Grow with their Flow

A Personal Reflection on How Learning About My Children’s Neurodivergence Led to Self-Discovery

The Unexpected Mirror of Parenthood

When I first began learning about neurodivergence to support my children, I never imagined it would lead to a profound journey of self-discovery. I thought I was simply doing what any parent would do—educating myself so I could better advocate for them. But the deeper I went, the more I started recognizing pieces of myself in their experiences.

It started with small things. The way my child needed a structured plan for the day and felt anxious when things changed last minute. The way they could become completely absorbed in their interests, diving deep into topics that fascinated them while seeming indifferent to everything else. The way they sometimes struggled to put their thoughts into words, even when their minds were overflowing with ideas.

Each time I saw one of these traits in my children, it sparked a memory—of myself as a child, rehearsing what to say before raising my hand in class, of feeling internally frozen when spoken to unexpectedly, of needing time to process my thoughts before responding. For most of my life, I had dismissed these as personality quirks, attributing them to my introversion, perfectionism, or simply being “too sensitive.” But as I learned more about neurodivergence, I started asking a question I had never seriously considered before:

Am I neurodivergent too?

Looking Back: Childhood Through a New Lens

For as long as I can remember, I felt different. Not in a dramatic way—just in the sense that I often felt like an observer in social settings rather than a participant. I spent a lot of time in my head, thinking deeply about things that didn’t seem to interest my peers. I was always drawn to structured environments where I knew exactly what was expected of me. I didn’t like surprises, and I often preferred predictable routines over spontaneous adventures.

I remember being that child who borrowed more books from the library than I could carry, disappearing into stories and ideas. I had a rich internal world, but social interactions often felt like a performance. I practiced my order before stepping up to the food stall at school, afraid of stumbling over my words. In class, I would count the number of students ahead of me to predict which question I’d have to answer—giving myself time to prepare so I wouldn’t be caught off guard.

At the time, I thought these were normal experiences, just part of who I was. But now, looking back with a new understanding, I wonder: Were these early signs of my own neurodivergence? Had I simply learned how to adapt, to mask, to push through in ways that made my struggles less visible—even to myself?

Self-Doubt: Am I Just Overanalyzing?

The moment I considered the possibility that I might be neurodivergent, a wave of doubt followed. Was I overthinking this? Was I just searching for explanations where there were none? After all, I had done well in school. I had built a career. I had learned how to navigate the world, even if it sometimes felt overwhelming. Did I really need to put a label on it?

But the more I read, the more I saw myself reflected in the stories of late-diagnosed neurodivergent adults—people who had spent their lives thinking they were just “too sensitive,” “too intense,” or “too much” in some way. People who had unknowingly masked their struggles, believing that their exhaustion, overwhelm, and deep need for solitude were simply personal failings rather than indicators of a different way of experiencing the world.

What This Realization Changed for Me

I may never pursue a formal diagnosis, and honestly, I’m still sitting with the idea. But what I do know is that this realization has changed how I see myself—and how I parent.

Before, I often felt like I had to push myself harder, that my sensitivity and deep thinking were things to overcome rather than honor. Now, I’m learning to accept that my brain works differently, and that’s okay. It’s not something to fix; it’s something to understand.

This shift in perspective has also made me a more empathetic parent. I no longer see my children’s challenges as things to be “managed” but as unique ways of experiencing the world that deserve respect and support. When they need predictability, I understand why. When they struggle to express their emotions, I know what that feels like. When they hyperfocus on something they love, I recognize the joy of deep immersion.

Parenting neurodivergent children has given me the gift of self-compassion. I no longer feel the need to force myself into molds that were never meant for me. And in letting go of that pressure, I can better support my children in growing into who they truly are—not who the world expects them to be.

Moving Forward: Embracing the Unknown

I don’t have all the answers, and maybe I never will. But I do know this: Parenthood has given me a second chance at understanding myself. Through my children’s journey, I am rediscovering my own. And maybe that’s one of the most unexpected and beautiful parts of this path.

If you’ve ever found yourself wondering the same thing—questioning whether your children’s neurodivergence might also be a reflection of your own—you’re not alone. Maybe, like me, you’re on a path of self-discovery you never expected. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly where you’re meant to be.

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If you are starting to wonder about yourself, Is It All in My Head? — What It Feels Like to Suspect You Are Autistic as an Adult Woman is the natural next read.