My oldest was five and a half when she was diagnosed as both Autistic and ADHD, just like me. But I’d known since she was two that she was at least ADHD, and the more I researched autism to better understand myself, the more I began to recognize the signs in her too.
I also knew that ADHD can mask autism, and autism can mask ADHD. And I knew that, whether or not we used the words “Autistic” or “ADHD,” the world would still label her. Labels like lazy, defiant, or immature would come eventually, because people just don’t understand the way neurodivergent brains work. But I didn’t want those to be the words she believed about herself, the way I’m still working to not believe them about myself, at the age of 33.
Because she isn’t lazy. She isn’t defiant. She isn’t immature.
She’s Autistic and ADHD.
And that means her brain works differently, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.
I remember sitting in the office of the doctor who diagnosed her, after the evaluation… and one of the first questions I asked was how to tell her. I always knew we would tell her, from the moment we found out.
By that point in my journey, I’d read so many stories from adults who spent their whole lives wondering why everything felt harder for them… why they burned out so easily, why socializing drained them, why they needed routines or stimulation others didn’t seem to need. People who eventually sought out an autism or ADHD diagnosis in adulthood, only to discover they’d actually been diagnosed as kids, and their parents just… never told them.
Sometimes it was fear. Fear that a label would limit their child. That it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I get that fear. I’ve felt it too.
But here’s the thing: the struggle didn’t come from the label.
It came from not knowing.
From growing up believing they were just broken or lazy or failing at something everyone else seemed to do effortlessly.
We didn’t want that for our daughter.
That’s why we chose to tell her, honestly and openly, ready to answer any questions she might have. So, it started with one conversation, where I reminded her that I’m Autistic and ADHD, something we’d talked about a lot before. I told her that all it means is my brain works differently than other people’s brains. It’s not bad, it’s just different. Some things are harder for me, and some things are easier, and I need to do things in a way that works for my brain.
Then I told her she was Autistic and ADHD, too, just like mommy.
She smiled and hugged me, excited to know this thing about herself.
And just like that, it wasn’t scary.
It was inspiring.
We talk about Autism and ADHD a lot in our family… not in a heavy way, but in a matter-of-fact, everyday kind of way. Because they play a huge role in our lives. They shape how we experience the world, how we relate to each other, how we move through our days.
If she’s going to face challenges (and we all do) I want her to have the tools, the language, and the self-understanding to face them with confidence. I want her to know her brain is different, and that’s okay. That there’s a whole community of people like her. That she’s not alone.
The labels people place on us aren’t kind, and they can really hurt. Without understanding why we struggle, it’s easy to start believing we’re “too much,” or “not enough,” or broken in some way. But when we do have that language (Autistic, ADHD, neurodivergent), it becomes a way to understand ourselves with compassion instead of shame.
So I use those words with my daughter the way I use any other identity word… like kind, creative, curious, or brave. Because that’s what they are: part of who she is, not something wrong that needs to be hidden.
In the end, telling my daughter she’s Autistic and ADHD wasn’t about limiting her… it was about freeing her.
Freeing her from shame, from confusion, from the belief that something was wrong with her.
Giving her language to understand herself, to advocate for what she needs, and to grow up proud of who she is.
The Neurodivergent Homemaker 