Tag: autism

• When School Isn’t Safe: Navigating Bullying as a Neurodivergent Family

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this journey as a neurodivergent parent raising a neurodivergent child, it’s that nothing is ever simple. Not brushing teeth. Not getting out the door. And certainly not school.

  This past year has been a particularly tough chapter for our family. My 8 year old son, Fraser who is proudly and beautifully neurodivergent, has been dealing with bullying at school. Actually it’s been going on since reception if you can believe that!! And not the “kids will be kids” kind (which, by the way, is a phrase I’d like to yeet into the sun). This is targeted. Persistent. Harmful.

  And we are exhausted. But also angry. And determined.

  The reality for ND kids at school

  Fraser is bright, curious, hilarious, and kind. He also processes the world differently from many of his peers. He is the epitome of literal. He might miss social cues or respond in ways others don’t immediately understand. That difference, instead of being celebrated, has made him a target.

  He’s been called names, excluded from games, mimicked, and told he’s “weird.” Hes been kicked in the stomach and shin. He’s had his chair pulled away from him as he’s gone to sit down. He’s come home crying. He’s come home silent. He’s started asking questions no 8 year old should have to ask:

  “Why don’t they like me?”

  “What did I do wrong?”

  “Is there something wrong with my brain?”

  Cue the heartbreak.

  

  When schools don’t get it

  We’ve raised it with the school. Multiple times. So many schools still don’t have the training, the awareness, or the will to create environments where neurodivergent kids feel safe. Not just tolerated. Safe.

  We’ve heard the usual:

  “He just needs to build resilience.” “Maybe he could try joining in more.” “We haven’t seen anything.”

  And let me tell you, when your child is being harmed and the people in charge of protecting them suggest they need to change? It feels like gaslighting. It gives me instant rage!

  We’re not just raising awareness, we’re raising hell because this has to stop!

  Bullying is not a childhood rite of passage. It’s trauma. It sticks. Especially when you’re neurodivergent and the world already feels confusing and overwhelming. I know from personal experience unfortunately.

  We’re doing what we can at home. Validating his feelings. Building him up. Teaching him self-advocacy and pride in who he is. But it’s not enough if the systems around him keep failing.

  So we’re pushing back. Advocating. Writing emails that are probably too long and definitely too honest. Finding allies and support systems.

  Because Fraser and every ND child deserves to be seen, understood, and protected.

  If you’re reading this and your child is going through the same

  You’re not alone. We see you. We know the ache of wanting to bubble-wrap your child and also set the world on fire in the same breath.

  You’re allowed to feel angry. Tired. Sad. You’re allowed to cry in the car park after drop-off. And you’re allowed to demand better, louder, fiercer, and without apology.

  Closing thoughts

  This isn’t the post I wanted to write. But it’s the one I needed to. Because silence helps no one but the bullies and the broken systems.

  Fraser is still his incredible self. And he’s not the problem, he never was. The problem is a world that refuses to bend for difference.

  But we will keep bending it. One meeting, one blog post, one brave kid at a time.

  26/05/2025

  adhd, autism, bullying, family, gas lighting, mainstream school, masking, neurodivergent, school

  ---

• Dear Neurotypicals: This Is What You Don’t See

  Hi. It’s me, Lucie, your neurodivergent friend, sibling, partner, person at the supermarket who looked like they were having a totally normal day… until they suddenly weren’t.

  I want to talk to you about what you don’t see.

  You see me smiling and making conversation, but you don’t see the script I rehearsed in my head for twenty minutes beforehand. You don’t see the mental flowchart I created on how to respond “correctly” to you, because every social interaction feels like decoding a language I don’t quite speak.

  You see me on the school run, showing up (often late!) But you don’t see the absolute mental gymnastics it took to get there: the 42 alarms, the 5 “just five more minutes” snoozes, the pep talk in the mirror, the war I had with my clothes because everything felt “wrong” on my skin.

  You see me smiling at the party, nodding along, laughing at the right times. You don’t see the internal meter ticking down—each second making the lights brighter, the music louder, the voices sharper, the fabric more scratchy. You don’t see me retreat to the bathroom just to breathe. You don’t see the sensory hangover the next day.

  You think I’m overreacting when I cry in public, when I melt down “over nothing.” But it’s not nothing. It’s every tiny thing that built up and had no place to go. It’s the cup of overwhelm that got one last drop too many. It’s not weakness. It’s overflow.

  You see what I show you.

  What I think is acceptable.

  What I’ve trained myself, sometimes painfully, to perform.

  

  You don’t see the aftermath. The shutdowns. The three-day recovery. The self-doubt spiral. The silent scream when I realize I misunderstood something again.

  You don’t see how hard I try.

  And that’s not your fault. But now that you know, I hope you’ll understand why I cancel plans sometimes. Why I need things explained more than once. Why I go quiet. Why I isolate.

  And I hope when you see someone else doing those things, you’ll give them grace too.

  Because behind every “quirk” is a survival strategy.

  Behind every “weird” behaviour is a brilliant mind trying to keep pace with a world not built for it.

  So please… be kind. Be curious. Be patient.

  You don’t need to get it to get me. You just need to care.

  Sincerely,

  Someone Doing Their Best (Even When It Doesn’t Look Like It)

  17/05/2025

  adhd, autism, executive dysfunction, family, late diagnosis, masking, neurodivergent, RSD

  ---

• Grief with ADHD: Now Featuring Bonus Chaos

  Grief is hard. Grief with ADHD? It’s like trying to cry and do your taxes while a raccoon throws your memories into a blender.

  One minute you’re staring into space, the next you’re deep-cleaning the fridge because sadness showed up as “productive panic.” You forget important dates and then spiral about forgetting them. You cry because you remembered something sweet, then cry harder because you forgot what you were crying about.

  Also: did you eat today? No? Same.

  Neurodivergent grief isn’t tidy. It’s not linear. It’s a weird soup of feelings, executive dysfunction, and unexpected hyperfixations. But guess what? That doesn’t make it wrong. It just makes it yours.

  So whether you’re disassociating in the cereal aisle or sobbing into a hoodie that still smells like them, you’re doing just fine.

  Probably. (Let’s be honest, no one really knows what “fine” means anyway.)

  

  12/05/2025

  adhd, autism, executive dysfunction, family, grief, late diagnosis, loss of a parent, masking, neurodivergent, RSD

  ---

• The Mask I didn’t know I was wearing!

  I used to think I was just really good at being adaptable.

  Growing up, I thought it was normal to feel like I had a different personality for every situation. At school, I was not the quiet, polite girl who followed the rules. Around friends, I was a little loud, trying to be funny, trying to match the energy in the room. Around adults, I was extra charming, smiling when I didn’t want to, nodding even when I didn’t agree.

  Turns out, that’s called masking.

  And I was doing it like a full-time job. With overtime. For years.

  

  What Even Is Masking?

  Masking is when you hide parts of yourself to fit in, to feel safe, or to avoid being judged. In the neurodivergent world, especially with ADHD and autism, it means putting on a kind of social camouflage.

  It’s copying expressions. Rehearsing conversations. Forcing eye contact. Smiling when your brain is screaming. Pretending noise doesn’t bother you. Nodding even when you have no idea what’s going on.

  It’s trying to be “normal.”

  (spoiler: it’s exhausting.)

  

  But I Didn’t Know I Was Doing It

  I thought everyone was this tired after social events. I thought everyone practiced what to say before a phone call or had to recover in silence after a trip to the shops.

  I thought I was just bad at being a person.

  Too sensitive. Too much. Too intense.

  Or worse, not enough of the right things.

  I was constantly measuring my words, my reactions, my face. And when I finally learned what masking was, it hit me like a freight train: I had been doing it my whole life.

  Why We Do It

  We mask because we want to belong. Because we’ve been taught that our natural selves are “wrong,” “too much,” “weird,” or “difficult.” We learn early on that stimming is “inappropriate,” that being blunt is “rude,” that being overwhelmed makes us “dramatic.”

  So we twist and contort. We shape-shift. We blend in.

  But the cost is real.

  Burnout. Anxiety. Depression. Identity confusion. That bone-deep exhaustion from constantly editing yourself.

  Unmasking is a Whole Journey

  Now that I know what masking is, I’ve started to notice the small ways I still do it. I catch myself toning things down or holding things in. I’m learning to ask: Is this really me, or is this the version I think people want?

  Unmasking isn’t about throwing social norms out the window. It’s about giving myself permission to exist without apology.

  To stim without shame.

  To say “no” without guilt.

  To rest without “earning it.”

  Final Thought

  I’m not mad at my past self for masking. It kept me safe. It helped me survive. But now? I want to live, not just perform.

  So if you’re slowly peeling back the layers, trying to figure out who you are underneath the mask: I see you.

  And who you are is enough, even when you’re not trying to be.

  

  09/05/2025

  adhd, autism, family, late diagnosis, masking, neurodivergent

  ---

• Flying the Nest: Navigating Change as an ADHD Parent (With One Little Bird Still at Home)

  Two of my children have officially flown the nest. They’re out in the world, building lives of their own and I’m so bloody proud of them. But as an ADHD parent, this change hit differently than I expected. It’s not just a life transition; it’s a full-body experience that’s been equal parts emotional, disorienting, and oddly quiet.

  Well… mostly quiet.

  

  Because while my older two are off finding their paths, I still have one little bird at home, my 8-year-old, who’s also neurodivergent. And loud!

  Parenting a young ND child while processing the emotions of older children moving out is a bit like living in two realities. On one hand, I’m grieving the end of one chapter, missing the noise, the shared chaos, the late-night conversations. On the other, I’m still very much in the thick of parenting: navigating sensory needs, emotional dysregulation, and the beautiful, exhausting intensity that comes with raising a neurodivergent kid.

  And with ADHD in the mix, transitions aren’t a clean break. My time blindness makes it hard to grasp how fast everything has changed. Emotionally, I can go from feeling deep grief one minute to hyperfocusing on a painting the next. The quiet moments are jarring, but the busy ones don’t always feel grounding either.

  What I didn’t expect was how identity-shaking this would all feel. For years, parenting has been my anchor, the structure that helped me function when executive dysfunction made everything else fall apart. Now, I’m trying to figure out who I am in this new season, especially with one foot still firmly planted in active parenting.

  

  There’s pride, of course. So much pride in the young adults my older kids are becoming, and deep love for the little one who still needs me daily. But there’s also this quiet ache. A sense of standing in the middle of a bridge, waving goodbye with one hand while holding tightly with the other.

  

  I’m learning that both things can be true:

  I can miss the way things were while still embracing what’s ahead. I can feel untethered while still being needed. I can rediscover myself without letting go of who I’ve always been.

  If you’re an ADHD parent navigating mixed-stage parenting, I see you. If you’re grieving the changes while still showing up every day for the little ones who aren’t quite ready to launch, I see you, too.

  This isn’t a clean-cut transition. It’s layered, messy, and full of emotion. But it’s also a chance for reflection, for reconnection, and for finding out who we are beyond the roles we’ve held for so long.

  We’re growing, too.

  07/05/2025

  adhd, ADHD empty nest, autism, emotions ADHD parents experience, family, identity shift ADHD parent, late diagnosis, mixed-stage parenting ADHD, neurodivergent, parenting neurodivergent child

  ---

• Dear Younger Me: You Weren’t Lazy, Rude, or Weird

  If I could sit beside you on the edge of your bed after a long day of trying to be “normal,” or in the hallway after yet another moment where you felt like you messed up, I’d start with this:

  You are not broken.

  You’re not lazy, even if it takes everything in you to start things. You’re not rude, even if you interrupt or wander off mid-conversation. You’re not weird.. okay, maybe you are a little, but that weirdness is your magic!!

  I know how confusing it is to watch other people do life with what looks like ease. How they get up, get dressed, remember everything, say the right things, and don’t seem to need a nap after a trip to the supermarket. It’s not because you’re failing. It’s because they’re not fighting their brain every step of the way… and you are. You always were. And still, you kept going.

  You didn’t know the words: autism, ADHD, sensory overload, executive dysfunction. You just knew something about the way you processed the world didn’t match what was expected of you. It all seemed so easy for others! And when people don’t understand something, they label it. They called you difficult. Dramatic. Moody. Too much. Or worse…. lazy.

  

  But now I know the truth. You were never lazy. You were navigating a world that wasn’t built for your brain, and you were doing it without a sat nav.

  Here’s what I want you to know:

  The things that made you feel like an outsider are the same things that make you deeply empathetic, wildly creative, and incredibly resilient. The way you felt everything so deeply? That becomes a strength. That feeling of not belonging? One day, you’ll find your people. And you’ll belong to yourself first.

  You’ll stop trying so hard to be “normal,” because you’ll realise that your normal is valid. You’ll build a life that fits you, not the other way around.

  And maybe most importantly, you’ll forgive yourself. For all the things you didn’t understand. For all the times you thought it was your fault. For every moment you tried to shrink yourself to make others comfortable.

  You deserved kindness then. You deserve it now.

  With love,

  The Future You (who finally gets it)

  

  04/05/2025

  adhd, autism, executive dysfunction, family, late diagnosis, letter, masking, neurodivergent, RSD

  ---

• Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria: The Drama Queen in My Head

  You know that sudden, stomach-dropping dread when someone says, “Hey, can we talk?” and your brain immediately flashes to every mistake you’ve ever made from that awkward thing you said at a party in 2009 to not replying to a text within 3.7 minutes?

  That, dear reader, might be Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria.

  RSD, for those unfamiliar, is basically the emotional equivalent of living with your feelings wired directly into a high-sensitivity smoke detector. It’s not currently an official diagnosis, but if you’ve ever spiralled into self-loathing because someone might be mad at you (or worse, disappointed), then you know it’s as real as the anxious pit in your stomach.

  And if you’re neurodivergent, especially if you have ADHD or autism, you might be more familiar with RSD than you’d like to admit.

  What Is RSD? (Besides Annoying)

  Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria is a fancy term for a very un-fancy experience: extreme emotional sensitivity to perceived or actual rejection, criticism, or failure. Emphasis on perceived. You don’t need to be actually rejected for the dysphoria part to kick in. All it takes is a raised eyebrow, a vaguely worded email, or someone taking a little too long to laugh at your joke.

  For me, it feels like this:

  Someone says, “Hmm, I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” and my brain translates it to, “You are a fundamentally flawed human being and everyone you’ve ever loved regrets knowing you.”

  Helpful, right?

  

  RSD tends to show up loud and uninvited in people with ADHD, and sometimes in autistic folks too. It’s not just sensitivity, it’s an overwhelming, sometimes physically painful reaction that can lead to shame, withdrawal, people-pleasing, or a well rehearsed internal monologue about how you’re probably the worst.

  Real Life with RSD: A Theatrical Production

  Let’s talk about how this plays out in real life. Say I text a friend and they don’t respond within a few hours. My rational brain knows they’re probably just busy. My RSD brain? It’s already planning the eulogy for our friendship.

  Even tiny moments… tone of voice, lack of exclamation marks, or a short “k” in a message can feel like rejection. My brain fills in all the blanks with worst-case scenarios, because apparently, it moonlights as a dramatic novelist.

  The Aftermath: Overthinking, Masking, and Avoidance

  One of the worst parts of RSD is the way it sticks around. It’s not just the initial pang of hurt, it’s the hours (or days) of self-criticism, overanalyzing, and rewinding conversations like I’m watching my own personal horror movie on repeat.

  Sometimes, to avoid the pain of potential rejection, I’ll pre-reject myself. “They probably don’t want to hang out.” “I shouldn’t apply for that job, they’ll just say no.” This lovely little habit is called self-sabotage, and wow, am I good at it.

  Other times, I go full chameleon, people-pleasing, masking, over-apologizing. I try so hard to avoid rejection that I end up rejecting myself.

  It’s exhausting.

  Coping (Without Moving to the Wilderness)

  Let’s get real: RSD isn’t something you just “get over.” But there are ways to cope that don’t involve faking your own disappearance.

  Here are a few that have helped me:

  Naming it. Just saying “Oh, hey, this is my RSD reacting” can slow down the spiral. It puts a little emotional distance between me and the drama in my head. Prepping myself for feedback. I remind myself that feedback is information, not a moral judgment. (I mean, I try. Sometimes I cry anyway.) Checking the facts. Did they actually say something hurtful? Talking to safe people. Sometimes, I just need to say, “Hey, I’m having a moment. Can you remind me I’m not a terrible person?” Humour. Honestly, laughing at how extra my inner drama queen can be has saved me more than once. If I’m going to spiral, I might as well make it a musical.

  If You Feel This Too—You’re Not Alone

  If any of this sounds painfully familiar, I want you to know: you’re not broken. You’re not “too sensitive.” You just have a nervous system that’s a bit… enthusiastic. And while it can be a real pain, it also means you probably feel love, creativity, and empathy just as intensely.

  You’re not weak for being affected. You’re strong for showing up anyway.

  And if someone ever tells you that you’re “overreacting,” just remember: they don’t know the epic inner monologue you’re working with.

  30/04/2025

  adhd, autism, late diagnosis, masking, neurodivergent, RSD

  ---

• Self-Care for the Neurospicy: Lowering the Bar Has Never Felt So Good

  If you’d asked me ten years ago what “self-care” meant, I probably would’ve rattled off a list that sounded like the cover of a wellness magazine: bubble baths, sheet masks, spa days, maybe a yoga class if I was feeling wild. It always seemed like something effortlessly serene people did while sipping herbal tea in matching loungewear. Meanwhile, I was just trying to remember if I’d brushed my teeth that day!!

  Now, in my forties and after discovering that ADHD (and probably autism) have been riding shotgun with me this whole time, my definition of self-care has dramatically shifted.

  For me, self-care means structure, rest, and permission. It’s saying “nope” to plans that drain me and “yes” to wearing the same soft hoodie five days in a row because sensory-friendly fashion is a real thing. It’s giving up on the fantasy of morning routines that start with journaling and sun salutations and accepting that my version might be hitting snooze four times and trying to remember where I put my socks.

  

  I used to think self-care was indulgent. Now I know it’s preventative maintenance. When your brain is juggling executive dysfunction, sensory overload, and the Olympic-level sport of masking in social situations, you start to see your energy as a precious, non-renewable resource, kind of like my ability to tolerate small talk.

  Some days, self-care is a win because I finally called to book that appointment I’ve been avoiding since 2022. Other days, it’s choosing to do absolutely nothing and not mentally flogging myself for it. I’ve started asking, “What would I tell a friend in this situation?” and then trying to extend the same grace to myself. (Spoiler: I am much nicer to other people.)

  Self-care isn’t always glamorous. Sometimes it’s reheating the same meal for the third time because it’s safe and familiar. Sometimes it’s cancelling plans with a deeply heartfelt “I’m so sorry, my brain is full.” But it’s real. It’s necessary. And honestly, giving myself the space to redefine what self-care means outside of Instagram aesthetics and societal expectations might be the most caring thing I’ve ever done.

  29/04/2025

  adhd, autism, executive dysfunction, late diagnosis, masking, neurodivergent

  ---

• Diagnosed with ADHD in My 40s: Finally, the Missing Piece

  For most of my life, I’ve carried a quiet question in the back of my mind: Why is everything so hard for me when it seems so easy for everyone else? I didn’t have the words for it growing up, and I certainly didn’t have the tools. But recently, in my forties, I was diagnosed with ADHD and suddenly, it all made sense. I am also awaiting an Autism assessment.

  The diagnosis didn’t change who I am, but it gave me a new lens to look through. A kinder one. A lens that offered understanding instead of judgment.

  Looking Back: The Struggles I Didn’t Understand

  As a kid, I was labeled everything from “daydreamer” to “lazy.” I was always losing things, forgetting homework, zoning out in class. Teachers thought I wasn’t trying hard enough. I thought they were probably right.

  What they didn’t see was how hard I was trying. How my brain would buzz with a million thoughts at once. How I’d start a project full of energy, only to hit a wall of mental fog I couldn’t explain. How overwhelmed I felt by things that didn’t seem to bother anyone else.

  I wasn’t unmotivated or careless, I was undiagnosed.

  Adulthood Didn’t Magically Fix It

  I always thought I’d “grow out of it,” whatever it was. Spoiler: I didn’t.

  Adult life brought its own challenges managing time, staying organized, remembering appointments, starting and finishing tasks. Juggling work, relationships, and everyday responsibilities felt like a constant uphill climb.

  I blamed myself for a long time. Why couldn’t I just get it together?

  Turns out, I wasn’t broken, I was just wired differently.

  The Diagnosis: Relief, Grief, and Everything In Between

  When I finally got diagnosed, I felt a strange mix of emotions. I burst into tears! Relief that I wasn’t imagining it. Validation that there was a reason for my struggles. But also grief for the years spent thinking I was somehow not enough. For the little kid who was trying her best and didn’t know why it wasn’t working.

  Getting a diagnosis in midlife isn’t the end of the story, it’s the beginning of a new one. It’s a chance to go back and rewrite the narrative. To stop seeing myself as a mess and start seeing myself as a human who was doing the best she could with what she had.

  What I Know Now

  I’ve learned that ADHD isn’t a character flaw—it’s a neurological difference. I’ve started to explore strategies and supports that actually work for me, not against me. I’m giving myself permission to do things differently. To rest when I need to. To ask for help. To stop measuring myself by neurotypical standards.

  And most of all, I’ve started to show myself the compassion I needed decades ago.

  To Anyone Reading This

  If you’ve ever felt like you’re always one step behind, like life is harder for you than it should be, know this: You’re not lazy. You’re not broken. And it’s never too late to understand yourself more fully.

  Getting diagnosed with ADHD in my forties didn’t fix everything. But it gave me answers. It gave me tools. And it gave me hope.

  That’s more than I ever thought I’d have and it’s just the beginning.

  

  18/04/2025

  adhd, autism, late diagnosis

  ---