Someone once told me it was okay to mourn the parenting experience I thought I would have.
I’ve never been completely comfortable with the word mourn.
I’m not mourning the parenting experience I have.
But I do understand now what that person was trying to give me permission to acknowledge:
Sometimes this is really hard.
There are parts of parenting my daughter that very few people see.
She can hold herself together remarkably well at school and during organized activities. Teachers may see a child participating, following directions and getting through her day.
Then she comes home.
And sometimes everything she’s been holding together falls apart.
I remember one school event when she became completely overwhelmed. I was trying to manage the situation while also trying to get us out of there. I thought we’d made it to the car without anyone really seeing what happened.
Months later, when I met with her principal, he mentioned it.
He told me they never see her like that at school.
I don’t think he meant anything negative by it. But that comment stayed with me.
Because we do.
We see the version of her that has run out of capacity. We see the meltdowns, the fears, the refusal and the moments when something seemingly simple becomes incredibly hard.
And I know our family isn’t alone in that.
There are parents managing things inside their homes that teachers, neighbors, friends and even extended family may never see.
For some families, that could include intense meltdowns. For others, aggression or destructive behavior. It might be hours spent trying to complete homework, get through a shower, leave the house or help a child calm down enough to sleep.
Then the child goes to school or an activity and holds it together.
From the outside, everything can look okay.
That’s part of what can make this kind of parenting feel so lonely.
The Parts Others Don’t See
It’s difficult to explain the weight of something to someone who has never seen it.
Years ago, I knew someone who was dealing with significant mental health struggles with one of his children.
I knew things were difficult at home. He would occasionally talk about what his family was going through, and I felt for him.
But if I’m being truthful, I couldn’t really imagine what his daily life looked like.
I couldn’t understand how struggles happening at home could affect every part of the day—or how much energy a parent could spend trying to keep things together while still going to work and functioning normally everywhere else.
Now I think about him differently.
I have so much more empathy for what he must have been carrying. I also wonder how he managed to show up at work every day and seem as okay as he did.
It wasn’t that I didn’t care back then.
I just didn’t have a frame of reference for what he was trying to explain.
And I think that’s sometimes what happens when I try to explain our harder moments now.
Sometimes I think part of the difficulty is that the things I’m describing can sound so ordinary.
A child refusing to get dressed.
A meltdown when it’s time to leave.
A battle over homework.
A child who doesn’t want to take a shower.
Most parents have experienced some version of those things.
But sometimes the words don’t adequately describe the intensity of what is actually happening.
“She didn’t want to take a shower” can mean a child complained and argued about getting in.
It can also mean a child became so overwhelmed that the entire evening fell apart.
Those are very different experiences, even though we might use the same sentence to describe them.
That’s one of the things I’ve found hardest to explain.
I’m not trying to say our hard is harder than someone else’s hard.
I’m trying to explain that sometimes what is happening inside our home doesn’t translate very well when I try to describe it outside of it.
Maybe that’s why I wanted to write this.
Because I know there are other parents living through things inside their homes that very few people ever see.
Maybe your child holds it together all day and falls apart the minute they get home.
Maybe you’ve tried to explain what happens and heard, “Really? We never see that.”
Maybe you’ve wondered why something that sounds so simple when you describe it can feel so enormous when you’re actually living it.
I understand that now in a way I didn’t before.
Some parts of parenting are incredibly difficult to explain from the outside.
And sometimes I think there’s value in simply being honest about that.
If you’re also parenting a neurodivergent child and figuring out what works for your family, you’re welcome to follow along. I share what we’re learning as we go—the things that work, the things that don’t, and the things I wish I’d understood sooner.
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