It always starts with something absurdly small. “Grab your shoes.” “Pause the game.” “Come to the table.”
And suddenly it’s not small. At all.
Suddenly they’re yelling or crying or crossing their arms and knitting their eyebrows and metaphorically (or literally) digging their heels in. And you’re standing there thinking, WTF?
This is where most of us go straight into the scripts we grew up with: Stop making this such a big deal. Why can’t you do what I ask you to do? Why is he being so difficult?
But that’s not what’s happening. Kids don’t react to the size of the ask; they react to the size of the moment. The timing, the internal collision, the “I can’t” that hits before they have words for it.
Neurodivergent kids – looking at you, ADHD kids, kids on the spectrum, and all those beyond before and in-between – shift from “fine” to “overwhelmed” insanely fast. It’s not disrespect. It’s not a choice. It’s their tendency toward hyperarousal jumping from low gear to high in a blink of an eye. It’s safety (lack of), and it’s real, to them.
Then, to create the perfect storm, your body kicks in, too, because he didn’t get it from nowhere.
That jolt of irritation, the urge to fix it, control it, shut it down. That part matters. Not because you need to be perfect, but because noticing your own urgency changes what you say next. Ah, the sweet interplay of neuroception and framing, the trouble you two have got us in.
But there’s a way to slow this down so repair can be postponed until next time. If you’ve already taken the heavy route, repair is fine. But what if… what if… hear me out, what if you pause? You breathe. You take a minute to reframe.
He’s not giving you a hard time. He’s HAVING a hard time.
And the good news is you’re here! And maybe not ready but definitely able to help steer this ship – like the captain of a moorless vessel – to calm waters.
“But how?” you plead to no one in particular.
When things cool down, offer soft words, short sentences. Not a speech, not a lesson, not a strategy you picked up on Instagram. Just:
“That was really hard for you. I hear you, buddy.”
Or: “You weren’t ready for that change. I get it.”
That’s enough. And if it helps, you can offer a shift… a drink, something to eat, something small that sometimes helps bodies settle without making a big deal of it. Preserve the dignity.
Once the storm has passed and calmness returns, seize the opportunity to reconnect.
Maybe in the car, on a walk, or perhaps while you’re both doing something else and not making eye contact.
Something like, “About earlier… You know I saw how hard it was for you to shift gears. You really weren’t ready for that; that must have been tough. What would help next time?”
You’re not correcting him. You’re offering true empathy and connection.
You’re offering curiosity into a cause and a solution that he, master of his body and mind (or someday will be, with guidance, trust, and love), actually has a voice in.
And kids feel that. That’s the thing that changes the whole dynamic over time. Not compliance. Not perfection. Just connection that feels real enough to come back to.
I help parents translate overwhelm into connection. If your child’s nervous system runs hot – ADHD, autistic, PDA, anxious, sensitive – this is a place where their “big reactions” actually make sense. Each week-ish, I break down real moments and offer language that protects dignity, builds trust, and brings the temperature down for everyone.
If you’ve ever walked into an occupational therapy gym, you’ve probably seen sensory swings in use. Platform swings. Cocoons. Bolsters. Trapeze bars. Parents often leave
Once upon a time in a land far, far away, kids had a place to be. A soda shop. The mall. A roller rink. The
Why small asks blow up, what’s really happening in your child’s nervous system, and what to say instead.