The questions I never asked

It's the second day of school and my body rises early. I do a few stretches my physical therapist has ordered and head outside to enjoy the quiet. In our school district, all the other grades are preparing for their first day of school today. It's fun to walk the neighborhood thinking of all the kids and teachers about to begin again.

And the parents who made it through another summer. ;)

Yesterday was FULL. The anticipation of both kids in our home preparing for such a wild change in their lives. Then the absolute wild energy of both of them coming home and verbally processing all the details! It came in waves as the evening sun dwindled. Our middle school son even asked to go on an evening walk with us so he could kick a soccer ball and keep talking.

Their bodies were full of new life and it wanted to be expressed.

That, or he was just delaying bedtime. Who cares, honestly. I love tweens and teens.

As I walk early this morning, I notice some tears bubbling up. No fighting them here. A few travel down my cheeks as I soak in the cool September morning air.

They're getting a school experience I wish I could have gotten.

Oh, my. Didn't see that coming.

When I think back, there are genuinely so many things I loved about that season in my life. Volleyball and basketball. All the music groups. Hanging out with friends.

But there was this layer of uncertainty and terror that I assumed everyone was feeling. Plus, remember. I had not a clue I was experiencing life as an autistic girl with ADHD. I thought I was just the anxious one who worked really hard to make sure no one knew.

But it makes sense that as I help launch my kids into this chapter of their life, my younger parts are here too. I feel their ache.

I wish I could go back and experience that season with the awareness I have now.

Oh the things I would do differently if I knew myself like I know myself now.

It's an interesting thought when it comes to late-diagnosed neurodivergent people. There's this entire framework and neurotype we live inside now that we had no clue about back then. It's a terrible merging of the typical awkward teen years along with social, sensory, and executive function challenges.

For those of us who learned to mask early, we were busy trying to keep up with expectations while secretly navigating deep confusion, uncertainty, and physical discomfort.

I watch my kids in this season. They're getting a school experience I wish I could have gotten.

They are getting to move through this chapter knowing that they’re nervous system might need more breaks than other people.

We’re having specific conversations about how to connect with people in genuine ways that work for them.

They’re learning how to structure their evenings so they can recover and feel more ready for the next day.

They’re reducing a lot of shame around what’s hard for them because it is normalized and accepted within our family.

They’re learning how to navigate crushes and who likes whom and what to do about it.

They’re asking the questions out loud that I kept tucked away for the next seven years.

And a part of me is jealous and sad about that.

I felt deeply loved by my family in that season of my life. And none of us had awareness that I was struggling in a way I couldn't articulate. It makes perfect sense that part of me aches as it watches my kids get the support I didn't even know I needed.

As much as I want to time travel, my invitation now is to help that younger part of me feel heard and loved. I can make space for that emotion to be expressed and then integrate into my life experience and story.

It's holy ground, my friends, when we can honor and bow to the complexity inside our bodies. We can hold it with reverence and curiosity. We get to love ourselves whole.

A practice for honoring the younger parts that hurt

If this stirred something in you, you might pause for a few minutes and gently notice what part of you is here.

Maybe there’s a younger you who remembers what it was like to be confused, overwhelmed, lonely, anxious, or simply trying very hard to keep up.

You don’t have to fix anything.

Just imagine sitting beside that younger version of yourself.

You might ask:
What do you remember about this time?
What did you wish someone understood about you?
What did you need that you didn’t know how to ask for?

And then, instead of explaining or correcting, see if you can simply listen.

You might even say:
“It makes sense that this was hard.”
“You weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“You were working so hard with what you knew.”
“I know you better now. And I’m here.”

Notice what happens in your body as you offer those words.

You don't have to make the sadness go away. You don't have to turn the past into a different story.

Sometimes healing is simply allowing a younger part of us to discover that someone finally understands.

The Family Room

And if you're parenting a neurodivergent kid, you probably know that this season can bring up all the things—their things, your things, school things, body things, relationship things. Sometimes you just need somewhere to bring the whole messy pile.

That's what the Neurodivergent Family Room is for. A place to bring me the thing that happened today, the thing you're celebrating, the thing driving you absolutely bonkers, or the thing you can't quite put into words yet.

I've been making you something!

A little deck of cards for the days when you need a different question, a little courage, or a reminder to come back to yourself.

Coming soon!