Neurodiversity: As a therapist, a neurodiverse individual and parent of grown neurodivergent/neurodiverse children, and now a grandparent, I’ve spent many years walking alongside families navigating the same terrain I once did and, in many ways, still do.
This piece reflects on that lived experience: the quiet intersections between personal history and professional practice, the boundaries that protect both, and the empathy that comes from truly understanding. Now that my children are grown, I often find myself reflecting on the years of parenting through the lens of neurodiversity and how that lived experience quietly runs alongside my work as a therapist. There are moments in sessions when a client speaks and I feel a familiar resonance. Their words stir something deep inside — memories, emotions, echoes of my own journey. But I hold those quietly, with care. Because my role is not to share my story, but to create space for theirs. That’s the quiet complexity of being a therapist with lived experience: two worlds running in parallel.
The Parallel Worlds I often think of it as living in two worlds — one professional, one personal.
The professional world gives me understanding, empathy, and structure. The personal one gives me compassion, humility, and a deep knowing of what it means to live this every day. Sometimes those worlds overlap. When a parent speaks of the frustration of fighting for support, the guilt of not getting it right, or the aching worry for their child’s future — I understand. Not theoretically, but viscerally. But therapy isn’t about me. It’s about the person in front of me. My lived experience may inform my empathy, but it never leads the conversation. That boundary is part of the integrity of our work.
Parent Guilt and the Echo of the Past Even now, with adult children, the “mother guilt” lingers — a quiet, familiar companion. The thoughts of what I could have done differently, what I didn’t know then, the moments I wish I’d handled with more understanding or less fear. It’s a guilt shared by so many parents I work with — that feeling that somehow, we should have known, should have done more, should have been better. But what I’ve come to understand is that guilt is often love turned inward. It’s the reflection of how fiercely we care. The truth is, we all did the best we could with what we knew at the time. And we keep learning.
Authenticity and Empathy in Practice Authenticity, for me, is about being human first and therapist second. It’s about allowing my empathy to come not only from training but from the lived moments that shaped who I am — the late nights of worry, the advocacy, the joy, the exhaustion, and the acceptance that comes with time. I don’t share my story in the therapy room, but it’s there — woven quietly into how I listen, how I validate, how I understand.
My authenticity doesn’t always come from disclosure, but from presence. From being real. From allowing my humanity to meet theirs in a safe and boundaried way. Holding Space Across Generations Now, as a grandparent, I see the journey from a new angle — with gentler eyes. I can hold both the parent I was and the therapist I’ve become with a little more compassion. I see the ongoing need for support, understanding, and acceptance — not just for children, but for the adults they grow into, and the parents who never stop caring.
Closing Reflection Parenting neurodiversity doesn’t end when our children reach adulthood. It evolves. So does our understanding of ourselves — as parents, as professionals, as people who have walked this road and now walk it beside others. The parallel worlds will always exist — lived experience and professional practice — each enriching the other. And perhaps the greatest act of empathy we can offer, in both roles, is the courage to stay authentic, humble, and human.
