When Helping Hurts: Parental Guilt, Shame, and the Need for Compassion in Supporting Families

I still remember the first time I felt that confusing mix of emotions — confusion, guilt, and eventually shame — when working with a professional. We were having a psychoeducational assessment done for one of my children. Early in the process, the assessor asked about my pregnancy and delivery.

At first, I felt puzzled. Why did that matter? Then the guilt crept in. Had I done something during my pregnancy that caused this? That guilt soon turned into shame — a deep, uncomfortable feeling that somehow, I was to blame.

Over the years, through the various assessments we’ve done with our children, I’ve noticed how often these kinds of questions come up. It wasn’t until I started my Master’s in Psychology that I realized: it’s not just society that subtly blames parents — the field of psychology has played its part too. Sometimes that blame is subtle — hidden in the wording of questions or assumptions — and sometimes it’s not subtle at all.

Understanding the Biopsychosocial Approach

In psychology, we’re taught to look at people through a biopsychosocial lens — to understand that a person’s experience is shaped by a combination of biological, psychological, and social factors. It’s a beautiful model when used with compassion. It reminds us that no one lives in a vacuum; our genetics, our mental and emotional worlds, and our environments all interact to shape who we are.

But what I’ve come to see is that in practice, this model can sometimes become another way to place blame — especially on parents.

When Collaboration Turns to Criticism

In a meeting today — one that was supposed to be collaborative — I felt that familiar shame bubbling up again. The goal was to discuss how my daughter could thrive in an environment that simply wasn’t built for her needs. Most of the professionals in the room were supportive and understanding. But one person decided to lecture me on my parenting choices.

In that moment, I had a choice: to defend myself and try to be understood, or to simply say thank you. I chose the latter. I explained, briefly, that traditional reward-and-consequence approaches haven’t worked for my daughter, but that I appreciated the suggestions. The response? “Well, if you had stuck with it, it probably would’ve worked.”

I left that meeting carrying not anger, but sadness. But if I’m honest, anger was there too — a quiet, exhausted anger that wanted to shout, You don’t think I’ve tried that? You don’t think I’ve read every book, sought every expert, cried every night wondering how to help my child? This isn’t the parenting journey I expected, or the one I chose — but it’s the one I’m in, and I’m doing my very best.

And beneath that anger sits grief. Grief for the parenting story I thought I’d have, for the world that doesn’t quite understand my child, and for how often that misunderstanding gets placed on parents who are already trying so hard to hold it all together.

I’ve learned to recognize my shame, to hold it gently instead of letting it take over. But I still grieve the gap between what many professionals think works, and what actually helps our families survive and grow.

The Hidden Weight of Parental Shame

Where does this shame come from? Research shows that when parents feel shame, they’re more likely to disengage. And yet, many helping professionals unintentionally create shame through judgment or rigid advice. It’s deeply counterproductive — it disconnects parents at the very moment they most need support.

Parenting neurodiverse kids often means we’re already questioning ourselves. When professionals highlight our perceived “inconsistencies” or “failures,” it doesn’t motivate us — it compounds our grief. It halts our healing process and makes it even harder to show up for our kids.

A Call for Compassion and Partnership

I know I’m not alone in this. And I’m grateful that after today’s meeting, I was able to come home, stay connected, and remind myself that we’re doing the best we can. I have the privilege of training in psychology, of knowing the theories, and of seeing both sides. But not every parent has that confidence or access to support.

That’s what breaks my heart.

Professionals mean well. But when we approach families with judgment instead of curiosity, or instruction instead of collaboration, we miss the chance to truly help.

So here’s the question we should be asking instead: How can we help parents and children feel understood and supported?

Parents and children are the true experts of their own experience. Our role as professionals is not to fix them, but to change the environment — to create spaces where each child can thrive, and where parents feel safe, seen, and supported in doing their best.

And maybe, just as importantly, we need to ask ourselves: What can we learn from parents?

Parents live the day-to-day reality of supporting their children — they see the nuances, the struggles, and the small victories that professionals often don’t. When we take the time to listen and learn from their lived experience, we deepen our understanding and strengthen our ability to help.

Ultimately, the most meaningful progress happens when we work with parents, not on them — when we build environments where both children and parents can feel safe enough to grow, connect, and truly thrive.