Thriving in a neurodivergent family often means accommodating differences, learning together, and responding with care to what your family genuinely needs.
A quick note on language: Neurodiversity is a term used to describe the natural variation in how human brains work. It recognises that differences in thinking, learning, processing, and relating to the world are a normal part of human diversity, rather than deficits to be fixed. The term "neurodivergent" is often used to describe people whose brains work differently from what is considered “neurotypical,” including people with ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder), autism, dyslexia, and other neurodevelopmental differences.
This blog is about what it’s like for me to parent as a neurodivergent in a neurodivergent family. Every family’s needs, challenges, and ways of coping are unique, and there is no one 'right' way to navigate neurodivergent parenting.
I was diagnosed with ADHD as a child.
My husband is a late-diagnosed autistic ADHDer (has a diagnosis of both autism and ADHD). Looking back, I can see that the signs of neurodivergence began very early with our first daughter.
From the very beginning, feeding, sleep, and everyday routines with her were challenging. Bathing, getting in and out of the car, and transitions between activities often triggered intense distress. Her sleep and feeding difficulties felt far more severe than what I saw in my mother’s group. While other babies seemed to settle into predictable rhythms, we struggled constantly. I remember watching other parents and quietly wondering what I was doing wrong. This hit even harder as I was a child therapist and I began to feel like an imposter in my work because I was failing in motherhood.
The transition to parenthood was profoundly difficult for me.
I was overwhelmed, often dysregulated, and constantly pushing myself beyond what my nervous system could sustain. Planning, remembering, transitioning, and keeping consistent routines required enormous effort. I blamed myself for struggling and for my daughter’s struggles too.
What I could not see at the time was that I was a neurodivergent parent with a neurodivergent child trying to meet the relentless demands of early motherhood without accommodations, understanding, or support. We were two nervous systems colliding, both doing the best we could with what we had.
My daughter’s distress amplified my own, and my dysregulation made it harder to co-regulate with her. Then add in a neurodivergent husband but undiagnosed at the time, two stepchildren, and then another daughter giving us two under two. How I wish I could go back and provide comfort to myself at that time. It was such a difficult period.
We had multiple nervous systems under one roof. Different sensory needs, diverse ways of learning, processing, and communicating. Under the weight of cumulative stress, lack of sleep, and unmet needs, tension rose between my husband and me. Without a shared understanding, our differences were easily misinterpreted. A need for quiet felt like rejection, a shutdown was read as disengagement, and intensity was experienced as conflict. One thing we both had in common though, was difficulty knowing how to support our daughter.
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As my daughter grew older, the challenges became more unmistakable.
There were delays in her language, her behaviour was more extreme, and her emotional world was big, intense, and often overwhelming for both of us. I didn’t yet understand her needs, or my own. When I reached out for support for my daughter many of the recommendations were based on strategies for neurotypical children. When they did not work, I once again felt like I was failing.
As her differences and delays became more pronounced, we were able to access early intervention. With therapy, observations from different professionals, and learning alongside her, it became clear that she, nor her needs, were not neurotypical. She received diagnoses of autism, ADHD, and severe speech and language disorders. This was when I heard the term "neurodivergent" for the first time. Suddenly I had a new, more helpful and hopeful way of understanding her and myself.
Around that time, my husband began reflecting on his childhood and challenges in his adult life. He decided to have an assessment and was diagnosed with both autism and ADHD. While I already had a childhood diagnosis of ADHD, I did not yet understand what that truly meant for me. I had learned to mask and compensate, like many neurodivergent women which negatively affected my wellbeing.
With new understanding came change.
We learnt about our unique sensory profiles and how to cater for our sensory needs. We better understood each other’s communication styles. We became better able to name needs, adjust expectations, repair misunderstanding and support one another
Upon reflection, I realise how comparing myself and my family to others was unhelpful.
I would see photos of other families at exciting events, meanwhile we couldn’t manage a trip to the grocery store. I tried to keep up, but when I tried to force our family to function in a certain way it created stress and dysregulation
Another significant challenge was the impact judgement and misunderstanding from others has had on my mental health and sense of competence as mother.
When neurodivergence is not recognised, behaviours that reflect overwhelm or sensory distress are often misinterpreted as behavioural problems or poor parenting.
Meltdowns, sensory struggles, or differences in eating were viewed through a moral or behavioural lens rather than a neurodevelopmental one. For neurodivergent parents, these misunderstandings compound anxiety, shame, and self-doubt. They increase masking, reduce help-seeking, and contribute to burnout, particularly when parents are already running at the limits of their capacity.
What has helped me is understanding my own sensory system, accessing the right treatment for ADHD, and, in recent years, changing our routines and employment to better suit our collective family. Building connections with other families raising neurodivergent children has also been critical. It has helped me feel more understood and normalised so much of our experience and reduced the isolation and shame I felt. Our family life can still be challenging, but we have more compassion for ourselves and each other.
To parents navigating similar journeys
Your needs, and your children’s needs, truly matter. Differences in how you or your children behave, communicate, or experience the world are not a sign of failure. Thriving in a neurodivergent family often means accommodating differences, learning together, and responding with care to what your family genuinely needs. I encourage you to seek connection with others on a similar path, prioritise your own wellbeing alongside your child’s, and reach out for support.
This is a hard journey, and while it can be deeply meaningful, it is far harder to walk alone.
