When Parenting Broke Me Open: Raising My Neurodivergent Child Changed the Way I See Myself
Ocean was three when he asked me a question that dropped me to my knees.
We were walking home from preschool, holding hands as we passed Greenwood Playground in our Brooklyn neighborhood.
“Mama,” he asked, “am I the baby you wanted? Did you wish for a different baby?”
Time stopped.
I knelt on the sidewalk next to him.
I didn't want to rush in with reassurance, because I knew he was sensing the fears I'd been carrying.
At the same time, I wanted him to know:
We had wished for exactly him.
Before he was born, we prayed for the soul that was meant to join our family. We knew we had an abundance of love, and we wanted to share it with a child.
Were we the right parents for him?
Who else but us?
No baby was ever more wanted.
That afternoon, kneeling on the busy sidewalk, strollers and scooters detouring around us, I told him that.
By then, I’d spent years researching, asking questions, filling out paperwork. We’d been on a waiting list for a neuropsychological evaluation for months.
I couldn’t make the uncertainty disappear. But I had done everything I knew how to do.
My anxiety had become something he could feel, and be hurt by.
That’s when I decided to spend more time enjoying being his mom.
That summer, we ran through a lot of sprinklers. We ate a lot of drippy ice cream cones. We kicked a lot of soccer balls.
Of course there were hard years ahead of us.
But we were on the same team.
Each of us seeking clarity; finding our footing in a confusing world.
Before Ocean was born, I had such freedom. I traveled the world with my life in a backpack, taught yoga, rode my bike all over Brooklyn.
Running beneath that liberation was deep longing. Becoming a parent was something I wanted more than anything.
For years, I wasn’t sure it would happen.
So when I became Ocean’s mama, I didn’t feel like I’d lost my old life. I was so grateful to finally be living the one I’d wished for.
That’s part of what made those early years so confusing.
My fear didn’t begin with diagnosis.
It started much earlier.
When he dropped off his growth curve.
When he screamed more than he slept.
When he pocketed food in his cheeks and choked.
When we started down the Early Intervention rabbit hole.
When he still wasn’t walking.
One worry led to another. Each one chipped away at my confidence.
I found myself comparing his development to other children. I felt shame for making those comparisons.
A lingering belief drove me: if I researched enough, and didn’t let anything slip through the cracks, I could protect him from suffering.
Maybe he’d catch up.
It often took Ocean two hours to fall asleep, and he woke before 5:30 every morning no matter what.
He was gleeful a lot of the time.
I was exhausted all of the time.
His meltdowns seemed to come out of nowhere, and I tried so hard to soothe him. I started to avoid everything that seemed to trigger them.
Our world became very small.
Everything revolved around his naps because the routine seemed to help him. I ate scraps from his plate because making myself lunch felt like one too many things.
Many of the mindfulness practices I relied on for my mental health were suddenly out of reach. I couldn’t go on a meditation retreat, or to a yoga class.
I couldn’t even leave the room.
I had wanted to be a parent more than anything.
And I barely recognized myself.
Then one day, a wise mother of three offered me this practice:
“Feel your feet on the ground.”
It sounded too simple.
That night, Ocean wanted me to soothe him to sleep.
Instead, I stood outside his bedroom door. I wiggled my toes. Dropped my shoulders. Felt my feet on the floor.
And I quietly sang Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.
He still had his feelings.
I had mine.
For the first time, I wasn’t trying to make either of us feel differently.
I was simply there.
I think that was the beginning of a different way of parenting.
I discovered that I could stay connected to him without abandoning myself.
Ocean doesn’t look into my eyes very often.
He has always paid attention in his own way.
He listens to something beyond words.
He takes hold of a thread of an idea and follows it until he’s completely unraveled it.
He’s always trying to understand the world around him. And without realizing it, he’s helping me understand myself.
I thought my job was to protect him from every hard feeling.
That day on our walk home, I learned my real job:
To be present.
To love him the way he needed to be loved. His way. Not the way I imagined parenting would look.
Sometimes it meant running through sprinklers instead of searching for answers.
Sometimes it meant feeling my feet while he learned to fall asleep.
Love wasn’t something I had to prove through constant vigilance.
It was something I practiced through presence.
I’ll never have parenting figured out.
Ocean will keep growing, and I’ll grow alongside him.
A kinder future for our kids begins with kindness toward ourselves.
That was beautiful. Thank you for sharing this Kate. I completely relate to you - the worry, the search, the protection, the losing all your interests, and self. Joaquin relates to Ocean - the self-doubt, the confusion. Whenever I talk to Joaquin about something he needs to do or a behavior we have to work on he says, "I don't think you read the small print when you signed up to parent me". He has moved to humor and laughter, and I have moved to feeling my feet on the ground.
Thank you for writing this. I had a very similar experience and was always overwhelmed. I learned a lot and made some mistakes along the way. I love my kid with all my heart. ❤️