Grieving the parenthood I expected

Before I became a parent, I had a picture in my head of what family life would look like.

I think most of us do, right?

My childhood in itself was not your "average" childhood, although what is normal now days.

I was raised in a single parent home, my Dad and I lived on our own from the age of 4. My Aunt took a big role in my upbringing and I was raised alongside my 5 cousins; we see each other as siblings and always have.

My Nan also played a massive part in my upbringing and she took care of me from the age of 7, when my Dad was at work, so before and after school.

My extended family is big; My Dad is 1 of 6 children, and my cousins are all similar age to me, if not within 10 years. So family gatherings were always busy; the adults having a drink and the kids running around like lunatics.

As I became older and started thinking about having my own children, I imagined soft routines and simple milestones. I imagined birthday parties without anxiety, school mornings without battles, family outings that didn't require military level planning. I imagined advice from other parents actually applying to us.

I used to see Mum's in the community having picnics, their children running around and the Mum's chatting with eachother. This was something I looked forward to; making new friends and our children growing up with one another.

When I had my own children, the ideas of parenthood I had started to become non-existent. I imagined that if I was patient enough, loving enough, organised enough, things would mostly fall into place.

And when they didn't, I assumed I was failing.

What no one tells you about parenting a neurodiverse child is that sometimes the hardest part isn't the appointments, the paperwork, the meltdowns or the exhaustion.

Sometimes the hardest part is quietly grieving the version of parenthood you thought you were going to have.

Not because you love your child any less.

But because reality and expectation can sit painfully far apart.

There was a period with S when I lived in constant comparison. I watched other families doing things that seemed impossibly easy: spontaneous trips, busy restaurants, packed school events, relaxed mornings.

And believe me when I say, I gave them a good go!

A friend and their family moved up North, S had grown up around their children and one day we made the spontaneous decision to drive the 5 hour trip and stay the weekend. I thought, "easy, S will fall asleep in the car, when she wakes up we can have a bit of Lunch and then we will be there before we know it".

Wrong.

S refused to sleep, at all. She was entertained with her iPad for a little while but that soon became boring.

She wanted to get out. She wanted a snack. She wanted a bottle of milk. Her sister was sitting too close to her.

The journey was horrific, and when we arrived I was so overwhelmed that I couldn't relax for the whole evening and the next day. Just as my nervous system was resetting, it was time to make the journey back.

It soon became clear that we were navigating sensory overload, emotional dysregulation, rigid routines, sleepless nights and the invisible mental load that comes with constantly anticipating behaviours before they happen.

I kept thinking, "why does this seem so much harder for us?"

And underneath that was another question I didn't want to admit: "why doesn't my parenting look the way I thought it would?"

There's a particular kind of guilt that comes with grieving something while still loving what you have.

I felt guilty for mourning the ease.

Guilty for envying other parents.

Guilty for sometimes wishing things were different.

Guilty for being tired.

Especially because alongside it all, there was love. Fierce love.

But love doesn't erase grief.

The two can exist together.

Over time, I realised I wasn't grieving my child.

I was grieving the illusion of control.

I had to let go of the idea that good parenting always produces predictable outcomes. I had to let go of measuring success by "normal".

Hearing other parents say, "oh it's just terrible 2's, she'll grow out of it." or "why don't you try the naughty step, that worked with ours!"

I had to let go of the fantasy that if I just tried harder, I could make life fit neatly into the mould I had imagined.

And slowly, something else replaced it.

Not acceptance in the neat, inspirational sense people like to post online.

Real acceptance is messier than that.

It looked like learning my child instead of trying to correct them.

It looked like redefining success.

It looked like celebrating things other people might never notice.

It looked like becoming more flexible, more observant, more compassionate than I ever was before.

The version of parenthood I expected was built around appearances.

The version I actually live is built around connection.

And honestly? Connection is harder. But it is also deeper.

Our wins may look different.

Sometimes they're invisible to everyone else.

• A change of routine without a horrific meltdown

• Being able to attend a family celebration

• A successful school morning

• A moment where my child feels truly safe to unmask

These moments don’t make for “picture perfect” memories - but they matter here.

I still grieve sometimes.

When friends are going to the zoo, and I think “I’d love to go, but S would react to the noise, the smells, the people”

I still have moments where I ache, watching other parents move through the world so much easier then we do

But I no longer see our life as “less than”

It’s just different

And in many ways, this journey has stripped away every shallow area of parenting I thought mattered, and replaced it with something far more honest.

Not easier

Not prettier

But real.

Becky x