The Myth of Doing It All

Doing it all was never possible.

And it becomes even more impossible when neurodivergence is part of the picture.

In our house, life doesn’t run on tidy schedules or universal parenting advice. It runs on sensory needs, emotional regulation, flexibility, recovery time, and deep attunement. It runs on noticing when my child’s nervous system is overloaded, and knowing that mine might be too.

Neurodivergent children don’t just need care.
They need presence.
And presence costs energy.

Pregnancy costs energy.
Studying costs energy.
Living in a world that isn’t built for neurodivergent families costs energy.

There is no surplus left for the fantasy version of motherhood where everything is clean, consistent, ambitious, emotionally regulated, and calm all at once.

The problem isn’t that mothers aren’t capable.

The problem is that the model is wrong.

We are expected to perform motherhood as if our children exist in isolation, detached from disability, neurodivergence, trauma, pregnancy, education, finances, and the simple reality of being human. We are praised for “coping” and quietly punished for needing rest, support, or adjustment.

In all households, not just neurodivergent ones, something always has to give.

And more often than not, it’s the mother.

The writing pauses.
The ambitions stretch.
The house slips.
The blog goes quiet.

Not because we’ve failed, but because we’re prioritising regulation over performance.

I haven’t posted here because life has been chaotic. Because I was choosing what mattered most in each moment. Sometimes that was my children. Sometimes that was my degree. Sometimes it was simply getting through the day with no one melting down, including myself. Sometimes I even prioritised a much-needed sit-down with a cup of tea, instead of succumbing to the unrealistic expectation that every moment must tick something off the never-ending to-do list.

That is the work.

This blog was never meant to be polished perfection. It was never meant to be a productivity project or a highlight reel. It was meant to be real. To hold space for mothers who are tired of pretending capacity is infinite.

I’m still writing, just sometimes in notebooks, on scrap paper, in my head while stirring pasta or walking the long way home. I’m still noticing the small moments. Still asking the big questions. Still learning how to mother children who feel deeply, need flexibility, and thrive when met with curiosity instead of control, while also learning how to mother myself through pregnancy, study, and change.

We don’t need better hacks.
We don’t need stricter routines.
We don’t need to “push through.”

We need permission to abandon the lie.

Motherhood, especially neurodivergent motherhood, is not about doing everything. It’s about doing what is possible, with honesty and care, and letting the rest fall away without shame.

So, this is me checking back in.

Not with a promise of consistency.
Not with a content calendar.
But with presence.

If you’re still here, thank you.
If you’ve arrived recently, welcome.

We’re doing this imperfectly.
Outside the lines.
Together.

-Hannah