From the outside, it all holds together. The job, the appraisal that says you're doing well, the face you keep for other people. What nobody sees is the twenty minutes sitting in the car before you can come into your own house, the email rewritten four times for a colleague who will read it in three seconds, the Sunday spent recovering from last week and bracing for the next one, your child's reward chart on the fridge that has ruined five of the last six evenings. You've read the books, listened to the podcasts, tried the strategies. Nothing quite fits. The advice, the parenting tips, the systems... they all seem written for someone else's brain.

Often, they were. Not written for a brain running on ADHD, autism, dyslexia, giftedness, OCD, PDA or a lovely combo of several, diagnosed or not, or waiting on an assessment. There is no single neurodivergent way of doing things either. The visual timetable that transforms one child's mornings is, in the next house, another piece of paper on a wall nobody looks at. The noise-cancelling headphones that save one adult's working day make the next one feel shut in a cupboard. A diagnosis, or a strong suspicion, tells you something real about yourself. It doesn't tell you what will work.

So we start with you and not with a method, which does mean the first session is mostly me asking questions. What's going on, what you've already tried, what it's costing you, what you'd want to be different. Then counselling if there's something to work through, coaching if there's something to build.