Parenting & Autism - Our Stories

26/02/2026

I think it has finally taken its toll on me.🏵️

I notice it in my body first. The heaviness. The feeling that even small tasks are too much. Getting through the day feels like climbing a steep hill with no clear end in sight.

Emotionally, I feel like I can’t do this anymore. The endless patience that used to be my strength doesn’t feel so steady now. My ability to meet every single need feels like it’s wearing thin. Sometimes I skip their bath or delay bedtime simply because I can’t face the process of getting my boys ready, and I'm constantly late for school.

Supporting them to be independent has been the biggest challenge.

It started with their developmental delays, the dyspraxia, and the motor skill difficulties. At the beginning, it made sense for me to do everything. It was what they needed. But now they’re 11, and that routine is what they know. Changing it has been really hard. Even though certain tasks can still be challenging for them, they can now do more, such as eating, dressing, and basic self-care, but they often resist. And when I encourage them, it can lead to shutdowns or meltdowns, which is heartbreaking to witness.

And it’s not just once. It’s twice. Every routine, every transition, every bit of resistance, times two. Holding space for one dysregulated child is hard. Holding space for two at the same time stretches beyond what I sometimes am able to hold.

So it’s become this pattern.
I try.
Then I back off.
I try again.
Then I give up because I don’t have the energy for another battle.

And I'm sorry, but I think I’ve reached my limit. I don't wish any of this on my boys.

I don't want to sound dramatic. Just honesty.
There’s no shame in admitting I’m tired.
No failure in saying this is hard.

Still, I can't help but feel guilty for not being able to get everything right for them.

Thank you for being here and for holding space in our journey.

With love,
C 🤍

08/01/2026

The Quiet Vulnerability and Trauma in Neurodivergence.

Neurodivergent children and adults are more vulnerable to abuse and trauma,
because the world so often misunderstands, overwhelms, and fails to protect them.

Being neurodivergent, especially when undiagnosed, can in itself be traumatic.
Not because neurodivergence is the problem,
but because so many neurodivergent people move through spaces that were never built with them in mind.

Bright lights.
Unpredictable noise.
Social rules that shift without warning.
Expectations to cope, to mask, to “be fine” even when their nervous system is overwhelmed.

Add to this the very real risk of abuse, neglect, or being dismissed when something feels wrong, and it becomes clear why trauma is so common in neurodivergent lives.

And this is where the narrative goes wrong.

Trauma does not cancel out neurodivergence.
It does not make someone “less likely” to be neurodivergent.
It does not explain neurodivergence away.

Neurodivergence is neurodevelopmental.
Trauma is something that happens to a person.

Both can exist together.
Often, they do.

In fact, as I've mentioned earlier, many neurodivergent people carry trauma because they are neurodivergent in a world that isn't built for them, that goes too fast, and expects too much and is simply not listening.

When professionals frame trauma as a reason to doubt neurodivergence, it silences lived experience.
It shifts the focus away from support and toward scepticism.
And it misses the more profound truth that an unsupported neurodivergent life can itself be traumatic.

What neurodivergent people don’t need is to be questioned more.
They need to be believed more.

They need safety.
Understanding.
Spaces that meet them where they are, instead of asking them to constantly stretch, bend, and endure.

Trauma doesn’t erase neurodivergence.
And neurodivergence doesn’t need to be justified.

Both deserve to be seen,
with compassion, not contradiction.

Thank you for being here and for holding space in our journey.

With love,
C 🤍

07/01/2026

🏵️ In the Space Between Stepping In and Standing Beside

My connection to my children is unlike anything I’ve ever known.
It doesn’t live in logic.
It lives in our energy.

I feel what they feel.
Sometimes before it happens,
always while it’s happening,
and long after it’s passed.

I often find myself one step ahead,
sensing shifts and outcomes before they happen,
picking up what hasn’t yet been noticed.

That awareness comes from years of listening.
From deep attunement.
From a bond that listens even in silence.

Because I feel so closely, I try to protect.
To guide outcomes.
To soften what I sense might hurt them.
Not because pain is my focus,
but because love is.

Fear enters later, quietly.
The fear of seeing them in pain,
because when they hurt, it moves through me too.

Sometimes protection slips into controlling the outcome without my intention.
Avoidance can feel kinder than watching them struggle.
And this is where I’m learning to grow.

Some moments are meant to be lived, not edited.
My role is not always to step ahead,
but to walk beside them as things unfold.

And I find this part very challenging.

Because staying present without intervening asks more of me than acting does.
It asks for trust.
For restraint.
For faith in their ability to meet what comes.

I’m learning to loosen my grip.
Not because I love them less,
But because I love them deeply enough
to let them become.

And oh, it’s so damn hard.

Thank you for being here and for holding space in our journey.

With love,
C 🤍

31/12/2025

Dear 2026,

Be gentle with my children.
Let happiness find them in the quiet, ordinary days, not only in the moments that look big from the outside.

Place them where they are meant to grow, even when it doesn’t match the picture I once held.

Surround them with people who see their light and want them to win, especially when I cannot stand between them and the world.

Teach them a kind of success that never asks them to trade their peace for approval.

Answer the prayers they whisper when no one is listening, and give them the courage to trust the timing of their lives.

Seat them in spaces where they are valued and heard, where they are never asked to shrink or explain who they are.

And through it all, remind them that life can be beautiful, and that they are deeply, endlessly loved.

Wishing you a gentle close to 2025, and may what comes next meet you with peace. ✨



Inspired by Raise.Nurture

28/12/2025

The holidays 🎄

I was going through this year’s Christmas photos.
This year we had family over. Moments we don’t often get, because living abroad makes them rare.
And then I noticed something.

My boys aren’t in any of them.
The only photo I have of them is this one, taken before Christmas. ( Turned it into a cartoon)
They found it hard.
Too many people.
Routines changed.
Their usual space wasn’t available.

So, they spent most of their time upstairs in their room.
When I asked how Christmas was, Gabriel said one word. Overwhelming.
His chair at the dinner table wasn’t in the same place.
There was noise everywhere.
And lots of other minor changes. The kind that don’t seem like much from the outside, but feel big on the inside.

Everyone else was laughing.
Enjoying their Christmas.
Part of the table, the moment.
And my boys weren’t part of it.

That’s why they aren’t in the photos.
I was busy making Christmas magical for everyone.
And for them, it simply wasn’t.

These are the parts my heart breaks for.
Just another reality I’m learning to accept.

So this Christmas, I let that version go.
The one where everyone is together.
The one that looks right in pictures.
Some years are just like this.

I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas 🎄

19/12/2025

For the families choosing calm over expectations.
You’re not doing less. You’re doing what’s needed. 🤍

19/12/2025

To neurodivergent families,

It’s that time of year when timelines fill with highlights, milestones, and big moments from 2025.
And that’s beautiful. Truly.

But I want to say this too.

If all you did this year was rest, pause, survive, or take time to do nothing, that still counts.

Because in neurodivergent homes, doing nothing often means doing everything.
It can mean regulating.
Recovering from sensory overload.
Holding routines together.
Getting through days that asked more than you had to give.

It can mean choosing calm over expectations.
Safety over appearances.
Your family’s needs are more important than what the world calls success.

Not every year is for progress photos or proud announcements.
Some years are for staying steady.
For being quiet.
For making it through one day at a time.

And if that was your 2025,
It was enough.
You were enough. 🤍

15/12/2025

Holidays can be hard for neurodivergent families.

The change in routine.
The noise.
The expectations.
The pressure to enjoy it the “right” way.

It can feel isolating, too.
Like you’re watching the season happen around you, while you’re quietly managing transitions, emotions, and exhaustion behind closed doors.

If this time of year feels different in your home, you’re not alone, and you’re not doing it wrong.
There is strength in the way you adapt, protect, and care for one another.

I’d really love to know, how do you and your family cope during the holidays?

Sending love and light - C. 🤍

13/12/2025

We are the kind of parents who count down to school breaks.

Not because we don’t value school,
but because our mornings are not the usual wake up, get dressed, out the door kind of mornings.

Every morning takes thought.
Planning.
Care.

By the time the day has even started, we’re already tired.
Especially the boys.
They wake up exhausted.

They need time to arrive in their day.

Transitions are one of the hardest parts.

Isaac really struggles in the mornings.
Waking up alone is a challenge.
Adjusting to light.
To noise.
To moving his body.

His system needs time to shift from sleep to being awake.
Changing clothes is difficult, especially first thing in the morning.
Temperature changes are hard.
Using the toilet independently takes support.

All of this has to be gently put in place, step by step.

Gabriel manages a little better, but he still needs support.
He doesn’t get ready independently and needs help with hygiene.
He also needs time to adjust to a new day.

Noises, lights, and movement around him can feel overwhelming,
so we try to stick closely to routine.
We stay mindful of everything, even the tone of our voices.

After getting ready, they still need time before school.
We can’t just get dressed and leave.

They need play time.
Or quiet time.
A pause.

Then comes another transition, shoes, coats, leaving the house.
By the time they walk out the door, a lot has already happened.

And then there’s the aftermath of school.

They often come home overwhelmed, overstimulated, and completely drained.
Small things can trigger them.
A voice that’s too loud.
A sudden noise.

We usually head straight home.
Once there, it takes time for their bodies and minds to settle again.
Computer time often helps regulate and ground them.

So yes, we look forward to school breaks.

Because our days are not typical ones.
They are full.
They are intense.
They require patience, awareness, and constant care.

Even with a good routine, I much prefer a morning with no expectations for them or us.

07/12/2025

The Boy Who Doesn’t Cry: Learning Isaac’s Language of Emotion

I haven’t seen Isaac cry since he was a baby.

He’s autistic, and somewhere along the way he learned to hold everything in.
To carry his feelings in a place no one can see.
To stop the sadness before it rises to the surface.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of something softer.
His eyes fill, just for a moment, and then I watch him pull it back.
He forces himself to stop, as if crying is a door he simply will not open.

I’ve asked him about it gently, with the same care you’d use when approaching something fragile and easily startled.
“Why do you hold your tears in?”
He just shrugs and says, “I don’t like it.”

And that’s the part that stays with me.
Not the absence of tears, but the weight of the feeling he won’t let fall.

Because I see the emotions building inside him.
I see how hard he works to stay composed, to stay in control, to avoid the flood he doesn’t know how to manage.
And I see the toll it takes.

We’re very open at home about feelings and what they mean.
I talk to the boys about emotions all the time.
How every feeling is valid, how nothing inside them is wrong, and how what matters most is learning an appropriate way to respond to what they feel.
I’ve explained to Isaac that crying is one of the ways our body releases pressure.

That sometimes tears help big feelings become smaller, softer, easier to carry.
But even with all that understanding and all the gentle conversations, he still refuses to cry.

There is something in the mix for him.
Maybe the sensory discomfort of tears, maybe the emotion behind them, maybe the vulnerability of letting go.
Whatever it is, he just cannot step into that space yet.

So we’re learning together, slowly and gently, that release doesn’t have to be loud or wet or dramatic.
Sometimes release is a deep breath.
A stomped foot.
A quiet “I need space.”
A long shower.
A weighted blanket.
A soft landing after a hard day.

Tears are only one language.
My child speaks another.

And my job isn’t to force him to express emotion the way the world expects.
It’s to offer him safety, softness, and room to feel in whatever way makes sense to him.

One day, maybe, he’ll cry again.
Or maybe he won’t.
Both are okay.

What matters is that he knows he’s allowed to feel, he’s allowed to release, and he never has to carry the whole world alone.

If you’re a parent or carer, have you walked through something similar?
How do you support a child who struggles to let their feelings out?
I’d truly love to hear what’s helped you, what you’ve learned, and what gave your child a little more room to breathe.

05/12/2025

Very insightful

It’s actually extremely negligent to avoid getting your child evaluated and properly treated for mental health conditions or learning disabilities simply because the idea makes you uncomfortable.

A child shouldn’t suffer in silence because a parent fears labels, judgment, or “what people will think.” Struggling in school isn’t always laziness. Emotional outbursts aren’t always “bad behavior.” Anxiety isn’t just “shyness.” Depression isn’t “a phase.” Neurodivergence isn’t a flaw to hide — it’s a wiring to understand.

When a child continually hears:

“You’re fine.”
“Stop overreacting.”
“Try harder.”
“Don’t make it a big deal.”

What they learn isn’t resilience —
they learn suppression, self-blame, shame, and silence.

Early diagnosis can change lives.
The right supports can unlock strengths a child never knew they had.
Treatment isn’t about giving kids excuses — it’s giving them tools.

Parents don’t have to be experts — just advocates.
You aren’t expected to have all the answers — just the courage to ask the right questions.

Because the truth is this:

A child would rather go through evaluation than go through life believing they’re broken.
A label doesn’t define them — it explains them.
Support doesn’t make them weak — it sets them free.

Ignoring a child’s struggle doesn’t protect them.
It only protects the parent’s comfort
at the cost of the child’s future.
“Andy Burg”