The four of us sat down for a quiet New Year’s Eve meal together. This year we chose raclette — one of those meals that involves cooking at the table. The grill was hot, the table was crowded with ingredients, and the fun of sizzling bacon and melting the perfect slice of cheese began.
The table buzzed with conversation and laughter when, suddenly, my six-year-old, H, started sobbing.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just the familiar, quiet sobbing we now recognise immediately.
I pulled him in for a hug and asked what was wrong. He whispered, “It’s all too much.”
This is a big part of how autism shows up in our house: willingly joining in with something enjoyable, and then — seemingly out of nowhere — being hit by debilitating overwhelm.
I asked H if he’d like to spend some time in my bedroom with my tablet. He nodded. As he climbed down from the table, he calmly announced:
“I’m fine. This is just too much. I’m going to rest for a bit and then come back for some more food.”
My stomach dropped.
Not because something had gone wrong — but because I realised what hadn’t happened.
In the past, this moment would have ended with total rejection. The meal would have become the problem. Something bad. Something that shouldn’t happen again. But this time, H understood something vital: the overwhelm wasn’t because the meal was wrong. His body had simply reached its limit.
He stepped away.
And then — about fifteen minutes later — he came back.
He didn’t eat much, but he was present. Calm. Happy.
What I Missed Out on as an Autistic Child
Moments like this highlight everything I didn’t have growing up as an undiagnosed autistic child.
I wasn’t allowed to step away when I was overwhelmed — and I certainly wasn’t allowed to come back and re-engage. My job was to push the feelings down, stop crying, and avoid “ruining things” for everyone else.
At first, I praised H for developing this emotional awareness seemingly out of nowhere.
Then it hit me.
He hadn’t developed it out of thin air at all.
He was doing exactly what I do.
Modelling Emotional Regulation Without Realising It
When I’m with the kids, I get overwhelmed too. The noise. The touching. The constant movement and energy. My window of tolerance is small.
When things start to feel like too much, I say so. I’ll ask if we can calm things down. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll say:
“I love you both, but Mummy is finding this a bit too much right now. I’m going to my bedroom for a little bit, and then I’ll come back.”
Ten to fifteen minutes alone is usually enough for me to regulate and re-join the fun.
What I didn’t realise until that raclette moment was this:
I’ve been modelling emotional regulation for my children all along.
I often felt guilty saying those words. I told myself I should cope better. Be more tolerant. Be more fun.
But the reality is this — I gave my children the tools to recognise overwhelm, respond to it, and meet their own needs.
At six years old.
Why Hiding Our Emotions Isn’t Always Helpful
Parents are often taught that it’s better to hide our struggles. To be calm, unshakeable pillars of emotional stability.
That instinct usually comes from love — from wanting to protect our children from adult worries. But for neurodivergent families especially, I’m not convinced it always helps.
As an autistic mum, ignoring my needs leads directly to burnout. And burnout helps no one.
Being as regulated and functional as possible is the best thing I can do for my children — and that means being honest when I’m struggling.
It turns out that showing vulnerability doesn’t burden children.
It teaches them something far more important:
That it’s okay to not be okay.
That stepping away is allowed.
And that taking care of yourself makes it possible to come back.
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