The Race You Didn’t Sign Up For (But You’re Running Anyway)
Ah, parenting. The one “sport” where everyone thinks they’re an Olympic coach. From the moment you announce a pregnancy or adoption, the unsolicited advice floods in—sleep schedules, feeding methods, early reading programs. You know, the usual nonsense about how if you follow this magical formula, you’ll produce a well-adjusted, high-achieving, piano-playing, sports-winning, multilingual prodigy.
Then comes reality. Maybe your child is neurodivergent. Maybe their development doesn’t fit the Instagram parenting script. Maybe they melt down at Target because the fluorescent lights feel like a thousand tiny daggers in their eyes. Maybe they hyperfocus on dinosaurs for three straight years and refuse to eat anything but beige food. Suddenly, you realize this isn’t the race you trained for.
But here’s the thing: parenting a neurodivergent child isn’t a race at all. It’s a cross-country trek where the GPS occasionally screams “recalculating,” you’ve lost your snacks, and your shoes are full of gravel. And guess what? You still have to keep moving.
Step One: Burn the Parenting Playbook (It’s Useless Anyway)
Let’s get this out of the way—no book, seminar, or online parenting course can fully prepare you to parent a neurodivergent child. Sure, read the books. Highlight them, dog-ear them, build a shrine to them if you want. But the moment you think you’ve cracked the code, life throws you a curveball.
One day your child uses their words like a champ, and you think, “Oh, we’re making progress!” The next day, they communicate exclusively through interpretive dance and guttural noises. This isn’t regression—it’s Tuesday.
Training for this parenting gig? Forget it. The finish line keeps moving, the rules change mid-race, and half the time you don’t even know what terrain you’re running on. The best you can do is show up, lace your metaphorical sneakers, and keep going.
Step Two: Admit You’re Mourning Italy (And That’s Okay)
Remember Emily Perl Kingsley’s poem, Welcome to Holland? The one where you plan a trip to Italy but end up in Holland? Yeah, that’s a polite way of saying, “You thought you signed up for a Tuscan vineyard tour, but you got dropped off at a tulip farm with no luggage.”
Here’s the brutal truth: it’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to be sad about the Italy you imagined—your child hitting milestones on time, blending effortlessly with peers, making life look like a parenting commercial. It’s okay to feel that loss.
But—and this is a big but—you can’t set up camp in grief. You can visit, cry it out, eat a pint of ice cream, and scream into a pillow. Then you need to pack up and start appreciating Holland, windmills and all. Because if you stay stuck in “what could have been,” you’ll miss the beauty of “what is.” And “what is” can be pretty freaking extraordinary.
Step Three: Manage Your Expectations (Lower Them, Actually)
Let’s talk expectations. If you’re parenting a neurodivergent child, you need to lower them. Like, limbo championship low. This isn’t about giving up—it’s about staying sane.
You might have to ditch the Pinterest-perfect birthday party with 25 kids and a magician. Your child may prefer three friends, no balloons, and cake served at home in pajamas. And that’s fine. You may dream of them joining the soccer team, but instead, they’re more into building intricate Minecraft worlds. Celebrate that! Stop measuring their success by someone else’s yardstick.
Because here’s the kicker: your neurodivergent child isn’t “less than.” They’re different. They’re wired in a way that will force you to see the world differently—often in ways that will blow your mind.
Step Four: Stop Comparing (Seriously, Stop)
Parenting a neurodivergent child means saying goodbye to the comparison game. You know the one: Oh, little Liam is reading chapter books at 5? Cool. My kid licked a wall today because it smelled interesting.
Every time you compare your child to someone else’s, you rob yourself of joy. Your child is not a defective version of someone else’s kid. They’re uniquely them. Celebrate their victories—no matter how small they seem to outsiders.
To anyone who smugly says, “My child was potty trained by two,” feel free to respond with, “That’s adorable. My kid can name every type of cloud and explain quantum mechanics to your Alexa. We all have our strengths.”
Step Five: Embrace the Roller Coaster (And Maybe Scream a Little)
Parenting any child has ups and downs, but with neurodivergence, the ride is wilder. There will be days when you’re crushing it—you’ve handled meltdowns, therapies, school meetings, and you still managed to make dinner. You’ll feel like Superparent.
Then there are days when you’ll cry in your car after a school call or Google “how to fix everything” at 2 a.m. (Spoiler: there’s no magic fix.) Those days don’t make you a bad parent—they make you human.
Give yourself grace. You’re learning alongside your child. Some days you’ll nail it, and some days you’ll stumble. That’s okay. Keep running.
Step Six: Stop Chasing the Finish Line
Here’s the hard truth: there is no finish line. Parenting a neurodivergent child is not a race to “fix” them or make them “normal.” They don’t need fixing—they need understanding. They need you to meet them where they are, not where society says they should be.
Your job isn’t to win. Your job is to show up, love fiercely, and adapt. Focus on the journey. Some stretches will be grueling; others will be breathtakingly beautiful.
The Holland You Didn’t Expect
Eventually, you start noticing Holland’s charm. You realize your child’s quirks are gifts, not flaws. You watch them light up over things most people overlook. You learn patience, resilience, and creativity you never thought you had.
Yes, it’s hard. Yes, you’ll have moments where you envy the parents casually sipping lattes while their “typical” kids play soccer. But you’ll also have moments so profound they take your breath away—moments where you realize this journey, as messy as it is, is shaping you into a better human.
Final Lap: Keep Running
Parenting a neurodivergent child isn’t about speed. It’s about endurance. It’s about showing up every day, even when you’re tired, even when the road is rough. It’s about celebrating every small victory, every step forward.
So stop worrying about where everyone else is in their race. This is your race. Your child’s race. Put one foot in front of the other. Keep running. And when you finally look back, you’ll see just how far you’ve come—and trust me, it’s farther than you ever imagined.
Because in the end, this isn’t a sprint. It’s a marathon you never trained for—but one you’re crushing anyway.