Some blog posts are written in hindsight—when the fog clears and the story makes sense. This is not one of those.

This is a blog from the middle.

I’m writing from a house where one kid is humming at full volume while walking in circles, the other is trying to crack jokes to mask his overwhelm, and I’m just hoping dinner doesn’t burn while I answer another email and try to remember the thing I forgot (again).

This season is loud—not just in volume but in emotions, decisions, overstimulation, appointments, paperwork, and a calendar that feels like it might swallow me whole.

But in this chaos—this real life—God is teaching me.

So here’s what I’m learning. Not from the other side of it, but right here, from the thick of it:

1. Neurodivergent doesn’t mean broken.

When we first started walking through the evaluation process with Hailey, I wasn’t surprised but heartbroken. Not because something was wrong with her, but because I knew the world wouldn’t always see her the way I do. I saw a brilliant, brave, passionate little girl with big emotions and a bigger heart. But others saw “too much,” “too loud,” “too sensitive.”

I’m learning that the goal isn’t to make her less. It’s to help her feel safe being fully herself, and to teach the world how to meet her there with kindness.

2. Every child is carrying more than what’s on the surface.

Tobias is funny, compassionate, and intelligent—but he’s also easily overwhelmed by noise, change, or too many expectations at once. And lately, he’s just… tired. I see it in his eyes. In the way he shrinks when he doesn’t feel understood. In the frustration that comes when his body feels restless, his brain can’t sort through what’s happening around him.

We’ve had to adjust our routines, slow our pace, and shift our parenting—helping him thrive isn’t about demanding more but understanding more deeply.

3. Advocacy is exhausting—and holy.

No one really warns you about how much energy it takes to be your child’s advocate. The emails. The appointments. The resistance. The invisible labor of simply trying to get them what they need. Some days I want to scream. Other days, I cry.

But most days, I dig in because I have to.

God has repeatedly reminded me that this fight is part of my calling. It’s not a detour—it’s sacred work. Every time I show up, I’m teaching my kids that they matter, that their needs are valid, and that they’re worth standing up for.

4. Peace doesn’t happen by accident.

There was a moment this year when I realized: I am not protecting my peace. I was taking in so many opinions, trying to do all the right things, and still feeling like I was failing. And when my family started to feel that tension in our home, I knew something had to change.

So we slowed down. We stopped pitting the kids against each other in the morning rush and started helping them work as a team. I reevaluated what I was listening to and who I was seeking wisdom from. I got quiet. And in that quiet, God whispered: “You weren’t made to carry this alone.”

5. You can lead your family with grace, even when you’re still growing.

As someone with ADHD, I’ve had to learn how to manage my own overstimulation and mental noise. And truthfully, that’s been harder lately. But I’m learning that I don’t have to be perfectly calm or endlessly patient to lead well. I just have to be intentional, honest, willing to repair when I mess up, and willing to invite Jesus into the middle of the mess and let Him lead through me.

I don’t have a neat bow to tie on this post. There’s no “after” yet—just more “during.”

But I know this: God is right here in the middle of it. In the hard conversations. In the laughter over cereal. In the silent prayers whispered between meltdowns and soccer practice.

I’m still learning. Still growing. Still showing up. And maybe… that’s exactly where I’m meant to be.