Article

When You Discover You're Neurodivergent While Supporting Your ND Child

Navigating your own late discovery while your child goes through their own journey.

You're sitting there reading yet another article about autism or ADHD traits, except this time you're not thinking about your child.

Well, you are. But you're also thinking about yourself at their age. How you used to line up your toys just like they do. Or that thing where you'd completely lose track of time when you were interested in something. Or the way certain textures made your skin crawl but you learned to just... not mention it because everyone else seemed fine.

Or maybe it's the description of social exhaustion that hits differently. The chronic sense of not quite fitting anywhere. Those elaborate systems you built to remember basic things that other people just... did.

Wait.

Oh.

Oh.

If you're having this moment right now - that unsettling, validating, overwhelming recognition that maybe you're not just supporting a neurodivergent child, maybe you're neurodivergent too - you're in remarkably good company. This happens more often than anyone talks about.

How This Pattern Unfolds

Here's something that happens frequently enough that there should probably be a pamphlet: parents research their child's neurodivergence and accidentally discover their own in the process.

It makes sense when you think about it. Autism and ADHD can have genetic components, though recent research shows this isn't always straightforward - a 2025 Princeton study identified biologically distinct subtypes of autism, suggesting the picture is more complex than simple inheritance. Still, if your child is neurodivergent, the odds are decent that at least one parent might be too.

But many of us grew up in a time when autism understanding was extremely limited - for some of us, Forrest Gump was the extent of what we knew, if we knew anything about autism or ADHD at all. If you were verbal, academic, good at masking, or simply didn't fit the narrow stereotypes of the time, nobody looked twice.

Especially if you're:

A woman or assigned female at birth (diagnostic criteria were based almost entirely on boys)
Intellectually gifted (which often masks or compensates for struggles)
From a family where "quirky" was just how people were
Good at observation and mimicry (so you learned to "pass")
Middle class or higher (with resources that buffered struggles)
Someone who learned early that showing distress made things worse

You might have spent your entire childhood and adulthood thinking you were just... wrong somehow. Too sensitive. Too intense. Too much and not enough simultaneously. Lazy despite clearly working hard. Bright but unable to "apply yourself." Socially awkward. Organisationally challenged. Easily overwhelmed for no good reason.

And then you're reading about your child's diagnosis and suddenly your entire life rearranges itself into a different pattern. All those things that felt like character flaws or personal failures suddenly have a neurological explanation.

It's revelatory. It's validating. It's also completely overwhelming, especially when you're supposed to be focused on your child, not processing your own existential realisation.

The Emotional Complexity

Let's acknowledge something that might feel contradictory: discovering you're neurodivergent can be simultaneously the most validating and most destabilising thing that's ever happened to you.

For some people, the relief is profound. Finally, an explanation that makes sense. You're not broken or defective or doing life wrong - your brain just works differently. All those struggles weren't character flaws. The exhaustion wasn't weakness. The difficulty with things that seemed easy for everyone else wasn't lack of trying. There's a framework now, a community, a vocabulary for experiences you thought were just... you being difficult.

Others might feel the grief more immediately. For the child who needed support and didn't get it. For the decades spent believing you were fundamentally flawed. For all the coping mechanisms and workarounds you built because nobody realised you needed something different. For the life you might have had if someone had noticed and helped instead of just telling you to try harder.

Some people experience resistance to the realisation. "Oh, so that wasn't my fault? That's a free pass of some sort? Isn't it a bit too easy?" There's often a desire to remain accountable for what you've done and what you're doing. But understanding isn't the same as accepting or justifying - it's simply looking at things from a different perspective so that the course of things can be readjusted, more effectively, more authentically. And for others, there's a different concern: "Oh great, yet another thing to fix." Except it's not to be fixed - it's to be understood, explored, to see how life can be made better as a result.

You might feel angry. At parents who didn't notice, teachers who labelled you lazy, doctors who missed it, a system that failed you. That anger is valid, even if it's not always useful or fair to direct at specific people who were working with the understanding they had at the time - or earlier.

You might feel guilty. Like you're appropriating your child's diagnosis, making their journey about you, being self-indulgent when you should be focused on them. (Spoiler: you're not. This is relevant and valid, and understanding yourself often helps you support them better.)

You might feel imposter syndrome. Like you can't really be autistic or ADHD because you've managed to function this long, hold down a job, have relationships, raise children. Surely if you were "really" neurodivergent, someone would have noticed? (Spoiler again: masking is real, late diagnosis is increasingly common, and functioning doesn't negate neurodivergence.)

You might feel relieved and terrified in equal measure. Relieved to finally understand yourself. Terrified of what this means for your future, your relationships, your sense of identity.

All of these feelings can coexist. They're not contradictory - they're just complex. And complexity is uncomfortable when you're also trying to support your child through their own discovery.

The Practical Reality

Here's the thing that makes this particularly challenging: you're trying to do two enormous pieces of work simultaneously. Supporting your child through their neurodivergent journey while processing your own late discovery. And these aren't sequential tasks you can tackle one at a time - they're happening in parallel, often messily overlapping.

Some days, this is actually helpful. You genuinely understand what your child is experiencing internally in a way many parents can't. When they say the cafeteria is overwhelming, you know what they mean because you still find cafeterias overwhelming. When they struggle with executive function, you recognise it because you live it daily. When they need to move while thinking, you get it because you do too.

This deep, embodied understanding can make you more effective at advocating. You're not guessing at what might help - you often actually know. You can translate their experience to teachers and professionals in ways that land because you're speaking from lived experience, not just research.

Other days, it's completely overwhelming. Your child is melting down, and you're trying to stay calm and supportive whilst also feeling your own nervous system dysregulation triggered by the same things affecting them. You're advocating for accommodations they need whilst simultaneously realising you could have used those same accommodations your entire life and never got them. You're researching strategies to help them whilst thinking "oh god, this explains why I've always struggled with this exact thing."

You might find yourself grieving for yourself whilst trying to be present for them. Or feeling guilty that you're thinking about your own stuff when you should be focused on your child. Or feeling swept away by their pain, your feeling of helplessness, your anxiety about their future - how are they ever going to cope? All of these are yours to carry simultaneously. How could you not be constantly exhausted?

Research shows that 65% of working parents report burnout, but this rises dramatically to 77% for parents of children with ADHD. Parents of children with ADHD are more than four times as likely to experience burnout as other parents. Whilst UK-specific data is limited, the context makes it likely these figures are similar or higher - with multi-year waits for assessments, under-resourced services, and school systems that often don't understand neurodivergent needs, the accumulated stress on UK parents is immense.

And if you're a late-discovered neurodivergent parent who's still undiagnosed yourself? There's another layer. Many go through a stage of: if I can't make sense of my own experience, how can I help them make sense of theirs? If I don't know how to make my perfectionism or executive function challenges less difficult in my own life, how can I guide them on that path?

Then there's the guilt around the endless circle some parents find themselves in: having meltdowns as a non-late-diagnosed adult because your boundaries weren't respected, feeling guilty about losing your temper or saying things you regret, then trying to be as accommodating as possible to make sure the focus is on your child not you... which leads to another personal meltdown, and more guilt.

A few things that might help:

Recognising this isn't selfish. Understanding yourself as neurodivergent often helps you support your neurodivergent child more effectively. You bring genuine understanding, not just sympathy. You can model self-advocacy and self-acceptance. You're teaching them (by example, if not explicitly) that neurodivergent adults exist and thrive. And actually, showing them it's okay to take care of yourself is profound modelling - how can you advocate for their needs if you can't advocate for your own? This is a team job. Kids are often far more accepting and understanding than we give them credit for.

Parallel processing is okay. You don't have to finish figuring yourself out before you can support your child. Both journeys can happen simultaneously. Sometimes insights from one inform the other. Sometimes they compete for your attention and that's messy but manageable.

Being honest (age-appropriately) can help. Depending on your child's age and understanding, sharing that you're also figuring out you're neurodivergent can be powerful. It normalises the experience. It shows them neurodivergent adults exist. It models that learning about yourself is a lifelong process, not something that ends at diagnosis.

Your needs still matter. Yes, you're supporting your child. But you're also a whole human with your own needs. Seeking support for yourself - whether that's therapy, coaching, community, or just permission to process this - isn't taking away from your child. It's maintaining your ability to show up for them. And also, it's not about justification - your needs matter because you matter, full stop. Not just for your family, but for yourself.

Self-compassion helps both of you. When you're frustrated with yourself for the executive function challenge or the sensory sensitivity or whatever, remember: you would never talk to your child this way. The kindness you're learning to show them? You deserve that too. And honestly, modelling self-compassion is one of the most valuable things you can teach them.

The Identity Question

Late discovery of neurodivergence does something strange to your sense of self. Especially if you're someone who's spent decades building an identity around "despite my challenges" or "I just need to try harder" or "I'm just not good at normal things."

Suddenly, those "challenges" have a name and a neurological basis. The "trying harder" was always going to have limited returns because you were working against your natural wiring. The "not good at normal things" makes sense when you realise your brain wasn't built for those particular "normal things" but might be exceptional at other things entirely.

So who are you, if not the person you thought you were?

Some people find this liberating. Finally, they can stop trying to be someone they're not. They can lean into their actual strengths instead of fighting their neurology. They can build a life that works with their wiring instead of against it. The discovery gives permission to be authentically themselves in ways they never allowed before.

Others find it destabilising. Their entire self-concept was built around overcoming their "weaknesses." Being excellent despite struggling. If the struggle was neurological all along, what does that mean for their achievements? Were they not actually trying as hard as neurotypical people? Does understanding themselves as neurodivergent diminish their accomplishments or explain them?

Most people find it's both, at different times. Some days you're celebrating finally understanding yourself. Other days you're grieving the easier path you might have had with earlier support. Some moments it explains everything perfectly. Other times you wonder if you're making excuses or appropriating an identity that doesn't quite fit.

This ambivalence is completely normal. You're rebuilding your self-concept in your 30s, 40s, 50s, or later. That's substantial work, and it doesn't happen linearly or neatly.

A few things worth considering:

You don't have to claim the identity if it doesn't feel right. Some people discover they're neurodivergent and embrace that as central to their identity. Others understand it as information about how their brain works but not necessarily their primary identity marker. Both are fine. There's no rule that says understanding yourself as autistic or ADHD or gifted has to become your whole personality.

You also don't need to prove it to anyone. Imposter syndrome is remarkably common in late-diagnosed neurodivergent adults. You'll find yourself thinking "but I can make eye contact" or "but I managed to hold down a job" or "but I have friends" as if these things disqualify you. They don't. Neurodivergence is a spectrum. Masking is real. Compensation strategies are real. You can be genuinely neurodivergent and also have developed ways to function in a neurotypical world.

Self-identification is valid. You might be reading this thinking "but I don't have an official diagnosis, so can I really claim this?" Here's the thing: formal diagnosis is often expensive, time-consuming, and frankly not designed for adults (especially not women, gifted people, or anyone who doesn't fit tidy stereotypes). Many neurodivergent adults self-identify for years before seeking formal diagnosis, or choose never to pursue official diagnosis at all - or find that diagnosis limbo becomes a kind of home in itself. The neurodivergent community increasingly recognises self-identification as valid, especially for adults who were missed by inadequate diagnostic criteria.

Understanding yourself helps your child. Even if the identity piece feels complicated, the practical value of understanding your own neurodivergence whilst parenting a neurodivergent child is real. You can better recognise when you need to protect your own energy. You understand why certain parenting strategies don't work for you. You can adapt advice to fit both your brain and theirs - or your child's brain, for that matter. You can model self-advocacy and self-acceptance. This matters enormously.

Moving Forward

Here's what I want you to take away from this:

Discovering you're neurodivergent whilst parenting a neurodivergent child is complicated. It's validating and overwhelming, helpful and destabilising, a gift and a challenge. All of these things can be simultaneously true.

You don't have to choose between supporting your child and processing your own discovery. Both journeys can happen at once, informing each other, sometimes helping and sometimes competing for your attention. That's messy but manageable.

Understanding yourself as neurodivergent often helps you support your neurodivergent child more effectively. The guilt about "making it about you" isn't serving anyone. Your self-understanding is directly relevant to your ability to support them well.

You're allowed to grieve. For the child you were who needed support and didn't get it. For the decades spent believing you were fundamentally flawed. For the easier path you might have had with earlier understanding. This grief doesn't negate your love for your child or your gratitude for their diagnosis leading you to your own understanding. It's just... also there.

You're also allowed to celebrate. The relief of finally making sense. The community you're discovering. The self-compassion that comes with understanding your struggles weren't character flaws. The possibility of building a life that actually works with your wiring instead of fighting it constantly.

And you're allowed to take this one day at a time. You don't have to figure out your entire identity, pursue formal diagnosis, completely restructure your life, and become a perfect neurodivergent parent all at once. You can just... notice things. Learn about yourself. Try strategies that might help. Connect with people who understand. Take it as it comes.

Your child needs a parent who understands and accepts them. Turns out, understanding and accepting yourself makes that infinitely easier.

One realisation at a time. One accommodation at a time. One moment of recognition at a time.

If you're navigating your own late discovery whilst parenting a neurodivergent child and need support - whether that's processing the grief and relief, understanding what this means for your life now, or figuring out how to advocate for both yourself and your child - that's exactly the work I do. Book a free discovery call and let's talk about what might help you through this parallel journey.

Still in the waiting period for your child's diagnosis? Here's what you can do now: Diagnosis Limbo: What You CAN Do Whilst Waiting

Just got your child's diagnosis and wondering what's next? Start here: We Got the Diagnosis. Now What?