The Quiet Grief of Parenting Neurodivergent Kids

Some weeks feel heavier than others. I watch my kids struggle, desperate for a win, and it can feel impossible to know how to help. I find myself questioning what I’m doing wrong as a parent, wondering how to support them as they keep trying—again and again—to succeed against the odds. They’re being asked to measure themselves by neurotypical standards in a world that wasn’t built for how their brains work. And when success feels just out of reach, it’s not because they aren’t trying hard enough—it’s because the bar was never designed with them in mind.

There are moments when it feels like no matter how—or with whom—I advocate, my energy is wasted. The systems we’re navigating weren’t created with our kids in mind, and the majority simply don’t understand. I find myself stuck in an impossible question: how do I encourage my kids to be fully themselves, while also helping them find connection, success, and genuine enjoyment in their lives?

This week, when I was ready to give up, my daughter asked me for space so she could process her most recent rejection. For anyone who has had a child in volleyball, you understand the intensity—the competition, the surge in popularity, the tryout season that seems designed to stir up emotional turmoil. And yet, she is doing things I could never have imagined myself doing at her age. She is brave in ways I wasn’t. She keeps showing up.

Still, I worry. I wonder how many rejections and blows to her self-esteem will come before something inside her breaks—before she feels destroyed, ruined, or decides it’s safer not to try at all. And then I pause and ask myself a harder question: is the ongoing rejection affecting me more than it’s affecting her?

We work so hard to protect our kids from pain, but there are moments when I don’t know how much more I can carry. Knowing what to do as a parent is always difficult, but it’s especially isolating when so much of the advice available is written for neurotypical teens. How do we, as parents, truly respect our child’s understanding of themselves—their limits, their strengths, their desires—while still guiding them through a world that doesn’t bend easily?

Ultimately, this keeps coming back to grief. When I slow down and check in with myself in these moments, I often realize that I am grieving. I’m grieving the parenting experience others seem to have so effortlessly—kids who walk happily into public school each morning. I’m grieving my child’s difficulty fitting in. I’m grieving the simplicity of not needing to advocate in every corner of their life. And I’m grieving the way I’m so often perceived as the “overly sensitive” or “protective” parent, when in reality I’m spending hours most days helping my children navigate big feelings in a world that asks far too much of them

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And maybe part of this work—of parenting, of loving fiercely—is learning to hold that grief with tenderness, while still finding the strength to show up again tomorrow.

A Few Gentle Supports for Parents Walking This Path

• Name the grief. Grieving doesn’t mean you love your child any less—it means you are deeply aware of how hard the road can be. Letting yourself acknowledge that loss can be surprisingly relieving.

• Let your child lead when possible. When they ask for space, trust that they are building skills to process disappointment in their own way. That autonomy is a strength.

• Redefine success together. Success doesn’t have to mean making the team or fitting in seamlessly. Sometimes it’s showing up, trying something new, or knowing when to step back.

• Find spaces where your child is already enough. Whether it’s a smaller community, a niche interest, or a single trusted relationship, belonging doesn’t have to be everywhere to be meaningful.

• Care for the parent, too. Supporting neurodivergent kids often means absorbing a lot of emotional weight. You deserve places where you don’t have to explain, justify, or advocate—where you can simply be held.

  
  

You are not failing. You are parenting in a world that wasn’t designed with your child—or you—in mind. And the fact that you keep showing up matters more than you may ever know.