by Chelsea Coffin
Parenting is never a one-size-fits-all experience—but when both you and your child are neurodivergent, the usual advice can feel especially out of sync. What tends to happen instead is something more complex, and often more meaningful: a relationship shaped by deep empathy, shared challenges, and the ongoing work of understanding each other as individuals.
Being a neurodivergent parent to a neurodivergent child means you may recognize parts of yourself in your child almost immediately. And some parts you can’t relate to at all.
My daughter, Harper was born with a congenital condition called Microcephaly. Microcephaly is a neurological condition where a baby’s head is significantly smaller than expected, usually caused by improper brain development in the womb or reduced brain growth. The condition causes lifelong challenges, including intellectual disabilities, seizures, and developmental delays, and while there is no cure, early intervention therapies can help.
The phrase I heard over and over when Harper was a baby and small child was “time will tell”. Time will tell if she meets her milestones, time will tell if she needs surgeries, time will tell what her future will look like. Being a neurodivergent person myself who thrives on structure, concrete answers, and routine, the many unknowns were agonizing. My brain couldn’t comprehend that some of the best pediatric doctors couldn’t give me a definitive answer of what to expect with my child.
Though we are both neurodivergent, Harper’s sensitivities, passions and her ways of processing the world could not be more different than mine. On the other hand, I can wholeheartedly relate to some of the barriers, confusion and frustration Harper sometimes feels.
At the same time, similarity doesn’t always equal ease. Overlapping traits can sometimes amplify challenges. In the times when we both struggle with sensory overload, emotional regulation, or executive functioning, difficult moments can escalate quickly. A loud environment, a disrupted routine, or an unexpected demand might affect both of us at once. In these moments, parenting can feel less like guiding from a place of calm and more like trying to steady the ground while we’re both standing on it.
This is where intentional strategies become essential—not to “fix” either of us, but to support both of our needs. That might mean designing routines that are flexible rather than rigid, creating sensory-friendly spaces, or openly acknowledging when one of us needs a break. For me, it means modeling self-regulation in a transparent way: saying things like, “I’m overwhelmed right now, so I’m going to take a few minutes to calm down.” My goal is to have my honesty show Harper that regulation is a skill, not a personality trait you either have or don’t.
Communication often looks different in neurodivergent families. In our home, we rely less on implied expectations and more on explicit conversations. Harper’s condition challenges her greatly when it comes to social cues. She is not able to read social cues from others. Body language is often 60-90% of our communication, therefore directions, questions and overall conversation need to be very straightforward for Harper. This can sometimes look blunt or curt to others but for us, it’s the communication style we know is effective and successful.
One of the less talked-about aspects is the emotional weight of advocacy. I’m not just learning how to support my child; I am often navigating systems—schools, healthcare, social expectations—that may not fully understand either Harper or myself. I have had my own difficult experiences growing up neurodivergent, this can bring up old frustrations or even grief. Watching Harper encounter similar barriers can be both motivating and exhausting.
But there’s also a unique kind of joy in this dynamic. I believe my family prioritizes authenticity over conformity, curiosity over compliance. There can be a sense of mutual respect that grows early, because your child recognizes that you don’t just instruct—you relate.
It’s important, though, not to assume that your experiences map perfectly onto your child’s. Neurodivergence is not a single story. Even if you share a diagnosis—or a cluster of traits—your needs, triggers, and strengths can differ significantly. Staying curious about your child, rather than relying solely on your own frame of reference, helps keep that relationship flexible and responsive.
Support matters, too. While shared neurodivergence can create a strong bond, it doesn’t replace the need for external resources—whether that’s community, professional guidance, or simply spaces where you don’t have to explain yourself. Parenting in this context can be isolating if you’re doing it alone, especially when mainstream parenting narratives don’t reflect your reality.
Ultimately, being a neurodivergent parent to a neurodivergent child isn’t about mastering a perfect approach. It’s about building a relationship that works for both of you—one that makes room for differences, adapts to challenges, and recognizes that understanding is an ongoing process. There will be moments of friction, but also moments of profound connection. And those moments—the ones where your child feels truly understood, and where you see that understanding reflected back—are often where this kind of parenting shines the most.
