By Ashley Ylvisaker 
“Ope, let me just grab a quick photo of this for future reference,” I said to my husband as our then-6-year-old daughter proudly showed off her Easter candy haul sitting on my mother-in-law’s living room floor, her legs tucked under her tiny body.
On the rug in front of her were eight small piles of candy, each sorted by type: a group for chocolate Tootsie Rolls, another for the fruit-flavored ones, a pile of Starburst, and a cluster of gummy bears.
Even the single items, which included one bag of cheese puffs, one Cadbury egg, and a Reese’s peanut butter cup, had their own little space.
“Look, Mom! I put all my candy into groups!” she beamed.
“You did! Great job, kiddo,” I said, snapping the photo.
I was having one of those “if you know, you know” moments. Because I do know.
Everyone else saw a quirky kid checking out what she got for Easter.
I saw a massive neon sign pointing out how incredible and unique that brain of hers is.
The kind that thrives on organized chaos, just like mine.
I know this photo might help confirm a diagnosis one day, and I know this because I am her. Her brain is different, just like mine.
When I was growing up, I was just told, “You’re dramatic or lazy or weird.”
I was forever in trouble for things I didn’t think were bad. Like having a messy room, not wanting my photo taken with Santa, or loathing the feel of jewelry on my skin, especially earrings.
And maybe I was all of those things, but they were because my brain was trying to function differently in a world that saw me as odd.
Even my parents saw me as the “black sheep,” the “lazy teen,” and the “sassy one.”
I was told I talked too fast, I had too much anxiety, and I just needed to relax.
To calm down and “take a chill pill.”
I was once told I needed an energy drink “like I needed a hole in the head” by the cashier at the gas station.
Little did he know, caffeine does nothing for me energy-wise. I just really liked the flavor.
“You’re weird.”
I know.
It wasn’t until recently, as a full-fledged adult in 2025, that I was able to fully see myself for who I am.
For who my daughter is.
She isn’t broken like I’m not broken.
We are just trying to survive in a world that was not built for us.
We may get overstimulated or anxious to the point of needing to walk in circles to self-regulate, but it’s how we cope to regulate ourselves and our emotions.
There may be tears, there may be deep breaths, there may even be a bit of raised voices because, as girls, we often don’t feel heard or seen.
So, we raise our voices louder.
It’s not out of spite or trying to be unkind.
It’s because our brains are overloaded, trying to process information a typical brain could handle with no problem.
While ours is stuck on one particular word that is making concentrating on the rest even harder.
We aren’t lazy, rude, or uncaring.
We just have too many tabs open, and the tags on the back of our shirts are scratching us.
Our socks are starting to make our feet sweat, and the necklaces around our necks are starting to feel tighter.
Overstimulation leads to a brain on fire.
My daughter is also always on high alert for any sort of creature that isn’t cute and fuzzy.
Even a house fly or tiny ant can result in a blood-curdling scream that I swear, one day, WILL give me a heart attack.
We are entering overstimulation on all fronts, and we just need a second.
Back when I was growing up, telling someone I needed a minute to process what they were saying, or the jewelry touching my skin was starting to irritate me, or my body was starting to sweat from the social anxiety, I would just be told to suck it up. Life isn’t fair. You’re not entitled to anything.
And again, “You’re just being lazy, dramatic, and weird.”
Fine, if that is what they believed, but why can they not recognize that others may actually need a bit more grace and support instead of invalidating the very real issues I was experiencing?
I needed to just fit in the best I could, and most of the time that meant making myself invisible.
I didn’t raise my hand in class, I rushed through assignments I didn’t understand, and I even swallowed a nickel in class on accident because I didn’t have pockets to keep my change in.
Now, as I am parenting my own neurodivergent child, I know she will never fear raising her hand—because she has the confidence to know she is important enough to be heard and understood fully.
I can recognize when she is feeling overwhelmed and when she needs more time to process or to make a few more circles around her room to calm her stomach.
I can see when she is trying to explain something, but others just aren’t getting it, or when she is trying to get through a story but it’s taking too long, which starts to frustrate all involved.
But I am still able to recognize when she needs me, her mom, and her equally weird-brained protector, to step in and help regulate, comfort, and support her.
Because I know how hard it is to navigate a world built for neurotypicals as a neurodivergent, and I will never let her attempt it alone.
Together, her neurodivergent stepfather and I are making sure she has all the tools necessary to take on the world alone one day.
In fact, her dream is to be a scientist creating dinosaurs, Jurassic Park style, only this time, pet-sized for humans to adopt.
Because of this, I am determined to keep advocating for her. To find every tool and resource she needs to chase those dreams of creating tiny dinosaurs for all.
As a child, I may have had to navigate neurodivergence alone, but my children never will.
Originally published on vocal.media/families
by Christa Barnet 
by Natalie Rodriguez 
