Mothering in the middle: finding love in the chaos

Mothering in the Middle

Some days, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a storm—one that I love, but that also knocks the breath out of me.

Being a neurodivergent mom raising neurodivergent kids means I’m constantly walking the line between understanding and overwhelm. I get my kids in ways other people might not—but I also get overstimulated, drained, and lost in my own head trying to keep up with everyone’s needs, including my own.

It’s a strange kind of dance—one where I’m both the teacher and the student, trying to guide little humans through a world that wasn’t built for them, while still figuring out how to move through it myself.

Different Kids, Different Worlds

Each of my kids is wired in their own unique, beautiful way. One needs quiet and predictability. Another thrives in chaos and constant movement. One can talk for hours about a single topic, while another struggles to find words when they need them most.

Sometimes it feels like I’m switching between languages all day—translating emotions, decoding behaviors, trying to keep up with everyone’s rhythm without losing my own.

And then there are moments when it all hits at once—meltdowns overlapping, routines falling apart, sensory overload for them and for me—and I just have to breathe through it. Because in those moments, the only thing that helps is love, patience, and sometimes, stepping away for a second to collect myself.

My Own Brain in the Mix

There’s this quiet, complicated truth about being a neurodivergent parent: I’m not always the calm one. I don’t always have the answers or the bandwidth. Some days, I’m overstimulated by the very same things they are—the noise, the chaos, the constant demands.

And yet, there’s beauty in that too. Because when my kids feel “too much,” I can meet them there. I can say, “I know what that feels like,” and mean it. I can help them see their differences not as flaws, but as something to understand and work with.

Still, there are days I’m hard on myself. When my executive dysfunction hits and the dishes pile up, or when I lose patience faster than I meant to. On those days, I remind myself—we’re learning together. We’re growing together. And that’s enough.

Giving Myself Grace

I’ve learned that I have to care for myself with the same gentleness I try to give my kids. Because if I don’t, I burn out fast.

Sometimes that means letting the laundry wait. Sometimes it means putting on a show for them so I can have 20 quiet minutes in my room. Sometimes it’s just saying, “I need a break,” and showing them that it’s okay to have limits.

There’s guilt in that, of course—there always is for moms—but there’s also freedom. I want my kids to see that taking care of your mind and body isn’t selfish. It’s survival.

The Beauty in the Chaos

It’s not always easy—actually, it rarely is—but there’s so much love here. So much laughter. So many moments where I look at my kids and think, we’re doing it. Not perfectly, but honestly.

They teach me every day to see the world differently—to notice details others miss, to celebrate progress instead of perfection, to find comfort in routines and beauty in quirks.

I used to think being “different” was something to hide or fix. Now I see it’s what makes our family us.

And even on the hard days—the loud, messy, overstimulating days—I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. Because in the middle of it all, there’s love. Real, deep, understanding love.

And that’s enough.