Meal Prepping for a Neurodivergent Family of Six (aka Organized Chaos with a Side of Sensory Overload)

Feeding a family is hard.

Feeding a neurodivergent family of six?

That’s a full-time job, a puzzle, a sensory experiment, and a balancing act wrapped into one—and I’m the ringmaster, juggling food aversions, texture issues, allergies, and wildly different taste preferences while trying to stay on a budget.


It’s exhausting.


Some of us hate mixed textures.

Some need foods separated.

One has a strong aversion to certain smells.

Another can’t handle the taste of anything too strong, too spicy, too “weird.”

Someone’s allergic to tree nuts.

Someone else swears they’ll throw up if they even look at a mushroom.

One prefers simple finger foods. Another loves crunch and spice.

And me? I’m just trying to eat low-carb without spiraling.


Every month, I sit down with the best of intentions to plan meals for the upcoming month. I start with a budget that doesn’t stretch nearly far enough. Then I factor in:

• What everyone will actually eat

• What we already have

• What’s on sale

• And how much executive functioning I’ll realistically have left by dinnertime


Spoiler: I’m usually out of brainpower by 2 PM.


So instead of fancy Pinterest-style meal prep, we do realistic meal prep. Neurodivergent meal prep. Survival meal prep. Which means:

1. We Prep in Components, Not Recipes.

I batch-cook proteins (chicken tenders, ground beef, shredded pork), simple carbs (rice, pasta, potatoes), and offer sides like fruit, cucumbers, or plain veggies. Everyone can build their own plate based on what they can tolerate that day.

2. Sensory-Safe Options Are Always Available.

If someone can’t handle what I made? That’s okay. There’s always a backup like toast, plain noodles, or protein waffles. I don’t take it personally anymore. I’d rather them feel safe and fed than force something they’ll gag on.

3. We Keep Meals Separate. Literally.

No casseroles. No “mixed together” meals unless it’s requested. We have divided plates readily available because some brains (and mouths) need that separation to feel calm and in control.

4. We Talk About Food Honestly.

“I’m overwhelmed by the smell.”

“This texture makes my teeth hurt.”

“I’m not in the mood for this right now.”

These aren’t excuses. They’re valid reasons. I’ve had to unlearn a lot of traditional parenting scripts around food and embrace open, shame-free communication.

5. We Grocery Shop Like It’s a Strategy Game.

I plan meals around what’s on sale, what’s in bulk, and what I know will get eaten. I stretch meat, freeze leftovers, repurpose ingredients, and keep a running list of who’s eating what this week because yes, it changes. Constantly.


Is it overwhelming? Yes.

Is it thankless most of the time? Absolutely.

Do I want to scream when someone says, “There’s nothing to eat,” while standing in front of a stocked fridge? Without question.


But I also know this:

Every single meal I prep is an act of love.

It’s me saying, I see you. I hear your needs. I want you to feel safe and cared for in this kitchen.


Feeding a neurodivergent family isn’t about forcing “normal.” It’s about meeting everyone where they are—and understanding that food is personal. It’s sensory. It’s emotional. And it should never be a battlefield.


If you’re out here doing the same—juggling budgets, brains, and a dozen dietary needs—I see you. You’re not failing. You’re feeding.


And that’s enough.

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