Many of the parents I work with carry something that rarely gets named. They are not simply tired. They are not just overwhelmed. They are parenting in extreme conditions having to climb the highest "mountain" of parenting.

When a child or adult child lives with neurodevelopmental differences, trauma histories, and behaviours that can become dangerous, parenting shifts. It becomes vigilant and protective. Parents often describe living in a constant state of alert, scanning for risk, anticipating escalation, managing crises before they fully emerge. This is not a failure of parenting. It is a nervous system doing exactly what it was designed to do in the face of chronic threat.

Over time, parents tell me they barely recognize themselves. They have become therapists, advocates, coordinators, regulators, and safety planners—often all at once. Somewhere along the way, being “just mom” or “just dad” disappeared.

One theme that comes up again and again is the longing to be understood. Parents want their child to understand how much they have done. They want extended family, professionals, and systems to grasp the reality of what they live every day. Many spend years explaining, justifying, and defending their decisions, hoping that if they say it clearly enough, someone will finally see the full picture.

And yet, a painful realization often emerges: people who have not lived this reality may never fully understand it (hence the need for us to have peer support).

I often talk with parents about how much energy goes into trying to be understood. While this need is deeply human, it can quietly drain what little capacity remains. Releasing the need to be understood is not about giving up or becoming detached. It is about self-preservation. Your experience is real even if it is never fully validated by others.

Another grief parents share with me is the loss of role simplicity. Many say, “I just want to be mom again,” or “I want to stop being the therapist in my own home.” This becomes even more complex when a child reaches adulthood but continues to live with neurodevelopmental disabilities, trauma, and involvement in unsafe situations. Cultural narratives about independence no longer fit, yet expectations placed on parents often remain unchanged.

Being “just mom” or “just dad” in these circumstances means allowing yourself to connect without constantly fixing, to be present without carrying sole responsibility for outcomes you cannot control. This shift is crucial and yet, so difficult to ponder.

Many parents also describe feeling trapped. Trapped by love, by fear, by responsibility, by systems that respond too late or not at all. Over time, this sense of helplessness can settle into the body and quietly turn into a belief of ineffectiveness: Nothing I do makes a difference.

From a nervous system perspective, this makes sense. When effort does not lead to safety, the body learns to shut down hope as a form of protection. But this belief is not a reflection of failure. It is a reflection of chronic stress.

Writing as a tool

One tool I often invite parents to use is writing the story as it currently lives inside them. Not the polished version, but the honest one—the story filled with fear, grief, anger, and exhaustion. The story that says, I failed. I am powerless. I am trapped. 

From there, we can begin to gently rewrite the story. Not by denying reality or forcing positivity, but by widening the lens. Many parents are living inside a story that only names what did not work.

When we slow down, another story often emerges: one of persistence, protection, harm reduction, and love expressed under impossible conditions.

Rewriting the story means allowing effectiveness to be defined differently. Sometimes effectiveness looks like reducing harm rather than eliminating risk. Sometimes it looks like staying present rather than fixing. Sometimes it looks like knowing when to step back in order to survive.

You are allowed to be more than the crisis.
You are allowed to release impossible roles.
And you are allowed to care for yourself while loving a child in distress.

Reflective Exercise: Rewriting the Caregiver Story

If you are able, find a quiet moment. This exercise is not about fixing anything. It is about noticing.

Begin by writing the story as it currently feels inside you.
Complete these prompts honestly, without censoring:

• “Right now, being a parent feels like…”
• “I feel most helpless when…”
• “A belief I carry about myself in this role is…”

Pause. Take a slow breath.

Now, gently rewrite the story using a wider lens. Consider these prompts:

• “Despite everything, I have been effective by…”
• “Ways I have protected, supported, or reduced harm include…”
• “If I gave myself permission to be human, that would look like…”
• “In a world in which I reclaimed my life, I would…”

End by writing one sentence you want your nervous system to hear.
Not a goal. Not a demand. Just a truth.

For example: “I am allowed to take care of myself, even when my child is still struggling.”

You can return to this exercise whenever the weight feels heavy. The story is not fixed—and neither are you.

I write this blog to help parents feel truly seen and validated, creating space for healing to begin.

Maude