Raising a Neurodivergent is not for the Faint of Heart

I write this knowing it may be unfavorable

I write this from a position of privilege

I write this with the intention to connect with those of us silently feeling guilty...

For being the mom that sometimes feels the burden of responsibility raising a neurodivergent child.

Recently my child has been more needy than usual. His anxiety has shifted, his worries flared... but not the way when he was a toddler through tantrums, and not the way he was as a 6 year old through tears and night terrors.

But as a 9 year old child. As a kid who is trying to figure out he is in an overwhelming world, as a person with a unique set of ideas, as a boy testing the bounds of masculinity, as a sensitive warrior attempting to assert his authority over his authenticity in an unforgiving world.

He needs me. And I love that because I am so blessed to hold him, to teach him, to nurture him. But he needs me and sometimes it tests the range of my capacity. He needs me to be his center. He needs me to safely explore the vastness of the unknown. He needs me while he defines his self worth and learns what it is to be needed.

And as a 9 year old, he’s quickly understanding the depth of manipulation, deceit and vulnerability.

He needs me, he is scared ... and so am I.
Not scared of him or his “behaviors”, or his differently wired brain…
I am terrified of who I am when my resources are deplete.
I am afraid that I am not mother enough to guide him into the profound nature of his luminous self.

Because sometimes I need me [too]. I need to occupy my own space. His brothers need me just as much as he does. It doesn’t always feel like there is room for everyone. Which leaves me spinning in circles inside myself.

My attention draws back to my little and I watch as he fidgets uncomfortably in his seat while covering his face with a grey weighted blanket. His security, reconfiguring as his spirit figures out where it falls into space. It’s in these moments I remember, he thinks he’s alone navigating the enormity of his universe. And no matter how many times I hug him, no matter how often I repeat I love you, no matter if I’m a room a way checking in every 4 minutes to assure him of his safety.. it doesn’t seem to be enough. He deserves to know he is enough.

And I’m sorry because I’m tired, and sometimes I snap. “They” say I shouldn’t have moments like this. There is an expectation of mothers to hold their tongue and bury their frustrations. But I snap, I do, and I hate myself for it. Guilt mixes with exhaustion a lot these days. The lines of motherhood blur with my ever fading sensibility. How can I guide my child and let him land safely on the other side? How do I keep my own edges from fraying until I am merely strips of ribbon lying upon the dusty floor? Do other parents feel this way? Are their kids experiencing this desperate yearning? For connection? For understanding? Are their children so fearful they won’t let them leave their sides?

I guess a tiny part of me believed at 9 my child would be bold enough to explore the edges of his world [mostly] on his own. Yet here we are with fear dripping from his dampened brow. It feels like traveling backward. To a time when he was just a tiny tot begging me to shoo the monsters from under his bed. Sometimes I cry and tell myself I’ve gotten it all wrong. That the problem is me and I should have done more.. should have done better… should have been something or someone else entirely. Sometimes I lose my breath simply trying to find the balance of his needs and mine.

And I palm my hands to my eyes.. because these are the days I feel the weight of raising a highly sensitive child. A child I love. A son I want to never worry over his too muchness... and I’m depleted of my resources.

He tugs on my throws his weight in onto my body... and I can’t even breathe.

Here we are. And I am scared I’m failing him.

The responsibility of raising a highly sensitive child is overwhelming.

And the loneliness I feel while sustaining the momentum is crippling.

And the weight on my shoulders is enough to bring me to my knees

Begging for mercy,

For relief,

For someone, ANYONE to see how hard I’m trying.

And maybe even tell me I’m doing ok once and a while.

So for now I’ll sew these worries up tight and hide them in my pillow case where my dreams will find them. I wipe my tears and find a new way forward.

I say I’ll go easier on myself but days like this I’m not so sure.

But I do know I’ll find a way forward, like I always do ... for me, for him, for his brothers ... and for the highly sensitive families everywhere praying for some peace and understanding every once in a while.

Raising a Neurodivergent is not for the faint of heart.

Love
Robin