Parenting While Neurodivergent: The Gift and the Grit
Parenting While Neurodivergent: The Gift and the Grit
Being a neurodivergent parent to a neurodivergent child is a layered experience.
It’s a mix of deep understanding, emotional resonance, and - let’s be honest - a lot of internal juggling.
Some days, it feels like a superpower.
Other days, like we’re both hanging on by a thread.
But over time, I’ve come to believe this:
There’s something powerful about parenting from the inside-out - from a brain that feels what their brain feels.
The Gift: Empathy That Comes from Lived Experience
When my child struggles to transition, I don’t jump to “he's being difficult.”
I think: Yeah, I get that. My brain locks up too when plans shift.
When he freezes in front of a small task like brushing teeth, getting dressed, or starting homework, I don’t assume laziness. I remember how my own executive dysfunction can turn a simple job into a mountain.
When he avoids a demand with humour, or panics at the thought of a new skill to learn, or struggles to function when it's cold - I see it. I recognise it. Because I feel the same way.
This is the gift of neurodivergent parenting:
We can relate on a level that isn’t just informed by reading or training - it’s lived.
And that makes space for empathy, compassion, and creative problem-solving that feels like partnership instead of power struggle.
The Grit: When Both of You Are Struggling
But let’s not pretend it’s easy.
Because while I might understand his shutdown, it doesn’t mean I have the capacity to support him through it - especially if I’m mid-shutdown too.
Sometimes, my sensory system is fried. My executive function breaks down, especially when both of my kids need me at the same time. My own nervous system starts firing off alarms before I’ve even gotten breakfast on the table.
In those moments, I feel like I’m supposed to be “the calm in the storm.”
But what if I am the storm too?
That’s the reality of parenting while neurodivergent.
You don’t always get the buffer. You’re doing your own regulation, masking, pacing - while trying to coach someone else through theirs. And I'm also an autism behaviour specialist, working with 30 families on a weekly basis to help support them too. I love it, but I'm always worried.
Worried that I won't have the answers, for their family or mine.
Worried that I'll say the wrong thing and make it worse.
Worried that the pang that I feel in my chest when they're experiencing something tricky will reflect in what I have to say.
Don't get me started on the Mum guilt. The moments when I snap, or shut down, or need to walk away stick with me. And I ruminate on them. Because I know what dysregulation feels like. I know what misunderstanding feels like.
And I never want to be the cause of that for my child.
The Growth: Modelling Humanity Over Perfection
But here’s where something beautiful happens.
Because I can’t always be regulated, my child learns that it’s okay not to be regulated all the time.
Because I name my needs and model recovery, they learn what repair looks like.
Because I treat their challenges with respect - not shame - they begin to do the same for themselves.
And because we speak the same neurotype, we can build a language that makes sense to both of us - one rooted in choice, autonomy, safety, and mutual trust.
Final Thoughts
Parenting while neurodivergent isn’t easy. But it does give us a foundational understanding.
It gives us the chance to raise our children without shame.
To meet them where they are, because we remember what it’s like to be there.
To teach through connection, not compliance.
And when we both get it wrong?
We try again. Together.