Navigating New Connections: Meeting People as a Neurodivergent Parent

Meeting new people can be challenging for anyone, but when you're a neurodivergent parent, these encounters come with an added layer of complexity. For me, these situations aren’t just about making a good impression; they’re about holding my own for my child’s sake, even when every instinct is to pull back, stay quiet, or simply escape.

The Pressure to Be “Normal” and Present
Every time I walk into a room full of unfamiliar faces—whether it’s a classroom, a therapy session, or just meeting other parents for the first time—I feel like I’m stepping onto a stage. The environment suddenly becomes louder, brighter, and full of potential triggers that I have to manage, all while trying to make genuine connections. It's not just about overcoming my own anxiety or discomfort; it's about doing my best to pave the way for my child, who needs me to help them build relationships, fit into new routines, or get the support they deserve.

It feels like I’m constantly analyzing myself: am I making eye contact? Did I come off as abrupt? Did my tone sound friendly? Do I sound like I know what I'm talking about? These questions loop through my head, adding to the exhaustion. And I’m not only considering my own behavior; I’m also hyper-aware of how these interactions affect my child. I want them to see me as present, confident, and capable—even if it feels like I’m barely holding it together inside.

Balancing Advocacy with Anxiety
One of the hardest parts of these meetings is speaking up for my child’s needs while managing my own anxiety. Advocacy is essential, but it doesn’t come naturally to me. I can struggle with finding the right words or worrying that I’m coming across too strong, too needy, or even too distant. I wonder if others see my moments of silence as hesitation or if they realize I’m taking a mental pause to gather my thoughts.

When I talk about my child’s needs, I feel vulnerable. There’s this push and pull between sharing enough to get them the support they need and not wanting to disclose so much that I feel overexposed. Every word has weight, and I carry it all with me, hoping that I’ve done enough to convey what matters for my child’s success and well-being.

The Sensory Side of Socializing
For me, a meeting or a social event isn’t just about talking and listening—it’s about managing a world of sensory input that can feel overwhelming. The buzz of fluorescent lights, the hum of background conversations, the subtle shifts in body language—it all registers, and it can become too much, too fast. I constantly have to ground myself, taking deep breaths and finding ways to filter out the noise so I can stay focused on what I need to say or on the person speaking directly to me. And if they speak too softly or too loudly, that brings a whole new set of challenges.

I know these moments are important for my child. They’re watching how I navigate the world, and I want them to know that they can handle these situations too, even if they’re difficult. I remind myself that by staying present, I’m setting an example, showing them how to handle discomfort without letting it take over.

Small Wins, Big Rewards
Despite the challenges, there are moments that make it all worthwhile. When I walk away from a meeting feeling heard, when someone acknowledges my child’s uniqueness with respect and understanding, or when I see them make a new friend—it’s everything. In these moments, I feel like I’ve succeeded, not only for myself but for them. I’ve been there, I’ve done the hard work, and it’s made a difference.

Sometimes the victories are subtle—like a teacher reaching out to follow up or a new parent sharing a friendly smile. I hold onto these moments as reminders that while every connection might not go perfectly, it’s worth the effort. My child sees me trying, sees me putting myself out there, and maybe, just maybe, they’re learning to do the same.

The Weight of Self-Judgment
Every interaction with other parents feels like a magnifying glass has been turned on me. In these moments, my inner dialogue is relentless: Do they think less of me because of my weight? Can they tell I’m struggling just to hold this conversation? Does that make me look uneducated or somehow “less than” them? The questions don’t stop there. I often wonder if this entire interaction is a kind of unspoken test—an evaluation of whether my child and I “fit in,” of whether we’re the right type of people for their family. Is this a test we’re doomed to fail? And if I don’t have the right answers to their questions, could that create a barrier between my child and their friend?

This level of self-scrutiny adds another layer of pressure, as I try to hold it all together, staying present for my child while internally wrestling with these thoughts. Every moment feels heavy with meaning, as if one misstep could alter the course of a friendship that matters so much to my child. I want to make the right impression, not just for me, but to ensure that my child isn’t judged by my struggles. This experience becomes an exhausting balancing act, where I have to hold my anxieties in one hand and my child’s happiness in the other.

A Word for Fellow Neurodivergent Parents
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that showing up, even imperfectly, matters. I know how overwhelming it can be to navigate these social landscapes. But each interaction builds a bridge for our kids, whether it’s with their teachers, their peers, or our community. I hope that others recognize the strength it takes for us to be there, advocating and connecting, even when it doesn’t come easily.

To all the neurodivergent parents who find themselves in similar situations: keep going. Your efforts are seen, even if not always recognized. You’re not alone, and the impact you’re making is real. For every awkward moment and every anxious thought, there’s a child who feels loved and supported, and that makes every challenge worth it.