'I have two sons with autism and one with ADHD. I can now see all of the signs.'

I always knew my kids were different — not in a way that needed fixing, but in the way they experienced the world so deeply, with such focus, intensity, and passion.

The way my son would hyper-focus on his latest obsession, the way unexpected noises could send him into a meltdown, the way they found comfort in routines and patterns. But for a long time, I didn't have the words for it.

It wasn't until I began the journey of seeking a diagnosis for my sons that I started seeing those same traits reflected in myself.

Suddenly, all the things I had once brushed off — my own struggles, my sensitivities, my way of seeing the world — started to make sense in a way they never had before.

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How I realised my sons were neurodivergent.

Each of my sons had their own unique journey to diagnosis, and I learned a lot along the way.

With Sebastian, I didn't even consider autism at first.

He was incredibly intelligent, met all his milestones, and gave eye contact, all things I had mistakenly believed ruled out autism. But looking back, I see the signs were there all along.

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As a toddler, he had a deep obsession with cars: not just playing with them but meticulously lining them up in colour and size order, calling it his "car park."

By age three, he could name every make and model of car on the road. He loved to engage with people and loved getting his hands dirty and didn't seem to have any food sensitivities, but was particular in the way it was prepared.

It wasn't until he was 14 and suffering from anxiety and mental health issues that I went to the paediatrician. She said we should start the process of a diagnosis, and he was diagnosed as autistic, with ADHD.

I realised that I had dismissed so many signs because of the outdated stereotypes I had been taught, and because I had always believed that ADHD was a negative thing.

With his diagnosis all the little quirks he'd been masking for the majority of his life became apparent.

Image: supplied.

With Lawrence, I suspected it much earlier.

By age two, he wasn't meeting the same milestones as his brothers, but when I sought help, I was told it was just a speech delay and that he would outgrow it.

I knew in my gut that there was more to it.

I pushed and pushed for years, only to finally get an autism level 3 diagnosis when he was nine.

The delay in getting him the support he needed was frustrating, and it showed me just how hard it can be to get people to listen when you know something isn't right.

With August, I recognised the ADHD signs early because they mirrored Sebastian's.

This time, I didn't wait. I sought out a diagnosis early, and he was officially diagnosed at six. By then, I knew how important it was to have the right support in place as early as possible.

Seeing myself in them.

The more I learned about neurodivergence, the more I saw myself in the descriptions.

The sensory sensitivities, the deep hyper-focus, the way I could become completely lost in my creative work for hours, forgetting to eat or sleep. The way I always felt different but never had a name for why. The way my mind had a million thoughts at once and just thought it was the same for everyone.

As a child, I masked without even realising it.

I adapted, suppressed, and forced myself to "fit in." I was told I was shy, overly sensitive, or just daydreaming too much. But the truth was, I was constantly overwhelmed.

I haven't pursued a formal diagnosis yet, but I don't need a doctor to confirm what I already know.

Recognising myself as neurodivergent has helped me reframe my entire life — my struggles, my strengths, the way I parent, and the way I move through the world.

What this means for my parenting.

Being a neurodivergent mum raising neurodivergent kids means I parent in a way that honours who they are, not who the world expects them to be.

I don't force them to "toughen up" in overwhelming environments. I don't make them hug people if they don't want to. I know that their deep interests aren't just hobbies, they're safe spaces.

When they stim, I don't tell them to stop. When they struggle with emotional regulation, I don't punish them, I help them through it.

Image: supplied.

I advocate fiercely, because I know what it's like to be misunderstood, dismissed, and expected to change for the comfort of others.

I teach them that they are not broken. They don't need to fit into a mould that was never made for them.

In many ways, my sons have been my greatest teachers.

They have helped me unlearn so much of what I was taught about how we "should" be. Through them, I've learned to embrace my own neurodivergence, to stop masking, and to give myself the same grace I give to them.

We are wired differently, and that difference is something to be celebrated, not fixed.

Feature: Supplied.