As I approached the reception desk, I passed teenagers in bow ties and immaculate uniforms scurrying between practice rooms. For a moment, I wondered if I had entered the wrong building. I asked the kind lady seated upon what looked like a medieval chair where the junior competitors were gathering.

She smiled gently.

“All children compete in the same age category 7-18,” she explained, pointing toward a door further down the hall.

Inside stood an old organ towering over the room while a band performed to an audience listening in complete silence. Every year, bands from across the country gather here to compete in a national competition. For some children, it becomes a ticket to the Royal Albert Hall - perhaps even worldwide recognition beyond that. Many of these ensembles rehearse relentlessly. Every missed note, every uneven rhythm, matters. The atmosphere is formal, tense, almost sacred.

Brass playing itself is unforgiving. Breath control and anxiety are rarely friends. A single key combination can produce three different notes depending entirely on control, embouchure, and confidence. It is almost like singing and playing at the same time.

I quickly realised that the band I had come with was by far the youngest group there - children aged seven to ten. Many had only begun learning their instruments. The band has been given just four rehearsals to prepare for the competition. I had even driven my son to an exhausting three-hour emergency practice on the weekend because the teachers feared they simply were not ready. It almost felt like dropping off my kid at the Oppenheimer project.

I could not help but wonder what must have been going through my eight-year-old’s mind as he waited backstage.

Then their moment arrived.

As the announcement was made, the contrast in the room became impossible to ignore. Some of the children stumbled onto stage under the weight of the oversized instruments they dragged into position. A ripple of amusement spread through the audience.

“How cute,” one parent on the other side of the hall whispered while our side erupted in cheers and whoops of encouragement of the bewildered parents.

“Let’s go!”

How inappropriate…

For a moment, I felt like an intruder disturbing the stillness of some ancient institution. Even the portraits lining the walls seemed to stare down in stern disapproval.

Then silence settled over the hall.

At the command of the conductor, the opening notes of the Imperial March rolled forward. Persuasively subtle yet filled with surprising determination, the tiny musicians carried the melody with confidence. Note by note, they marched onward.

As the performance moved through the repertoire toward Eye of the Tiger, something shifted.

The penny has finally dropped. Since when the ambition has become a taboo?

Perhaps we have simply forgotten what it looks like in its earliest form: trembling hands gripping oversized instruments, nervous children walking onto intimidating stages and daring to fill enormous halls with sound.

And in the end, none of it seemed to matter quite as much as would have been feared.

No trophies were lifted by our band. No special stickers were handed out. There was no dramatic moment of recognition or glittering breakthrough into stardom only cold objective evaluation of our performance on par with everyone else along with a few words of encouragement.

Yet on the coach ride home, the children were happier than ever.

The tension that had filled the ancient halls dissolved instantly into laughter, shouted conversations, and the crinkling of sweet wrappers. At the rest stop, they descended upon the shop with the efficiency of a military operation, emerging triumphantly with arms full of chocolate, crisps, fizzy drinks, and enough sugar to terrify any parent. By the time we got back on the road, the teachers looked financially devastated. I suspect at least one of them may now be surviving on macaroni and cheese for the remainder of the week.

And as the bus rolled through the darkness, filled with singing, crumbs, and children replaying every moment of the day with pride, another thought occurred to me.

Perhaps this is ambition too.

Not polished perfection. Not prestige. Not medals or elite halls lined with portraits. But children brave enough to try and young enough to dare to break through the imposing weight of century old traditions with Eye of the Tiger. If the future belongs to them may be courage and ambition still have a chance.

One night, we started imagining who the characters might be in real life. Naturally, he chose to be Luke, which, by default, made me Darth Vader.

I couldn’t help but ask him, “Do you think I’m evil like him?”

He looked genuinely puzzled. Then he said something that stayed with me: he had never thought Darth Vader was evil. If he were, he wouldn’t have sacrificed his life for his son in the end. He went even further and thought Vader had to wear the “evil mask” so he could defeat Emperor Palpatine.

I was both impressed and quietly saddened that he had come to understand something so complex at such a young age.

We ended up talking about how weakness can leave us vulnerable to the “dark side,” and how love can give us the strength to overcome it.

Moments like these make me think more deeply about the role parents play and how much is expected of them. Perhaps it’s time we took a more serious look at how our education and healthcare systems support families, recognising the emotional and moral guidance parents are already providing every day.

The kit promised a near-perfect little miracle. Eggs arrive in a cup with food. You watch them grow into caterpillars, then climb to the lid and form their chrysalis. You transfer them into a netted enclosure, and within a couple of weeks, they emerge as painted lady butterflies. They rest, strengthen their wings, and then, on a sunny day, you release them into the world in a small, joyful ceremony.

What could possibly go wrong?

As it turned out, quite a bit.

One chrysalis detached from the lid and fell to the bottom of the net. When the others hatched, we quietly assumed this one wouldn’t make it. I reached to remove it, but my daughter stopped me: “Give him time.”

Ten minutes later, he emerged.

It felt like a tiny miracle.

But something wasn’t right. His wings were damaged - whether from the fall or from struggling to emerge in the wrong position, we’ll never know. A butterfly without proper wings cannot live as it should. It cannot fly to flowers, cannot gather nectar, cannot truly be what it was meant to be.

So, without quite realising how we got there, we found ourselves caring for a butterfly.

He didn’t understand the artificial nectar we provided. We had to gently place him on a damp cotton pad so he could feed. Day by day, we watched him - fragile, limited, yet alive. It was only then I fully understood how short their lives are. Even in the wild, most survive only a few weeks. Many are eaten. Others simply fade, their energy spent. Butterflies live entirely in the moment, sustained only by what they can gather each day.

And yet - he kept trying.

After a few days, we noticed him moving his wings, as if practicing. It was painful to watch, but also strangely inspiring. There was something determined in those small movements. Something that refused to give up.

It became clear: he wanted to be outside.

We all deserve that, don’t we? To experience life fully, however brief it may be.

So we found a quiet patch of flowers nearby, away from trees where predators might hide. And we let him go.

As he took his first sip of real nectar, something came to mind - words from the Blade Runner about fleeting moments and fragile existence:

“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe…
Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate.
All those moments… will be lost in time, like tears… in rain.”

And yet, for a brief moment, this small life was exactly where it belonged.

This is the picture I took:

However, when Vedder began performing Alive live, he noticed that fans sang it differently from how he had originally intended. The infamous line, “I am still alive,” became an anthem of survival, perseverance, and resilience, echoing in stadiums and arenas around the world. This shift affected Vedder so deeply that he changed the way he sang and perhaps even the way he related to the song and to his own experience.

Recently, I went through a confusing period of reflection on my journey with a neurodiverse child. As things became clearer, and in many ways better, I found myself feeling worse than I had during the journey itself. The other day, I was scrolling through photographs, messages, texts, and videos from those darkest moments. While revisiting the time, when it felt as if the world was against me, I stumbled across a video on my iPhone: a recording from Pearl Jam’s concert in Hyde Park, where I was singing my heart out with the crowd the very words, “I am still alive!”

As I further read through the messages from those few months, I saw a person pushed to the limits of reason. Arrogant therapists asserting their righteousness, self-serving educators making threats in the most patronizing terms and a complete storm unfolding at my workplace. In the midst of it all, there was also a sweet video of my daughter welcoming my newborn son, taken and sent by my spouse as I went to work straight from the delivery ward, having missed that precious moment at home.

I found myself asking: how did I live through all of this? And why did it take three years before I could look back at those events with a rational mind?

You see, for some of us, in extreme traumatic situtions, the body goes into survival mode, where we do not reflect or process the pain. We are designed by nature to numb the pain when bitten by a wild animal. In that mode, all our energy is directed toward solving the problem, fighting or escaping the danger. We only start processing pain after the struggle ends.

Sometimes it takes years before we can return to the place where the traumatic event took place. Sadly, the longer it takes to relive those events, the heavier the impact is later on. That is why, sometimes, when things finally start getting better, it can feel as though a ton of bricks suddenly falls on you.

Among those messages, I also found a very precious few people who told me: You are still going. You are on the right path.

Among those few voices, one of them was my own singing, “I am still alive.”

If you are going through a difficult time right now, remember this: any dark story can become an inspiring anthem if you surround yourself with the right crowd. Find your tribe and do not be discouraged if, sometimes, your tribe is just you.

If you can, take time to process and reflect on the pain, or it may hit you like a ton of bricks later. But if you cannot do that right now, do not worry - just keep going.

And if you happen to be in Tokyo this April, Pearl Jam will be performing again. Who knows if that would be happening had the crowd not sung Alive differently from how the storyline was set?

What has become apparent to me since - our neurodiversity acceptance has different forms. Some of us view neurodiversity as part of our identity and will say “I am an autistic person”. Some distance the neurodiversity from their personality by saying “I am a person with autism”. But there is also a third category: “I suffer from autism and I am finally happy because I found my purpose in life fighting it”. So next time before you jump to conclusions about someone being “just in the beginning” of their acceptance journey, be open minded and consider that the person may have arrived to the destination earlier than you have.

The novel offers no reprieve. It is filled with harrowing depictions of children’s lives in nineteenth-century, ending with the funeral of an eleven-year-old boy who dies in agony from tuberculosis, his suffering compounded by the public humiliation of his father at the hands of the eldest Karamazov.

It is the second youngest brother, Alyosha, who closes this sequence of horrors with a speech about what Dostoyevsky calls active love. Many of us, he suggests, practice passive love: a feeling of warmth, affection, or pity that is often self-congratulatory and demands little of us. It resembles loving humanity in the abstract or merely an intellectual compassion for suffering children.

Active love is something else entirely. It is the daily, practical labour of caring for others, especially when it is inconvenient, unpleasant, or offers no emotional reward. Love in action is harsh and demanding compared to love in dreams. It means visiting the sick, listening to the troubled, feeding the hungry and entering fully into the messy reality of other people’s lives.

The three brothers relate to God in profoundly different ways. Alyosha embraces God with childlike trust and love. Ivan, the middle brother, reasons God into absence. Dmitri, the eldest, oscillates between indulgence and self-loathing. While church and scripture offer ample explanation for human suffering, Dostoyevsky places his characters before a more unbearable question: why would God permit the suffering of the most innocent - children? The novel offers no final answer. Instead, Dostoyevsky insists on something within human control: even when faith falters, active love remains possible. Tangible, selfless sacrifice is the closest a mortal can come to God’s work.

When Dmitri is sentenced to hard labour in Siberia, he plots an escape with the woman over whom he once fought his father. In a characteristically Dostoyevskian turn, the plan resolves in a voluntary return to Siberia. Even though he was wrongfully convicted, Dmitri chooses suffering freely, accepting it as atonement for his moral guilt in compelling his brother to murder their father. In suffering freely chosen, he finds meaning, and for Dostoyevsky, finding meaning in suffering is as close as we come as humanity to lasting happiness.

Parenting a neurodiverse child often begins with a similar confrontation where a diagnosis can feel like a wrongful conviction. Society’s judgments may turn us into its unwilling mirrors, casting them as agents of chaos. Yet through conscious choice, we can come to inhabit the same reality on our own terms. Suffering, then, is transformed and our life’s fulfilment ascends to its highest form: active love toward one’s child.

Then he said something I’ll never forget: “Some SEN parents inspire me with how they channel a brutal self-awareness of their situation into an irrational belief in their children. In my mind, the SEN parents are the real rockstars.”

As an SEN parent, I felt that deeply. This journey can be profoundly lonely. You often find yourself at odds not only with the professionals working with your child but sometimes even with your own family. Your resolve is tested in ways you never imagined. Yet, in the midst of it all, something extraordinary happens: your love for your child pushes you to heights beyond your own perceived limits. You discover a strength you didn’t know you had and become the unwavering engine of support your child needs.

I’ve heard parents say, “I hired the best doctor for my child.” It pains me to say this, but many of the medical and educational professionals you meet will not truly represent your child’s best interests. This isn’t because they are bad people, but often because the system has shaped them that way. My own experience is a case in point: living in a major metropolitan city, the “best” psychologists couldn’t help my child, and it took me too long to realize it.

The turning point was finding the right people—those who made a lifetime of difference. So, how do you build this crucial team?

1. They Must Listen and Hold Space for You.
Your child’s supporters must first understand your plight and truly listen. Sometimes, they will need to hear your frustrations without judgment. This is non-negotiable. A skilled professional will know how to be supportive while setting healthy boundaries, which you must respect in return. It is your absolute duty to shield your child from anyone who casts even a speck of doubt on your efforts as a parent.

2. They Must Share Your “Irrational” Belief in Your Child.
We’re not talking about ableism or unrealistic fantasies. We’re talking about a fundamental, unwavering belief in your child’s potential to grow and succeed on their own terms. Your team should see the possibilities, not just the limitations.

3. They Must Tell You the Objective Truth—With Trust.
A truly valuable professional knows how to build a foundation of trust through positive action and clear evidence. When the critical moment arrives to discuss a hard truth, they will have earned your ear. It is their job to present facts in a way you can hear; it is not your job to blindly accept pronouncements without trust.

4. Once You Find Them, Cherish Them.
When you find these rare gems, respect their work and show your appreciation. Their jobs are as demanding as your journey. A small token of gratitude can affirm that you see them as a vital part of your team.

A Practical Note on Therapies

The world of SEN support is full of conflicting advice. One therapy may claim superiority over another, and debates rage over the effectiveness of social skills groups. The honest truth? No one has all the answers because every child is unique.

Sometimes, it’s simply worth trying an approach, but you should never allow yourself to be shamed into sticking with something that isn’t working or for switching directions. A good practice will be able to show you evidence of progress, not just demand your faith.

In future posts, I’ll share more specifics on different therapies. But if you have questions in the meantime, please don’t hesitate to reach out. Remember, you are the rockstar and the team captain. Choose your players wisely.

The medical profession is ancient, its authority unquestioned. We walk into a doctor’s office hoping the ailment that brought us there is temporary. If it’s not, we expect a name for it and a plan to fix it. A diagnosis, then a cure. It seems almost ludicrous to question this process.

Yet, when our child’s mind works in a way the world calls “neurodiverse,” that very question—to diagnose or not—becomes a battlefield. I am not a doctor. This is a view from the trenches of parenthood.

The conflict starts with a fundamental divide: is neurodiversity a disorder to be treated, or an alternative wiring to be understood? On the more severe end of the spectrum, few question medicine’s role. But as you move into the vast territory of the “betweeners” and “high-functioners,” the waters grow murky. My conversations within the neurodiverse community reveal a stark split. For some, a diagnosis is a relief, a long-awaited key that unlocks self-understanding. For others, it feels like a life sentence, a limiting label that overshadows their identity.

As a parent, you are left holding this impossible question: How can I know which outcome will be my child’s? Will this name be a gift or a burden? And with the science still so young, where are the long-term studies to assure us the label is even correct?

It’s a decision that breeds anxiety and division among parents. But it doesn’t have to be this way.

The truth I’ve learned is this: a diagnosis was never meant for us. It isn’t the final answer to the beautiful, complex riddle of our child. It is, first and foremost, a tool for the systems we must navigate—the schools, the healthcare providers, the insurance companies. These systems are not built for uniqueness, no matter what their brochures say. They are built for categories. A diagnosis is the key that unlocks the door to funding, support, and legal protections. It gives a teacher or therapist a place to start, a shelf from which to pull potential tools.

But herein lies the danger. Labels like ASD and ADHD are not monoliths; they are likely umbrellas for hundreds of subtle subtypes. As one therapist told me in a moment of candor, “If you’ve met one child with autism, you’ve met one child with autism.” Yet, the system, in its hunger for efficiency, often forgets this. It begins to assume that a child with a certain label will exhibit a standard set of traits, applying a one-size-fits-all approach that can pigeonhole a person from a very early age.

So, what is a parent to do, caught between the necessity of the system and the uniqueness of their child?

Here is the path I’ve carved out:

Get the assessment. Pursue it thoroughly. But shift your goal. You are not there just for a label; you are there for a deep, nuanced profile of your child’s specific strengths and challenges—their sensory landscape, their cognitive patterns, their social wiring.

Treat the report as an open book, not a verdict. It is a snapshot, a collection of data to inform your journey, not a prophecy that defines it.

Use the diagnosis as a key, not a cage. Accept it formally if it unlocks the doors to the support your child needs. But once you walk through that door, advocate fiercely for the individual behind the label. Shift the conversation from “What is his diagnosis?” to “What does he need?” Instead of “She has ADHD and can’t focus,” try “She needs movement breaks and instructions given one step at a time.”

And then, there is the most delicate task of all: telling your child.

This is where a word of caution is essential. When and how you tell them is as important as the assessment itself, and the conversation must be a living, evolving dialogue that grows with them. The core principle is to make it age-appropriate. Remember, only you know your child best so use your instinct and err on the side of caution. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.

In the end, a diagnosis is not the destination. It is not the answer to who your child is. It is, at best, the beginning of a much more important journey: the journey to understand them. And that is a journey you take together, with the diagnosis as a map—not a border.

I held my breath as my nine-year-old daughter navigated a fickle tree branch, high enough for a fall to end in the emergency room. Her communication and motor coordination difficulties made every movement a deliberate calculation. But she wasn’t alone. Perched confidently on the same branch was a classmate, patiently offering instructions: “Move your foot here. Now grab that branch.”

This was my daughter’s first time climbing a tree. Her friend led by example—the exact visual prompt my daughter needed—and even asked her to repeat the instructions back verbally. I was amazed by how intuitively this young girl understood my daughter’s needs. The pressure was palpable - one misstep could have serious consequences despite a plan that I made in my head should things go wrong. But before my anxiety could fully take hold, they were both at the top, laughing.

Later, as evening fell, I struggled to get my daughter to come down, even after her friend had left. That day did more than make her genuinely happy - it transformed me. As my parental anxiety gave way to a quiet confidence in my daughter’s own abilities, a warm, undeniable feeling settled in. In that moment of spontaneously shared friendship between two ebullient girls, I realized my daughter was going to be okay. Not just as an independent person, but as someone who would find friends who accept her for exactly who she is.

This moment stood in stark contrast to a question I once heard at a neurodiversity parenting workshop. Another parent asked, “With my child’s condition, will she ever be able to cross the street on her own?” I remember responding with a question of my own: “Have you given her the chance to try yet?” A heavy pause filled the room.

When I began this journey, well-meaning professionals offered reassurances that, honestly, only heightened my anxiety. Their promises felt unsubstantiated because the cold, hard truth is that science cannot predict the developmental trajectory of a neurodiverse child. I became obsessed with measurable milestones: the first sentence, sustained eye contact, a first friend. But this checklist mentality was a trap. The path is always uneven, and expectations can become your worst enemy—an upward-sloping rollercoaster where every setback feels like a catastrophic drop.

Rationalization was futile until I could unconsciously connect the dots between three profound questions: Will my child lead an independent life? Will society accept her? And will she find self-realization and happiness?

A wise friend once suggested I try Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT). He wasn’t questioning my mental health or resilience. He simply reminded me of the well-known airline safety placard instructing you to secure your own oxygen mask before assisting your child. The metaphor resonated deeply. For the next four years, I attended weekly CBT sessions. I learned to dissect the complex feelings behind why parenting a neurodiverse child is so profoundly difficult. We can adapt to the daily unpredictability—the morning meltdowns, the calls from the school, the confrontations with other parents. With grit, you learn to live day-by-day.

But the overarching worry about the future is a different beast. It’s a cloud that hangs over you, a background hum in your unconsciousness. Having analysed it for years, I believe it boils down to those three fundamental questions.

1. Independence: An Elusive Concept for Everyone

In the developed world, it’s increasingly common for young adults to live with their parents well into their twenties and thirties. While the reasons are complex, this fact alone reframes “independence.” It becomes less a rigid milestone and more a spectrum of self-reliance. The education system and workplace are becoming more accommodating. The support systems now extend into adulthood. The science is moving at unprecedented pace. We all depend on a network of others—doctors, plumbers, friends. Understanding this has helped me breathe. You have time.

2. Societal Acceptance: The Uncontrollable Variable

This is the area where I am least relaxed, as social attitudes swing like a pendulum. Human empathy is often shaped by direct experience. Until someone has a neurodiverse person in their life, their understanding may be less sympathetic. Even though my daughter has learned social scripts and manners, she still gets excluded from playdates (often by parents) and sometimes laughed at.

The way to claim control over this uncontrollable factor is twofold: First, find your tribe. Connect with other neurodiverse families. These playdates are often free of judgment. Second, help your child find a skill that allows them to shine. For my daughter, it was singing. After investing in a coach, I mustered courage to sign her up to perform at a school fair. The microphone failed the moment she began. I braced for a meltdown, but instead, she sang louder, stunning everyone with her confidence. It’s hard work, but no harder than the daily grind we already endure.

3. Self-Realization: The Ultimate Journey

This is the most difficult goal, and not just for neurodiverse individuals. Many of us work jobs we don’t love. I’ve been told to look for that “narrow talent” in my child that could blossom into genius. But the reality is that most talents require an ensemble of auxiliary skills to be fungible. My daughter has a phenomenal musical ear, but becoming a professional singer would require stage composure and business savvy. Equally if she was to become a scientist, she would also need to ensure her ideas are recognised among peers.

I don’t have all the answers. I only know that by supporting her interests and working on those auxiliary skills every waking hour, I am doing my best. And sometimes, your best is good enough, even when it feels like it isn’t. Unexpectedly, I learned that my daughter could make a friend not in a structured classroom, but spontaneously, on the branches of a tree.

When did you realize your child was going to be fine? Or are you still on that journey, learning to breathe one tree climb at a time? Please share your story.

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I have been on a seven-year-long journey with a neurodiverse child who has the condition only recently proposed in a peer-reviewed paper as separate from ASD and ADHD. I now advise one of the largest state healthcare systems in the world on the subject and this year her condition has been finally called for inclusion in the next addition to DSM. If you are confused by the professionals working with your child and would like practical advice, you have come to the right place. In addition to being misdiagnosed, my child suffered from labels and excessive interventions. The system made me feel inadequate despite the life-changing personal and financial sacrifices for her benefit. This made me question whether there is a better way. My blog is certainly not a replacement for professional help or in many cases for a much needed therapy, but the time has come for a parent-led way forward which is what I intend to make this newsletter about.

It is easy to drown in the alphabet soup of neurodiversity acronyms these days: ADHD, ASD, OCD… AuDHD anyone? On one hand, we are led to believe we are in the midst of existential mental health epidemic and on the other we are urged to celebrate it. Last week I heard an eight year old, who attended a neurodiversity week at school, proclaim he might have ADHD like all the cool kids. Welcome to the age of neurodiversity, where everyone is an expert but noone has a clue.

Having been through a wringer with my oldest who is now ten, I can attest neurodiversity is far from a glamourous affair or a fashion statement. To the opposite, it is a gruelling parenting marathon you are forced to run without any training. It is even tougher for kids. My daughter has been left with a feeling she squandered her childhood because of me. Through trial and lots of errors, she is now on her path to full potential, but I often ask myself whether the recent advances in neuroscience and psychology as well as broader recognition for neurodiversity have actually made the journey harder for the afflicted families? I think the subject deserves full non-partisan scrutiny. I present a different practical way forward based on my real life experiences in subsequent posts.

We have certainly come a long way in becoming more tolerant and accepting society. Our kids are explicitly taught to be kind to each other even before they can fully express their needs. They learn to celebrate differences in ways we could not imagine just a decade ago. Teachers come with support toolkits and strategies to accommodate different ways of learning. Scientists proclaim new breakthroughs daily. The world on the surface is undoubtedly a better place and yet school avoidance and children’s behaviour has taken turn for the worse. It does not help that the world remains a ruthless and competitive place. We don't just expect our children to excel academically from a much early age, we now also prioritise their emotional regulation over joy of innocent mischief. Meanwhile, increasing regulatory complexity forces schools and the healthcare system to look after their interests first. In the end, the parents are left to fend for themselves. We are expected to manage the conflicting advice, chaotic and self-serving environment around our child, while being a model parent and a loving spouse. Often we wind up being judged by the very people whose profession was to help and protect us.

We all probably remember the day we were told our child might be different. I am certain, it was a tough reality to accept for each one of us. I remember attending a neurodiversity parent acceptance seminar run by a workplace. It was the most self-serving call organised by employer I have ever been on. The message was clear - accept your child for who he is and go back to work! For some of us on this journey, an early diagnosis brought relief and more certainty. It can also unlock welcome and often necessary interventions such as Speech and Occupational Therapies. But at the same time, it exposes the child from an early age to the notion they are attending those therapies to cure their ailments. After all, Oxford's Dictionary describes therapy as "the treatment of a physical problem or an illness". The feeling of being special and singled out is reinforced by the labels we so liberally prescribe. One must ask who needs the diagnosis and what are we treating? Is it the child or the system that has the need to categorise, label and segregate? If we are celebrating the neurodiversity why are we trying to cure it?

My daughter has seen countless professionals. I saw their eyes light up when they spotted her neurodiverse traits. For them this was the win not the arduous journey ahead. That is up to us - the child and the parents! Equally, I have met the parents who were convinced their job was finished once they learned the diagnosis or got that package of support in school. You would think with all the recent advances, our journeys should be easier. However, the facts state to the contrary. So what is the solution?

One of the main strengths of the human brain is its malleability. In fact, scientists argue it is the last trait for artificial intelligence to conquer before humans become obsolete. In simple words, our brain has the natural ability to not just overcome its perceived shortcomings, but also sometimes even rewire itself in case of a severe brain injury. I heard someone call neurodiverse kids the children of the future because they think differently. I think it is just half of the story. By the time they become independent adults, many of them can also learn advanced problem solving skills just by trying to make sense of the world not made for them. So instead of labelling, segregating and shielding our children from this world, let us give them the opportunity to thrive by empowering the parents.

In the following posts I present my non-consensus views on the following questions: will my child be OK? If and when should I get the diagnosis? How to build the right support team and environment around your family? I welcome you on this humbling journey of perseverance along with your comments and suggestions.