I thought the hardest part would be learning about and understanding autism. What I didn’t expect was how much I would end up rethinking everything I thought I knew about parenting, schools, and what “normal” is supposed to look like.
TL;DR
This is a Dadinist, lived‑experience reflection on the unexpected realities of parenting a neurodivergent child.
- The biggest surprises were not the diagnosis, but the systems around it
- The emotional load is often uncertainty, vigilance, and constant translation
- Support can be fragmented and hard to access, even when you are doing everything right
- The child does not need fixing, but the environment often does
- You can love your child fiercely and still feel exhausted, confused, or out of your depth
This article is for / not for
This article is for:
- Dads (and parents) early in the neurodivergent parenting journey
- Parents unsettled by school meetings, forms, referrals, or waiting lists
- Families balancing love, advocacy, and burnout
This article is not for:
- People looking for a “how to manage autism or ADHD” checklist
- Readers wanting medical advice or diagnosis guidance
- Anyone wanting to debate whether neurodivergence is “real”
What I expected vs what actually happened
When I found out I was going to become a dad, I had a fairly idealised picture of what parenting would look like. Shared conversations. Curious questions. Taking your child to baby and toddler groups because that’s what you do.
Looking back, I noticed our son was different well before any diagnosis. At groups, he didn’t sit in the circle or join in the same way. He would get up and run around the hall while other children stayed put.
Sometimes I had to take him out early.
At the time, I didn’t see this as neurodivergence. I just found it frustrating. I sometimes dreaded taking him to groups, partly because I felt we weren’t doing it “right”.
If I’d known then what I know now, I would have approached those moments with far more compassion and understanding.
The surprises
The constant translation
One of the biggest surprises was how much translating I would end up doing. Simple moments became explanations: why he couldn’t sit still in groups, why we left early, why something that looked small could completely overwhelm him.
You translate your child to the world. You translate the world to your child. And you translate yourself to professionals.
You explain behaviours that don’t fit expectations. You justify decisions that shouldn’t need justifying. You clarify things that feel obvious to you but not to others.
That translation never fully switches off, and it is quietly exhausting.
The invisible load is not just tasks, it is vigilance
The mental load isn’t only appointments and paperwork.
It is scanning environments constantly. Watching roads and parks in case your child runs off. Avoiding places you know will overwhelm them. Supermarkets eventually became a no‑go area for us because the meltdowns were too much.
It is predicting triggers, planning exits, and being ready for things to go sideways, especially at family events or restaurants.
Eventually, we discovered that a phone was a lifeline. We didn’t want to rely on screens and we tried everything else first, but it was the one thing that reliably helped him regulate and stay calm.
How quickly you become an advocate
Most dads don’t expect to become the person who pushes.
But you do.
You learn how much support depends on wording. On forms. On meetings. On emails that need chasing. On referrals and waiting lists that often move slowly regardless of what you do.
When filling in forms, you are often asked to describe your child through the lens of their worst days or hardest moments.
Writing things that way can feel uncomfortable and upsetting, especially when it does not reflect who your child is most of the time.
You don’t suddenly turn into someone who knows how to work the system. In reality, we often went with the flow because we didn’t know how it worked, trusting that things would progress as they were meant to.
The grief you do not expect (and what it really is)
This isn’t grief for your child.
It’s grief for the life you assumed you were moving into. For how hard the world can be. For how misunderstood your child may be. For how much extra energy everyday life can require.
Becoming a parent changes your life. Discovering you have a neurodivergent child changes it again, often in ways you didn’t anticipate.
The surprise of joy and pride
Despite the difficult moments, there are also many genuinely brilliant ones.
Our son finds reading and writing hard, but he loves maths. He isn’t a savant, a dated myth that all autistic people have some kind of genius superpower, but while he was still in mainstream school he came top of the class in a maths test.
He also has a fantastic way with words. He uses language you wouldn’t expect at his age, sometimes words adults wouldn’t use, and often in exactly the right context. Usually to hilarious effect.
What surprised me about myself
I didn’t expect the patience I would need, or the anger I would feel at systems that don’t flex.
I didn’t expect the guilt, the second‑guessing, or how protective I would become.
One of the more unexpected parts of this journey was realising that learning about my child also helped me make sense of myself. You can read more about this in When your child’s autism helps you recognise your own, linked at the bottom of the page.
What helped me cope
These aren’t instructions, just things that helped me.
Naming what was happening helped. Routines weren’t about control, they were about safety. Writing notes before meetings stopped me forgetting what mattered. Having one trusted person to talk to made a difference.
We also worked briefly with a neurodiversity coach for parents. In our first session, she used an analogy that helped me understand how much harder the world is for our son.
That moment shifted something in me. I became more tolerant, then more compassionate, especially as I recognised similar traits in myself.
Closing thoughts
One of the biggest surprises was realising that the child is not the problem.
Neurodivergent children struggle most when they are in the wrong environment. In our case, mainstream school simply didn’t work. When our son finally moved to a specialist setting, the change was immediate.
He started to settle and thrive within weeks.
The environment often needs fixing, not the child.
And one thing I didn’t expect was how little support there is for dads navigating all of this, especially when you’re trying to stay steady for everyone else.
If you’d like to explore related Dadinist writing, these articles continue the themes of identity, mental load, and how fatherhood can quietly reshape how you see yourself and your role.
