By the time my oldest began showing signs of neurodivergence, I was already knee-deep in my own autism diagnosis journey. I’d gone to the GP, voiced my suspicions, and earned my golden ticket to the Autism Assessment Waiting List™.
Getting that confirmation that I’d passed triage and was officially on the list was a wild mix of emotions. It felt like pulling a perfectly baked cake out of the oven—while also burning the absolute shit out of my hands. Yay! I was being taken seriously and deemed quirky enough to warrant an assessment. But also—HOLY HELL, I MIGHT ACTUALLY BE AUTISTIC. And that’s… a lot to process.
Over the following months, I started coming to terms with it. I leaned into the possibility, reframed my “quirks,” and found humour in the chaos of my brain. But just as I was getting comfortable in my own neurodivergent skin, I began noticing something about my four-year-old.
When the Pieces Clicked
He had always been a quiet, happy little soul—sweet as anything but slightly out of sync with other children. At first, I brushed it off. After all, what even is “normal”?
But slowly, patterns emerged:
- He wasn’t interested in playing with the other kids at preschool.
- He refused to take part in activities.
- Slight changes in routine led to massive upset.
- And loud noises? Meltdown central.
I still wasn’t convinced. I told myself, “All kids are different.” But then came the end-of-year preschool performance.
Picture a room full of tiny humans singing and dancing like caffeinated gremlins. And then there was my kid—stone still, clutching a staff member’s hand like a lifeline, wearing his ear defenders like a pro-level sensory warrior.
No claps. No smile. No toe-tap. Just quiet stillness while the chaos danced around him. It was like watching a librarian dropped into a mosh pit.
The Realisation
I sat in the audience with tears rolling down my face, as everything clicked. He wasn’t “just shy.” He wasn’t being difficult. He was navigating a world that his brain processed differently—and he was doing it with more bravery than I ever had.
In that moment, I saw myself in him. The meltdowns, the overwhelm, the social confusion—it was all achingly familiar. And just like that, the question changed from “What’s wrong with him?” to “What do we need to understand better?”
He’s not broken. He’s not failing. He’s just working with a brain that doesn’t come with a manual. Sound familiar?
Final Thoughts: Parenting on the Spectrum
Being a neurodivergent parent raising a neurodivergent child is a wild ride—complete with loops, crashes, and the occasional glitter bomb. But it’s also full of pride, growth, and deep empathy.
If you’ve ever sat in a room watching your child freeze while others sparkle, or if you’re questioning how to support a child who sees the world differently—you’re not alone. We’re all figuring it out, one meltdown and one pair of ear defenders at a time.
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