Waiting was the hardest part.
Had we done enough?
Had we toured enough schools? Applied to enough? Followed up the just-right number of times to keep our kid on their radar without annoying them?
When would the administrators make their decisions?
My son wasn’t even four, and I was navigating the NYC public special education gauntlet known as Turning 5.
Two friends, Alma and Jenny, (not their real names) had children with similar needs, around the same age. We were all facing the same questions, and the stakes felt impossibly high.
Our babies were going to kindergarten. They were young and neurodivergent. Vulnerable. Not developmentally ready for the demands of school.
Would they be understood? Would they be cared for? Would someone see their tenderness? Or would they be overwhelmed, invisible, or worse: melting down and branded as bad?
The three of us decided to start a text thread.
It wasn’t anything fancy. We encouraged each other. We swapped tips and horror stories. We checked in when we heard something. We worried together.
Somehow, that ordinary daily communication helped me survive the year.
There was something about knowing someone else was waiting, too. Someone else understood why I was touring yet another school, asking another teacher to write a letter, or worrying about what would happen next.
We didn’t have to explain everything, because we were in it together.
When all three of our kids finally had appropriate placements, we went out to celebrate.
We drank margaritas and ate nachos on the rooftop of a trendy bar as the sun set over the East River. Then we went dancing. For one night, our concerns were forgotten. We weren’t mothers navigating a sadistic system. We were just three friends celebrating something that mattered enormously to us.
I’ll always remember that night.
But I think it was the mundanity of our check-ins that made the text thread so valuable. It gave us a sense of normalcy in a season when I felt unhinged.
I have different kinds of community now.
I’m an introvert, and I still need it in several forms. When parenting feels hard, I write. I talk with my husband. I lean into the online groups I’m part of. I reach out to friends.
My son’s best friend’s mom, Alma from the text thread, is probably the person who understands me most deeply as a parent. She’s also one of the most honest and benevolent people in my life.
When I was really struggling and concerned, she has said everything from, “He needs to be in therapy NOW,” to, “I can see you’re overwhelmed. Let me take him for a few days next week.”
Sometimes we need someone to tell us the painful truth. Sometimes we need someone to take something off our plate. Sometimes we need someone who gets it.
I think that’s what parents are so often missing.
We can find information. What we don’t have enough of is empathy and validation. Seeing ourselves reflected in parenting media. Seeing our children reflected in culture. Ordinary moments of being with other families without worrying that ours will be judged.
We need to see kids like ours, a little older, who are doing okay.
We need parents like us who have found their way.
We need someone who can simply say, “Yup. Mine too.”
I’ve had parents come to one session of a support group and not return. They may not have had the time or energy for more. Maybe that was all they needed. Maybe touching belonging once was enough to remember:
I’m not the only one.
They don’t have to come back to prove that it mattered. Sometimes it’s enough to know there’s a place where people understand.
Belonging isn’t something you earn by showing up consistently, or something you can ever lose. Nobody’s keeping score.
As one parent recently commented, “We’re all doing our best.” Hearing that, and knowing someone else really means it, is enough to help me keep going.
I’ve learned community can be brief. It can be informal. We may not even realize we’re in it until later.
Yes, it can be harder to find when our child is different. Honestly, it’s not a club any of us expected to be joining. But here we are.
We carry an extraordinary amount as parents of neurodivergent kids. Connection doesn’t make that burden disappear. But it CAN change how heavy it feels.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot as this Substack has grown.
When I read the comments, and especially when I see subscribers responding to each other, I feel like we’re becoming something I’ve been seeking.
A place where you don’t have to explain everything before someone understands.
A place where you can show up with questions, or stories, or a hard day, or a win.
A place where you can remember that you’re not the only one carrying this.
That’s what I’m trying to nurture with Self-Regulated Parent.
I hope you’ll give yourself permission to not have all the answers. To ask for help. To stop comparing. To be kind to yourself. To breathe a little easier.
To be human.
I hope this community becomes a place where you know you belong, exactly as you are. Because parenting neurodivergent kids asks a lot of us, and none of us is meant to do it alone.
Thank you for being part of this.
A kinder future for our kids begins with kindness toward ourselves.
Welcome! Thank you for visiting.
I’m Kate, and I’m glad you’re here.
When I needed support and my kids were young, I followed a hand in hand parenting model and learned about “listening partners.” Set a timer for 10-15 minutes, and just have someone listen to what’s going on for you, with your kids, in your house with your partner, in your head (the scariest place). No feedback, suggestions or comments. Just empathy and space. Then you trade places—one a listener the other talks, vents, muses. I did this weekly for years. A couple with a stranger with a very different life than mine, and a couple with a close friend. That routine was invaluable—for helping me hear myself and helping me get perspective for helping me heal and grow stronger as a person and a parent. I wish more parents had listening partners!