We recently took a day trip to a zoo about two and a half hours away—me, my daughter, and my parents. We went to enjoy a special animal encounter.
It should have been simple. Fun, even.
And parts of it were.
But days like this always show me something I don’t really want to admit:
I am not the same person I used to be.
The Mental Load Starts Before We Even Leave
From the very beginning, everything takes more thought.
Medications—packed and timed.
Snacks, water bottles—the normal parent things.
But also backup clothes… just in case her outfit choice doesn’t match the weather.
Because if she’s uncomfortable, the entire day can unravel.
She packed enough toys for a week. I let it go. Not worth the fight.
Before we even left the driveway, I was already running through a mental checklist of what could go wrong.
When the Overwhelm Hits
The drive was mostly fine.
A few “Are we almost there?”
Some backseat entertainment with my mom.
And for a moment, I thought—maybe today will be different.
It wasn’t.
The second we walked into the zoo, the overwhelm hit.
“Where are the animals?”
“I’m hungry.”
“I don’t like these snacks.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
“I don’t want to go this way.”
We needed to go right. She needed to go left.
Constant urgency. Constant resistance. Constant noise.
And I felt it building in my chest—that familiar mix of anxiety and pressure.
Trying to Hold Everything Together
At the same time, I’m trying to keep us together.
My parents moving slowly.
My daughter darting ahead.
A packed zoo.
No paper maps (why are there never paper maps anymore?!).
Every decision feels high-stakes.
Every delay feels risky.
We made it to our animal encounter.
And for thirty minutes… I breathed.
I was present.
I enjoyed it.
I remembered what it feels like to just be in a moment.
Then it was over.
And everything snapped right back.
The Part No One Talks About
Lunch was chaotic.
She wanted ice cream—then didn’t eat it.
We rushed to the dolphin show. Early enough for good seats… too early for a child who didn’t want to sit.
“It’s too crowded.”
“I don’t want to be here.”
“Can we leave?”
The show was great.
I didn’t enjoy it.
I spent the entire time thinking about the exit—how we’d navigate the crowd with my parents moving slowly while everyone else rushed out.
And that’s when it hit me:
I’m not just managing her anymore.
I’m managing everything.
Timing. Crowds. Energy levels. Meltdown prevention. Logistics.
And somewhere along the way…
I became the most intense person in the group.
When Survival Mode Takes Over
By the afternoon, I was done.
Not physically. Emotionally.
We hadn’t even made it to the elephants yet, and I was already pushing everyone:
“Let’s go.”
“We don’t have time.”
“Stay together.”
We passed things I wanted to stop and enjoy.
But I couldn’t.
Because I could feel it coming—that edge we were getting closer to.
The moment everything would fall apart.
The Breaking Point (The Gift Shop)
And then… the final boss: the gift shop.
She didn’t want something special.
She just needed something.
A souvenir that didn’t really matter—but felt necessary.
The line was long. The tension was high.
I didn’t negotiate.
I rushed us out.
Cue tears. Screaming. Exhaustion.
The Ride Home
We made it back to the car.
Medication time.
More frustration.
A car full of toys—and “nothing to do.”
The ride home was just as hard.
And at the end of it all, I sat there feeling two things at once:
Completely drained… and completely guilty.
How Parenting a Neurodivergent Child Changes You
Because this isn’t who I thought I’d be.
I don’t want to be the person who rushes through experiences.
Who barks directions.
Who manages every second of the day like it’s a fragile operation.
I want to wander.
To explore.
To laugh at the wrong turns.
But when you’re parenting a neurodivergent child, you start living in anticipation.
Always scanning.
Always adjusting.
Always trying to stay one step ahead of the next hard moment.
And over time…
That changes you.
I’ve become more anxious.
More rigid.
More controlling than I ever intended to be.
Not because I want to be.
Because it feels like the only way to hold everything together.
If You’ve Felt This Too
And maybe that’s the hardest part to admit:
Sometimes the impact of parenting a neurodivergent child…
isn’t just on them.
It’s on who you become, too.
If you’ve ever ended a day like this feeling exhausted—and a little ashamed of how you showed up—
you’re not alone.
This kind of parenting asks more of us than most people ever see.
It stretches our patience.
Our flexibility.
Even our sense of who we are.
And some days, we don’t recognize ourselves by the end of it.
But we’re still here.
Still showing up.
Still trying again the next time.
And maybe showing up like this—imperfect, exhausted, still trying—is what this kind of parenting really looks like.
If this felt familiar, you’re not alone.
This kind of parenting can feel isolating—but there are more of us walking this road than it sometimes seems.
I’d love to hear from you—have you ever had a day like this?
And if you’d like more honest, real-life reflections like this one, you can subscribe below. I share occasional notes that feel more like a quiet check-in than anything else.
Mindful Momma Moments 
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