The mental load of neurodivergent motherhood.
As I sit here writing this, I’m attempting to shake off the feeling of dread and guilt that has been consuming me since 8:50am this morning. Another school drop off where my child was clinging to me for dear life, wrapping both her hands around my arm while I tried to untangle myself, her teacher warmly encouraging her to come in and help her with a special job.
The walk from her classroom door to the nursery gates with her younger brother in tow was silent, I squeezed his hand while trying to fight the urge to turn back around, run back into school and scoop my daughter up.
When we arrived at the nursery gates, my son said goodbye cheerily before running off to hang his coat and bag up. Without him there to put a brave face on for, I let the numbness wash over me. The push and pull between what I ‘should’ do and what I wanted to do is not new to me. It’s the same internal battle I’ve had from when I was a child, an adolescent, and an adult. The only thing is, what was once a quiet internal battle I could mostly push down, was now a searing scream in motherhood.
At the age of 31, I had been diagnosed with ADHD. It was one of those ‘AHA’ moments where everything suddenly made sense.
At the time, my eldest child was 3 and roughly 30 seconds after my psychiatrist announced that I did infact have ADHD, my thoughts turned to her. While he spoke about the options of medication I had tuned out, I could physically feel the dots connecting in my head. The questions I had asked the health visitor, my husband, my Mum, “Is this...normal?” I would ask, almost afraid of the answer. My mum would tell me every time “Yes of course it is, you did that all the time!” Now that answer seemed glaringly obvious. Well of course I did it all the time, because I am actually neurodivergent too.
From this moment on I made myself a silent promise, I would fight to be heard, I would be the voice she needed, my daughter would not go through the same pain I did. She would understand herself, she would advocate for herself, she would build her world and life to suit her, and she would have me laying all the foundations.
We were now 3 years on from that moment, 3 years on in the fight for an autism assessment. I shouldn’t use the word fight, but honestly it has felt like that. My child is high masking; nothing was ever picked up in nursery or in school. Parents evenings and health visitor appointments went so well and I was relieved to hear that she was thriving and enjoying school, but I would also often gaslight myself afterwards “Am I looking for something that isn’t there? Is it all in my head?!”.
Finally, we had an appointment with a community paediatrician who just got it, she got us and she got her. “Autism presents differently in girls, its not unusual that school aren’t seeing what you are”. In the middle of the appointment, my daughter had a meltdown. Dr C simply carried on - no judgement. When I apologised, she said “Please do not apologise, it is actually good that I am able to see this".
At the time of writing this, we are waiting on the next stage of the assessment. No official diagnosis yet, but in my heart I know, I have always known. Just as I knew relatively shortly after my own ADHD diagnosis that I am also autistic.
On paper, I should know what I am doing. I am AuDHD myself, I can relate to my child, I can understand my child better than anyone else. I also have a behavioural studies degree and years of experience as a primary school teacher teaching neurodivergent children. I can tell you that none of this makes me qualified for the job I was never interviewed for and certainly never received any training in preparation.
I cringe when I think back to the days I would call myself just a Mum. It was and is the hardest job I’ve ever done, and I’m expected to do it while simultaneously working an actual job as well as managing a household, finances, extracurricular activities, making sure everyone learns to swim and ride a bike, friendships, relationships, keeping connections with my extended family, and if there happens to be any free time, my own health. All of it is overwhelming. In fact, overwhelming doesn’t feel like a strong enough word - it is shattering.
The reality is that the centre of my life has become all encompassing on supporting and caring for my Autistic child, as it should, because it is what she needs. But even though I know that, it doesn’t make it feel any easier when I drop any of the other spinning plates.
I struggle to concentrate in the team meeting or make light-hearted small talk with my colleagues when I’ve had a morning like today. In fact, I struggle to be in the office at all. Not only am I pushing down my own dysregulation - noisy offices with fluorescent lighting and constant interruptions are not the best environment for neurodivergent individuals just in case we still don’t know that in 2026. But I’m also thinking about my child, feeling lost and trying to concentrate, in a similar environment. Feeling the weight of my own struggles, while simultaneously knowing that she will be feeling the same, and trying to somehow power through - for both of us.
