through her behaviour.

Governments should be investing more in research and training around neurodivergence — not cutting funding, as is happening in Scotland. Access to diagnosis should be easier, and assessments should look at the full picture, not just isolated traits. And it’s time we recognised giftedness in the UK too, like Spain and the US already do, to avoid misdiagnosis and inadequate support.

Every Child Is Different—And So Are Their Strengths

Parents of neurodivergent children are constantly expected to bend their child into fitting a neurotypical mould. But inclusion works both ways.

A call to parents of neurotypical children:
Please teach your kids empathy and understanding. Talk to them about different ways of thinking, feeling, and being. Help them see that everyone develops on their own timeline, and that differences aren’t something to be mocked — they’re something to be embraced.

Inclusivity should not fall only on the shoulders of those who are different. We all share the responsibility of making the world a more compassionate place for every child.

Your child may struggle with things others find easy. But they likely shine in ways that others don’t see yet. Emotional depth. Pattern recognition. Creativity. Sensitivity. Insight.

They are not “less than” because they don’t fit the norm.

And neither are you.

Let’s continue to build a world where every child feels they belong, and every parent feels supported—not judged—for doing what’s best for their family.

You’re not alone. And you’re doing more than enough.

💬 Have you experienced any of this? I’d love to hear your story in the comments. Let’s support each other — because parenting differently shouldn’t mean parenting alone. 💬

Don’t forget to check out this week’s episode of Intersecting Voices with Bobby Rubio, an incredible film director and story artist, as he shares his deeply personal experience of raising a neurodiverse child. He opens up about the emotional impact on him and how he found ways to support his child in the most meaningful way possible. It’s a powerful conversation that you won’t want to miss.

You might also find value in another future episode with Jose Moraes coming this autumn, where we dive into our own experiences as neurodivergent parents raising neurodivergent children. We reflect on the challenges of being diagnosed either as a child or as an adult and how that shapes the way we support our own children through their neurodivergence.

Check out both episodes, and let’s continue this important conversation together. Your voice matters.

What If It’s Not Misbehaviour? Parenting Neurodiverse Children

Parenting Outside The Box

Parenting Takes Its Toll

Put Your Oxygen Mask On First — So You Can Help Them Breathe Too