What does a mother hide when she can’t take it anymore? What happens when the body, the home, and the mind are saturated at the same time? How to accompany with love when the nervous system is on fire?
This article is an open letter. A testimony. Mine, without the intention of resembling that of another person… I only write with an open heart. I needed, today, Mother’s Day, a space to say out loud what many of us do not dare to name in our day-to-day lives, in a society that still dreams that motherhood comes from a Disney story, I also idealized it. Because mothering from neurodivergence is not romantic at all, but it is full of love. The kind that burns. The kind that holds with trembling hands. Like mine while I write this…
"I don’t want a Mother’s Day. I want a home, a community, a system, that allows me to be a mother without breaking apart."
Mothering as a neurodivergent: neither myth, nor martyr, nor heroine
We are not superheroes. Nor magicians. Nor brave by default. We are mothers. And we are tired. Many times, exhausted on a level that goes beyond sleep: exhausted from the noise, the mess, the constant contact or the lack of it when your little one doesn’t want anyone to come close, from the self-demand.
And yes, we also have a more intense perception of the environment. The lights. The sounds. The smells. The textures. The lack of predictability is exhausting, simply draining, you never know what will happen… what will surprise you. Everything hurts more. Everything hits harder. And yet, we are still here. Raising. Holding. Smiling when we can, surviving when we cannot.
"Motherhood neurodivergent is not a constant struggle. It is a daily negotiation with the world and with yourself."
Space as an extension of the nervous system
The environment matters. A lot. Because our body responds to it as if it were part of the nervous system. The home is not a backdrop. It is a battlefield or a refuge. And when this refuge does not exist, everything else becomes unbearable.
There are days when chaos invades me. There are toys on the floor, clothes on the chairs, dishes unwashed. And my mind, which seeks order like one seeks oxygen, breaks down. I struggle to function. I become overwhelmed. I shut down. And yet, how can I prioritize tidying up if my children need me, if I need to cook, if I have to work?
"Home should be the place where it takes the least effort to inhabit oneself."
When someone else's crying tears you apart... and collapses you
It breaks my heart that my children cry. I swear. It tears me apart. But at the same time, I feel an overwhelming need for this crying to stop. It collapses me. I can't handle it. And then I go silent. And I swallow. And I hold on. For them. To support them. So they feel safe.
But when they finally calm down, when everything is calm again, I am no longer there. I lock myself in the bathroom. “Mommy is going to the bathroom for a moment, she'll be right back. Will you play with the car?” I close the door. I collapse. Crying is not enough: it undoes me. I can't feel my legs. My chest burns. I just want silence, a moment of peace alone without having to hold on. I feel desolate. Overwhelmed by so much screaming, by so much endurance. And it hurts me that it has to be this way.
I adore them. And at the same time, there are times when I can't. I really can't. And that makes me feel even more guilty… because being a mother is what I have wanted most in life. And what fulfills me the most.
"Motherhood neurodivergent is not the absence of love. It is love with the nervous system in living flesh."
Refuges that sustain: designing microspaces to not disappear
Sometimes I can't transform the whole house. But I can create a corner. Like for me the bathroom, small, fresh, with dim light and water to splash my face. Perhaps for you it's a pillow on the floor to hug. A heavy blanket to disappear under. A scent that brings you back to your body ¿lavender? I wish for you a place where you don't have to give explanations. And it's not that we don't love our children, it's not that we can't stand them, it's not that we regret anything, it's simply that, in addition to loving them deeply, we also love ourselves and we need to take care of ourselves... to continue raising in conditions.
These spaces are not whims. They are regulation systems. Places where our nervous system can breathe. Where we can cry without being interrupted, because yes, mothers cry, and a lot. A place where we can simply be without anyone depending on us for a while. To recharge and return with the spirit that characterizes us.
"A place where no one expects anything from you can be more restorative than a thousand words of encouragement."
The love that also brings fear
There are days when I feel so much love for them, so physical, so animalistic, that it scares me. I can't help but feel the fear rise. An irrational, visceral fear that tells me: "what if something happens to them... what if they are taken from me..."
There are mothers who, when you ask them what they expect from their children, will say: that they get good grades, that they are polite, that they dress themselves. I don't. I only ask them one thing: to let me die first. To outlive me.. Perhaps this visceral fear comes from my ability to overthink things and find millions of possibilities in space and time. Does that happen to you?
Can there be love without pain... right? I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe loving like this hurts. They say you don't know the meaning of love until you have a child. Perhaps all of this intensifies because I lost my girl. Because there was a time that was not what I expected and I have to endure looking at the sky and thinking of her. Because when I hug two, I should be hugging three. Because I know what it is.to love someone you didn't even get to meet no matter how strange it seems. And this love doesn't go away. It just changes form.
"A mother's love is so strong that sometimes it resembles fear."
The house that demands more from me than it gives
I like to have a clean house. It calms me. It gives me structure. But I can't. I can't manage it. It's Groundhog Day. Every day the same: dishes, toys, dust, chaos, some painted wall and glitter stuck with glue on the floor that won't come off even with a scrub. I tidy up, and I tidy up again. And I feel like the house is devouring me. That I have no space. Even though everything was planned exactly as my way of being needs. "It will pass," my mother says... "one day you will miss it"... I am sure of that. So, even though it sometimes seems tough... I know I am going through one of the most beautiful stages of my life, and there is also room for enjoyment, to play ball, to paint with our hands and slide down the slide all together at the park...
And then night comes. And they come close to me. One on each arm. Small, exhausted, warm. And they look at me one last time before closing their eyes… I sing softly and calmly while through a crack in the curtain I look at the sky… for some reason I sought a place where I could observe the stars at dusk, to have her there too, and embrace her every night in some way. And in that moment... I am the happiest woman in the world. I call it the magic moment. And there everything was worth it… or the joy. I thank you for having you.
"Motherhood is also that space where tenderness survives exhaustion."
Today I wish for all neurodivergent mothers that…
I hope you don't have to hide to regulate yourself.
I hope you can say "today I can't anymore" without it being confused with giving up.
I hope you have a home that also takes care of you.
I hope you find a bathroom where you can cry without guilt.
I hope your magic moment is not the only breath of the day.
I hope mothering doesn't cost you your body.
I hope you are embraced too.
"The mother is also a creature. She also needs care."
Happy Mother's Day. I love you. You can, You are worth it. And I… I also. Thank you.
Veronica Martin
Co-Founder of ATÍPICS