💛 When the Diagnosis Feels Like a Maze (and You’re the Only One Holding the Map)

💛 When the Diagnosis Feels Like a Maze (and You’re the Only One Holding the Map)

Going through the diagnosis process is long.
It’s heavy. It’s confusing.
It’s a full-time job on top of parenting, surviving, and remembering to eat something that isn’t just your child’s leftovers.

There are assessments, therapists, waitlists, support workers, follow-up appointments, and professionals who know more about your child’s brain than you’ve had time to Google. And that’s all before you even get to a paediatrician, who then needs multiple sessions to figure out if the puzzle pieces fit into a diagnosis.

I had it “easier” with Miss 6. She was diagnosed in New Zealand at two and a half. We had a clear path. We had paperwork. She was in the system early.
With Miss 5, it’s a different story. We’re starting over from scratch. No shortcuts. No fast track.

There are weeks between conversations. Weeks where I feel like nothing is happening — but I’m still expected to show up and juggle everything in the meantime. I don’t even know what answer I want anymore. I just want an answer.

🧠 Two Kids, Two Journeys, One Mum (with a Notebook and Too Many Tabs Open)

Miss 6 and Miss 5 are both walking their own paths, but sometimes I forget which shoes they’re wearing.

I mix up therapist names. I confuse reports. I ask one child a question that’s meant for the other. And when I finally sit down to try and sort it all out — there’s a daycare call, someone’s fallen over, the fur baby’s limping again, and the other half walks in needing a cuddle and connection.

And then it’s back to business meetings or therapy calls or a last-minute email from school.
Rinse and repeat.

I have a system. I do. But some days, it all blends together.
And the part no one tells you is that it’s not just your kids in the system.
You are too.
In every appointment, in every intake form, in every moment where you smile and nod while trying not to cry in front of a stranger.

☕ The Cup That’s Quarter Full (On a Good Day)

They say you can’t pour from an empty cup.

But most days, mine isn’t empty — it’s leaking.
It hovers around a quarter full. On a really solid day, it might edge past halfway — especially after a car snack I didn’t have to share.

It’s hard to refill your cup when it feels like everyone is drinking from it.
And yet… somehow, we keep showing up.

Because that’s what we do.

🛒 Please Stop Comparing — We’re All Just Surviving Differently

When you see a parent strolling peacefully down the path, their child happily skipping beside them — don’t compare.

Your child might be in the nearest puddle.
Or swishing a stick above their head with a battle cry.
Or two aisles over licking the Coco Pops box while you shout, “WE HAVE BANANAS AT HOME!” and try not to cry at the checkout.

But here’s the thing:
That “calm” family?
They probably wrestled with shoes for 20 minutes before leaving.
They might’ve promised Maccas for dinner if their kid stayed near the trolley.
They might be on their one good hour of the week.

Neurotypical families? They have meltdowns too.
All kids do. Ours just tend to happen more publicly because sensory overload doesn’t care about your grocery list.

Please don’t compare your family’s chaos to someone else’s highlight reel. We’re all doing our best, and “best” looks different on different days.

🤝 We Were Never Meant to Do This Alone

Here’s the part I really want to say:

Even though it feels like you’re doing this alone — you’re not supposed to.

Somewhere, there’s another parent scrolling late at night, unsure if they’re doing enough.
Someone who just got off the phone with a therapist and has no idea what the words “sensory profile” even mean.
Someone sitting in their car, crying, because the thought of filling out one more form feels like too much.

We need each other.
We need a community where it’s okay to say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
We need safe spaces where we can cry, vent, celebrate small wins, and remind each other to breathe.

This isn’t just a parenting journey — it’s a survival mission.
And no one should have to go it alone.

💬 This Blog Is Dedicated to...

Today.
The rough one.
The one filled with appointments, scraped knees, a toddler crying for reasons you can’t fix, and it’s not even lunchtime yet.

To every parent having that day — I see you.
This one’s for you.

✨ Trust your support team (even when they’re slow).
✨ Talk to someone — even if it’s just about the Coco Pops incident.
✨ Take the moment. Eat the chocolate. Sit in the car. Refill your cup, however you can.

And remember — you are not alone.
I see you. And when you’re ready, I’m here — with open arms, a strong coffee, and maybe even an extra snack in the glovebox.