15/04/2026
Unless you’re a neurodivergent woman raising a neurodivergent daughter…
we’re living two completely different versions of motherhood.
When she is little…
I’m overstimulated…
but she is screaming at the top of her lungs.
The noise is too loud for me…
but she is the noise.
I need a minute to regulate…
but she needs me right now.
I’m touched out…
but she won’t let go of me.
My brain won’t focus…
and neither will hers.
I’m overwhelmed by the mess…
but she is in the middle of making more of it.
I need quiet…
she needs constant input.
I’m trying to stay calm…
while she is melting down over something I can’t fix.
I forget what I walked into the room for…
and she is asking ten questions at once.
I want to shut down…
but I have to show up.
And then she grows…
and it doesn’t get easier —
it just gets quieter, heavier… harder to reach.
I’m still overstimulated…
but now she’s pacing, slamming doors, shouting from another room.
The noise is too loud for me…
but sometimes now, it’s not noise — it’s silence.
The kind where she’s shut down and I can’t reach her at all.
I still need a minute to regulate…
but she needs me right now —
or she’s already walked out the door without thinking.
I’m still touched out…
but when she does come close, it’s everything at once —
urgent, intense, overwhelming.
My brain still won’t focus…
and hers is bouncing between a hundred thoughts, none of them landing safely.
I’m still overwhelmed…
but now it’s not just mess —
it’s emotions, tension, things unsaid sitting heavy in the room.
I still need quiet…
she still needs constant input —
or she disappears into her own world completely.
I’m trying to stay calm…
while she reacts in ways that look impulsive, defiant, dramatic…
but I know underneath it, she’s drowning.
I forget what I walked into the room for…
and she’s asking questions, making demands, pushing boundaries —
all at once, all urgent.
I want to shut down…
and sometimes she already has.
I want to walk away…
but I’m watching her run —
from me, from herself, from something she can’t name yet.
So no… it’s not the same.
It’s surviving sensory overload
while being someone else’s safe place through theirs —
first in the chaos you can hear…
and then in the silence you can’t.
It’s holding your own nervous system together with one hand…
while trying to co-regulate someone else’s that’s bigger, louder, and harder to reach than it used to be.
It’s grieving the days when a cuddle fixed it…
and learning how to stay when it doesn’t anymore.
It’s loving her through the meltdowns, the shutdowns, the slammed doors, the impulsive moments, the distance…
without taking it personally.
It’s being her safe place…
even when she pushes you away from it.
And that kind of motherhood?
You don’t understand it…
unless you’re living it.
💜