Most people don’t realize the quiet comparison of parenting a neurodivergent kid. For many of us, it can start earlier than anyone else realizes.
I remember sitting in my new mom’s meet up group at a neighborhood café. All of us talking about how tired we were, how feeding and sleeping were going, when and whether we’d go back to work, if we’ll raise our children in the city or plan to leave for the burbs.
But I can also palpably recall when the talk of milestones came up. I went quiet. Nobody noticed. To some degree, I wasn’t thinking something was “wrong,” but I did know early on that something about my experience seemed different.
As the months and years pass, that feeling stays with you. At the playground, at birthday parties, at school pick up. You start having IEP meetings, scheduling and commuting to and from therapy appointments, staying up late into the night researching what you’re seeing at home, crafting masterful letters of advocacy or gratitude to professionals who work with your child.
You find yourself thinking that your conversations at home are probably quite different from the families you see around you and fellow parent friends.
And…
Those feelings are never with me more than when I’m scrolling through social media, watching others put their perfect families in their perfect homes or vacations on display.
We all know that social media is carefully curated to show the good stuff. Even with that awareness, the constant witnessing of others’ seemingly struggle-free lives can and will chip away at your sense of wellbeing.
Because it’s not just comparison in the obvious sense. It’s not just “my child vs their child.” It taps into the expectations you didn’t even know you had. The kind of child you thought you would have, the kind of parent you thought you would be.
It’s noticing how often your energy goes toward advocating, explaining, preparing, buffering—while other parents on social media seem to just… show up.
And if you’re being really honest, you find yourself questioning yourself and your parenting after long scrolling sessions.
“Am I doing enough?”
“Did I push too hard?”
“Did I cause this?”
“Why does it seem to easy for everyone else?”
That internal noise can drive you to distraction and discouragement. But here’s something I keep coming back to, again and again:
Comparison only works when the starting lines are the same. And the truth is, they are just not!
Our neurodivergent kids are not taking the same path, at the same pace, with the same internal wiring. Their growth is not linear, not predictable, not formulaic, not easily measurable by the milestones we’ve all been taught to track, in society and in life, and emphatically on social media.
When we hold our beautiful kids up to those standards, it’s like using the wrong map and then wondering why we feel lost.
Your child isn’t behind on their path. They’re on a different one.
And that path often requires a level of attunement, patience, and out-of-the-box thinking that most people never have to develop. You learn to read cues that are subtle or unconventional to stave off, or brace yourself, for a meltdown.
You celebrate wins that other people might overlook entirely, or not consider wins but just another day in life. You become fluent in your child’s language—even when the rest of the world doesn’t speak it.
It matters more to you than most when your child feels safe enough to try something new. It matters that they recovered from a hard moment more quickly than usual. It matters that they are building trust in themselves and in you, in ways that aren’t always visible to the outside world, but are deeply foundational.
It also matters when we maintain awareness that there will be setbacks. What was a win one day may not be the next, or even again for a long while.
And it matters that you are showing up for them in a way that meets who they actually are, not who the world expects them to be, and particularly not how social media perpetuates ideas of effortless perfection.
The truth is, comparison, like social media, will probably never fully go away. We live in a culture that runs on it. Unless you completely abstain, you’re probably going to have moments where it hooks you.
If you find yourself heading down that rabbit hole in the moment, ask yourself:
“Is this comparison actually helpful right now?” “Whose standard am I looking at?”
Shifting your attention back to your family and your child—the real, specific, beautiful, complex human in front of you brings you away from others’ lives, and back into your own. This will allow you to see your kids’ growth, trust they are on their own timeline, and recognize that what looks like “small” progress from the outside is often the result of enormous internal work.
And maybe most importantly, you will soften toward yourself.
Because parenting a neurodivergent child demands a lot from you. More advocacy. More emotional labor. More flexibility. More resilience. You are constantly calibrating, adjusting, learning. Of course you’re going to have moments where you feel stretched thin or question yourself.
That doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re in it.
So when the comparisons creep in—and they will—try to come back to this: your child needs to be understood, not “fixed” or “brought up to speed”. Your child deserves the space to unfold on their own with the supports you’ve put in place, and you deserve the grace of acceptance and support too, even amidst dogged learning, advocacy and watchfulness.
I find myself at a stage in parenthood now where I will be able to discern very quickly if I’m with another parent who “gets it.” I’m no longer surprised, but still infinitely grateful, at how easily we find each other.
Sometimes that’s in real life. Sometimes, yes, it’s on social media. The most important message here is to be mindful of what kind of images and reels you’re taking in while your brain is “relaxing” and impressionable. Every single one will influence how you see yourself, your child, and your self worth.
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