We recently took a day trip to a zoo about two and a half hours away—me, my daughter, and my parents. We went for a special animal encounter.
It should have been simple. Fun, even.
And parts of it were.
But days like this keep showing me something I don’t particularly like admitting:
Parenting my daughter has changed the way I move through the world.
I’m more prepared than I used to be.
But I’m also more anxious. More watchful. More likely to anticipate what could go wrong before anything actually has.
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.
The drive was mostly fine.
But almost as soon as we walked into the zoo, the overwhelm started.
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.
Once I get to that point, every decision starts to feel high-stakes. Every delay feels risky. I’m no longer just thinking about what we’re doing. I’m thinking three steps ahead.
But 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.
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.
Instead of watching, I was thinking about the exit. The crowd would all leave at once. My parents move more slowly. My daughter might want to rush ahead.
Nothing was wrong yet.
I was already managing what might happen next.
And that’s when it hit me:
Everyone else was experiencing the day.
I was managing it.
And somewhere along the way, I’d started doing that almost everywhere we went.
By the afternoon, I was done.
Not physically. Emotionally.
I could feel myself pushing everyone.
“Let’s go.”
“We don’t have time.”
“Stay together.”
I wasn’t enjoying where we were anymore. I was trying to stay one step ahead of the moment when everything might fall apart.
And then, at the gift shop, it did.
There were tears. Screaming. Exhaustion.
We eventually made it back to the car, and I realized something uncomfortable.
I’d spent so much of the day trying to prevent exactly that moment.
It happened anyway.
And in trying so hard to stay ahead of the hard parts, I’d missed some of the good ones.
How Parenting My Daughter Has Changed Me
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.
Somewhere along the way, I started living in anticipation.
Always scanning. Always adjusting. Always trying to stay one step ahead of the next hard moment.
And over time, I think that has changed me.
I’ve become more anxious. More rigid. More controlling than I ever intended to be.
Some of that change has helped me become a better parent. I notice things I probably would have missed before. I plan ahead. I recognize when my daughter is getting close to her limit.
But sometimes I take that awareness too far.
I’m so used to waiting for the other shoe to drop that instead of preparing for what might happen, I start trying to control what happens.
And sometimes I’m so busy trying to prevent the hard moment that I miss the good one happening right in front of me.
I don’t know exactly how to find the balance yet.
I can’t stop planning. My daughter still needs me to think about medication and crowds and food and transitions and when she’s had enough.
But I don’t want to spend every dolphin show thinking about the exit, either.
Maybe that’s the part I’m learning now: how to prepare for what my daughter might need without trying to control every moment before it happens.
Because I want to take care of her.
I also want to be there for the good parts while they’re happening.
If this part of the journey feels familiar, these might help too:
- Traveling With My Neurodivergent Child: Is It Even Worth It?
- The Parts of Parenting My Neurodivergent Child Most People Never See
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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