A closer look at Ontario’s new attendance, participation and exam requirements, and what they could mean for students with EBSA, autism, anxiety, IEPs and other support needs.
Transparency note: I’m currently knee-deep in the usual back-to-school madness and wanted to get this information out quickly while it was timely. I used ChatGPT to help me organize my research and thoughts and turn them into a coherent post. The opinions, concerns, and conclusions are my own.
So… I have some thoughts about the “Back to School Letter to Students and Families” from Ontario’s Minister of Education.
Particularly this little line:
“Attendance and participation in the classroom will also count toward final marks.”
Because if you’re the parent of an EBSA kid, an autistic kid, a child with anxiety, chronic illness, selective mutism, an IEP, or really any child whose disability affects their ability to physically attend and participate in school, that sentence probably made your stomach drop a little.
So I took a gander at the new assessment policy and the 2026–27 enrolment and attendance rules to figure out what this might actually mean for our kiddos.
First, Let’s Talk About the Attendance-Sized Elephant in the Room
I’m delighted to report this part isn’t as frightening as I thought it might be:
For Grades 9 and 10, attendance and participation are now worth 15% of the final grade. In Grades 11 and 12, they’re worth 10%.
BUT, and this is a pretty important but:
“Excused absences do not negatively affect a student’s mark.”
The attendance criteria used to determine that portion of the grade specifically refer to unexcused absences.
And this is where EBSA//School Refusal families need to know the rules.
Ontario’s own mental-health policy states that if a student is unable to attend school because of a mental-health concern, their absence must be excused under the Education Act as sickness or another unavoidable cause.
Medical absences can also be excused.
And even when a family doesn’t yet have appropriate supporting documentation for a mental-health absence, a principal can temporarily excuse the student following a written request from the parent or the student, if they’re an adult.
That matters.
Because “my child isn’t attending school” and “my child has unexcused absences” are not necessarily the same thing.
There are also other attendance codes and circumstances that may apply. Students on officially modified or part-time schedules can have time recorded as non-instructional rather than absent. The enrolment instructions even specifically address autistic students receiving certain outside autism supports.
So one of my biggest takeaways for EBSA/School Refusal parents is this:
Pay attention to how your child’s absences are being coded.
If your child is unable to attend because of documented disability, illness or mental-health needs, don’t simply assume everyone understands why those absences are occurring. Have the conversation. Put things in writing. Ask whether the absences are being recorded as excused.
Because under this new grading system, that distinction matters.
So Many Questions, So Little Time
The new “attendance and participation” criteria don’t just look at whether students come to school.
At the highest achievement level, students are expected to consistently:
• participate in class discussions and contribute ideas • ask relevant questions • respect the contributions of others and demonstrate positive leadership • contribute to fostering a positive classroom culture
And variations of those same criteria appear at every achievement level.
Anyone who knows me, knows I need more clarification on this issue.
What does that look like for the autistic student who rarely speaks spontaneously in class?
The student with severe social anxiety?
The selectively mute student?
The kid who needs substantially more processing time before answering?
The student whose previous experiences with bullying have taught them that putting themselves out there socially is unsafe?
The black-and-white thinker who struggles with certain social interactions?
The child who is using every ounce of their nervous system just to remain in the classroom?
Are they less knowledgeable about science because they don’t ask questions aloud?
Do they understand English less because they don’t contribute to a group discussion?
Should a shy or anxious child receive a lower math mark than an outgoing child who happily raises their hand?
Because that’s where I think this policy gets very murky.
I went looking specifically for language in the new participation criteria explaining how these requirements should be applied to students with disabilities, IEPs, autism, communication differences or anxiety.
I couldn’t find it.
There is no blanket exemption for special-education students that I can see.
HOWEVER, that does not mean our kids suddenly lose their accommodations.
Ontario’s special-education policy says that assessment strategies must be adjusted to a student’s individual strengths and needs so that they have the opportunity to demonstrate the full extent of their achievement.
And Ontario’s human-rights framework requires schools to accommodate disability-related needs, including, where appropriate, the way students are evaluated.
So I think this is going to be an extremely important conversation for parents to have during IEP reviews this year.
If your child’s disability affects speaking in class, group participation, communication, physical presence in the classroom, social interaction or another one of these new criteria, ask:
“How will my child’s disability-related needs and IEP accommodations be taken into account when their attendance and participation mark is determined?”
And get the answer documented.
As for the return of exams?
Maybe surprisingly, I have less of an issue with that. (I know, I know, who are you and what have you done with Jill).
Our kids are capable of writing exams.
But their IEP needs still need to determine the how, where and conditions under which they write them.
A student who needs extra time should receive extra time.
A student who needs a quiet room shouldn’t suddenly have to write in a gym with 200 other kids.
A student who uses assistive technology should continue to have access to permitted accommodations.
Assessment accommodations are not giving kids an advantage. They’re allowing them to demonstrate what they actually know.
So I’m not sounding the alarm bells quite yet about attendance.
There are actually some significant protections written into the policy for kids who genuinely cannot attend.
But that participation rubric?
Yeah. I’m watching that one very closely.
Because participation can look very different from one nervous system to another.
And being quiet should never be confused with having nothing to contribute.
Don’t Take My Word for It
I’m a parent and advocate, not an education lawyer or Ministry policy expert. I’ve done my best to interpret these changes accurately, but I strongly encourage you to read the source documents yourself, particularly if you’re advocating for accommodations or supports for your own child.
Rather, whenever I see anything, anywhere, having to do with babies, it’s hitting me a lot harder than it should. Baby clothes on Facebook, a storyline about giving birth on TikTok, Maggie losing her baby on Sullivan’s Crossing. Actually, now that I think about it, Maggie even getting pregnant in the first place hit even harder.
It took me a while to figure out why this old pain is resurfacing. You see, as many women do, I struggled with infertility.
But let me start at the beginning.
I Always Knew I Wanted to Be a Mother
From the time I was a little girl, I always knew I wanted to be a mother. In fact, I had my life all planned out. I’d teach skating in the early mornings, after school, and on weekends. My husband would have a regular 9–5 and he’d watch the kids while I went out and worked. It would be perfect for staying home with them until school started, and then someone would always be there to run them to their sports and after-school activities when they were done school.
You see, I grew up in a family of five, me and my two younger brothers. And there was always noise, movement, family dinners, and endless travel to sports, our cottage, and family vacations. We were busy, it was bustling, and yes, it was soooo annoying in my younger years. Even though I’m not particularly close with my brothers now, I still know they’re there to talk to if I need them. When push comes to shove, they’d always be there for me.
I wanted that for my kids. I didn’t just want children. I wanted a family. A drive-each-other-crazy, beat-each-other-up, but-don’t-you-dare-talk-smack-about-my-sister kind of family.
I was thinking maybe three, or four, depending on time, and of course money. I wanted to see myself in my children, watch them grow and become little humans, help them on their journey, and be there for them in every way I could to help them have a happy, fulfilling life. To impart lessons, maybe spare them some of the pain I felt growing up (I know, fat chance there), and then eventually see marriages or long-term relationships, grandchildren, and a legacy of family after me.
I wanted that so badly.
And of course, there were babies. Just the act of carrying a child, of being able to give birth, create life. And yes, I know it takes a sperm and an egg. But to me, it was always the woman who did the majority of the work, the carrying, the parenting in the early years, simply because that’s how nature worked out the deal.
The smell of babies. The feel of them. I would literally have sold my soul to hold my baby in my arms.
So when I met my potential husband back in 1999, I didn’t mince words. I was a woman on a mission. On our first date I made it clear that I wasn’t getting any younger (I was 32ish) and I wanted children, so if he wasn’t down with that, then don’t waste my time.
I know, right? Cart? Horse?
Yet, he stuck around. Kudos to him.
Within a few months we were living together, and knowing we were committed, and knowing my thoughts on children, not much care was given to pregnancy prevention.
And a year passed. Still nothing.
That little voice in my head, the one that had always been worrisome, started whispering to me that maybe there might be something wrong with me. Over the course of my life I’d had my fair share of sexual partners and, while safe sex and birth control were always a priority, mistakes HAD happened. And yet, no pregnancies.
(Don’t judge. I’m a sex-positive girl.)
Suddenly that whisper became more strident. I wasn’t able to turn down the volume. So, I got an ovulation kit and started charting.
And another year passed. Still nothing.
And the charts weren’t looking good.
Of course, I told myself I wasn’t a fertility doctor, so I was likely reading them wrong. My doctor advised me to cut back on stress, so I stopped waitressing and working my other side hustle and just focused on coaching. I kept in the best shape I could. I kept charting. And of course, we got engaged, then married.
So, I told myself, planning a wedding and getting married would stress ANYONE out. There’s no reason to be worried.
But that whisper had become a knock on my awareness, insisting it needed to be heard.
When Infertility Became Real
So, we went to see a fertility doctor. Both of us. Together. And the usual tests ensued.
I remember going in for one, sitting in the waiting room in my gown at the hospital, surrounded by other women. All of us fearful. All of us wondering how much this would hurt.
And it hurt.
I wondered why we weren’t given more painkillers, or put under for these procedures. But that, my friends, is the topic of another blog on inequality in medicine.
For the time being, suffice to say it was a painful, isolating experience that women didn’t talk about. See, there’s shame surrounding the fact that you can’t get pregnant.
For me, being a woman was connected to the divine right of creation. It’s our sacred space, separate from men. To nurture. To guide. I’ve never felt comfortable in the Christian faith, and I felt better learning about religions that recognized the feminine aspect of the divine. The Goddess. Whatever name you want to give that entity in your life.
So to be unable to conceive life felt like I wasn’t feminine. I wasn’t a woman.
I was faulty.
Of course, the world continues to turn, regardless of our struggles. So during this time my sister-in-law was pregnant again with her second. My friends were getting pregnant again with their seconds, or thirds. Everywhere there were baby showers, shopping for baby clothes. It was like the universe was taunting me, holding this dream I would have given anything for just out of my reach.
And then the results.
I still remember the specialist at the clinic entering the room, sitting down with my husband and telling us it was me. I remember my husband trying to be funny, looking at me and saying something like, “See, I knew it was your fault.”
(Side note: I left him a few years later. Surprise, surprise.)
I won’t share the details, but the prognosis wasn’t good. Even with trying in vitro, my chances were only around 12% at best. We tried fertility drugs that summer, which resulted in a deep depression, crippling anxiety, and a near psychotic break and suicidal ideation for me.
I’d share more about this, but frankly, I went to such a dark place during that time that it’s difficult to talk about. I was willing to do anything to realize my dream of being a mother and, in the end, it nearly cost me my life. I had to let go of that dream because it was killing me. It was also one of the final blows to an already crumbling marriage.
I wish I could explain the hollowness you feel. It’s there all the time. Whenever you see families together. Pregnant women. It’s a pain that seldom goes away, although you do your best to focus on other things.
I was holding onto motherhood as if I were hanging from a cliff, one-handed, my bloodied fist wrapped around the rope that was keeping me from falling. And so, I let go. Slowly opening my fingers, one at a time.
And I fell.
I threw myself into my work and, when my husband and I broke up, into a bunch of meaningless relationships as I tried to sort out my social life.
Then, My Miracle
Then, my miracle.
I got pregnant. By accident.
I’ll never, EVER, be able to express or explain the joy, elation, disbelief, or adrenaline you feel when you are FINALLY staring at two dark stripes on a pregnancy test after peeing on literally hundreds of them.
I will never forget that night as long as I live. Every detail of that night and the days that followed is etched into my memory as one of the most profound experiences of my life.
I was finally pregnant.
That little soul I had been waiting for for so long, that I’d been praying for, dreaming of, longing for, crying for…was finally here.
I will take that memory to my deathbed and beyond.
And she was my miracle. She is my miracle every day.
It hasn’t been easy, because I’ve been doing it alone. But I am so grateful to have her in my life, and watching her grow and become this beautiful, funny, kind, smart, insightful, powerful young woman is an honour I never thought I could have.
You’d think having my miracle would have erased the grief of the children I couldn’t have.
But it’s back. And it’s strong.
That sorrow for the family I could have had. The fear that my child will be alone, with no brothers or sisters to turn to when I’m gone, literally guts me.
The feeling I’ve failed her because I couldn’t give her that perfect family. Family dinners. A present father. Vacations filled with sibling fights and taunting, but in the end, togetherness.
It’s such a fear. It keeps me up at night. The thought that she might experience the kind of loneliness I’ve felt for so much of my life is devastating to me in ways I’m not sure I can explain.
I know having brothers or sisters wouldn’t guarantee she’d never be lonely. Hell, I’m living proof of that. But I wanted her to have people who shared her childhood. People who would remember where she came from. People she could turn to someday when I’m no longer here.
Why Is My Infertility Grief Coming Back at Menopause?
Knowing something and realizing something are two different things. Before menopause, you know that you have the ability to create life. The possibility is there. And with possibility, there is always hope. The door is never completely shut.
But now, my ovaries are closing up shop. Parts of me that were once fertile, capable of creating and nurturing life, are reaching the end of that purpose. And it feels like a death.
Oh, I know…dramatic much?
But it’s like I’m moving from the Mother into the Crone period of my life, and I’m not ready for it.
And I’m surrounded by people who have bigger families. Every get-together, every event, I see and hear them talking about their many children.
And it’s just me and my daughter.
Our little island of two.
It’s like this cocktail of sadness, failure, guilt, and what could have been if only, maybe, I’d done things differently. I fear for her. And I’m mourning the family that could have been.
Because now, that door is closed.
For better or worse, I have to move forward and carve a path for her and me. All those feelings I’d thought I’d dealt with had apparently just been percolating below the surface, waiting for the right moment to well up again.
What Will I Leave Behind?
If I’m not able to have babies and be the matriarch of a big family, what am I? Who am I? What will I leave behind? Will it be enough for my child to stand on her own when I’m gone?
I don’t have any answers. I wish I did.
And I know that I’m not alone in this grief and this struggle. So, for now, I’m just going to sit with this. Allow myself the tears and the pain and tell myself it’s not forever.
Just for now.
Then I’ll focus on ways to create family beyond the one we’re given by blood. Friends who will be around for my child when I’m gone. Aunts and uncles and cousins.
And maybe legacy doesn’t have to mean a long line of children and grandchildren who carry my DNA.
I hope that after I go, I will have changed a few lives. That by being in my daughter’s life, I’ve taught her some things about how to weather the storms. How to love herself. How to thrive, despite life always trying to grind us down.
And maybe a piece of me will live on in my friends or my students. Maybe I gave them some joy, or humour, or happiness at some point in their lives that they’ll carry forward.
I guess that’s all any of us can ask.
I keep remembering a quote I used to have hanging in my coaching locker. I thought it was Ralph Waldo Emerson then. Apparently, it wasn’t. I used to read it every day before I stepped onto the ice, and I haven’t thought about it in years.
Part of it said that success was knowing that even one life had breathed easier because you had lived.
Images created with AI. AI was also used for editorial feedback. All written content is my own.
I’d spent the morning online with my Care Coordinator for the Ontario Autism Program. It was our welcome call, where she introduced herself, explained the core services available, and talked about our upcoming Determination of Needs assessment. We’ve waited five years for this, so I was happy to finally get it, although we still have to wait until November for our DON.
Regardless, it was a heavy hour, because you discuss all the struggles your child has and all the help she needs, instead of bragging about all her amazing strengths and gifts.
After the call, I used my notes to organize a previous document I’d made about the therapies and struggles kiddo has into a new document, according to the 10 domains they would be asking about in the upcoming 3.5-hour-long interview. When I was done, it was pages and pages of information about the struggles my child has fitting into a neurotypical world when she is neurodivergent with additional comorbidities.
One of which is ARFID.
Welcome to the ARFID Safe-Food Universe
Speaking of ARFID, this is where things get interesting.
See, our family struggles with ARFID (Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder), and it’s been a lifelong challenge, like many families out there. It’s not just picky eating. In fact, it is much more serious. But, as with many other things relating to autism, this is often misunderstood and characterized as just willfulness or a control issue.
Judgements abound from well-meaning yet ignorant individuals with nary a speck of knowledge about ARFID and autism who feel they can lecture me about just “making her eat it,” “letting her go hungry,” or my personal favourites, “If it was my kid, she wouldn’t do that,” and “You need to set stronger consequences and rules.”
Sure, Jan. Sure.
Anyhoo.
For the past few years, McDonald’s has been one of our reliable staples, even when other “safe foods” come and go in the ARFID universe. (I’ll get to safe foods in a bit.) Specifically, the Double Cheeseburger Extra Value Meal. No pickles or onions on the burger, Coke to drink, and poutine instead of fries.
For LITERALLY the past three or four years, we have been ordering this at the drive-through at our local McDonald’s, so it is safe to say we are regulars. And frankly, given the specifics of the order, I’m not sure why remembering us is such a big deal.
But here’s where things get murky.
The number of times I’ve had to explain that I need THAT specific meal, even when staff members have argued that the EVM wasn’t on the menu anymore…
(Apologies, this happened at the Wellington Street McDonald’s in London on more than one occasion.)
And newsflash: imagine their surprise when, EVERY time they tried to give me a different meal, I walked in, showed them their self-serve kiosk, and pointed out the EVM Double Cheeseburger Meal.
The problem with our local McDonald’s in St. Thomas isn’t with not knowing the EVM meal is available. It’s with always trying to sell me the McDouble Meal.
And I get it. I mean, these kids and adults working there are trying to save their customers money. After all, the McDouble Meal is nearly $5 less than our good ol’ EVM. But the problem is, every time, I have to assert myself that I specifically need the EVM…and of course they think I’m crazy.
What they don’t understand is the severity of ARFID. The fact that it is a classified eating disorder that can make it incredibly difficult for kids on the spectrum to get the nutrients they need, or sometimes to eat enough at all. Some kids with severe ARFID require nutritional supplementation or feeding tubes.
Everything about that meal can be a trigger if it isn’t the same every time. From the name, to the packaging and wrapping, to the way the cheeseburger is made, to how it’s stacked, to the size of the Coke that comes with the meal. Small for the McDouble Meal. Medium with our reliable EVM. Even the mixture of syrup to carbonation in the drink can cause issues, and kiddo will not drink it.
We now have a standing ritual that, before driving away from the drive-through window, we check that we have straws, a fork, and that the mixture of the pop is okay, because if it’s not, I will have to turn around and drive back. And this happens far too often.
The last time this particular carbonation faux pas occurred, it was with a new, young worker at the window. When I hadn’t moved on and had to get her attention, she literally rolled her eyes at me and tried arguing.
Now, I’ve worked in service for 20 years, out in Banff, Alberta, and I know that arguing with customers is never a good idea. But argue and throw attitude she did. This is not to say I wasn’t a little hot under the collar myself by the time I got my third stink-eye from her.
But this is what happens to families supporting neurodivergent kids on the daily.
So, Back to the Plot of the Story
Today, we went through the drive-through. I had just seen news saying Dolly Parton had died, and both kiddo and I were reeling. Needless to say, when I pulled up to order, I wasn’t paying attention.
I did my usual spiel: “I’ll have a Double Cheeseburger Extra Value Meal, no pickles or onions on the burger, Coke to drink, and poutine instead of fries.”
Now, normally I check the screen and make sure it is the EVM. The past six months or so, I’ll order the EVM and the cashier will then ring it in as a McDouble Meal. I correct them, and sometimes they’re great about it. Sometimes they argue.
One lady was super nice. As I was getting a little flustered, she actually said, “I’m not trying to upset you. I just want to get you a good deal.” I appreciated that. And I felt badly, because I don’t want to be THAT person. You know. Entitled. White. Privileged.Yada, yada, yada.
When I got to the window that time, I explained that my kiddo had autism and it was super important that she get the same meal every time, or she couldn’t eat it. Of course, I didn’t explain ARFID, because just explaining about kiddo’s autism felt like a step I didn’t really want to take.
But…and this is the important part… I felt like I had to in order to stop having to constantly explain why I needed this exact meal.
Needless to say, after this exchange, I’ve been getting the correct meal…er…for the most part. They have new staff all the time, but they’re pretty good, though slightly puzzled, when I correct them and insist on the more expensive meal.
Today, however, I fell short. My usual hypervigilance was not at its best, and we drove up to the window to pay.
“McDouble Meal?” the attendant asked.
Now, this is an attendant who always waits on us. She’s lovely. And she has literally taken our money hundreds of times. We order this meal on average three to five times weekly, for the past three years. Do the math.
And I’m pretty sure they have cameras that can see into our car when we order, so she knows us. My daughter is always with me in the passenger seat. And the specific order, always rattled off in exactly the same way, should have tipped her off.
But this time, it didn’t.
So I’m now at the window, paying for a McDouble Meal, worried about how kiddo will take this, wondering if I can try to pass this off as the EVM. I mean, maybe she won’t notice?
Please God, make her not notice.
And I’m frustrated that after spending thousands at this McDonald’s, here I am, yet again, having to go through this constant defence of getting the specific thing I ordered. The one safe meal my daughter will eat TODAY.
And Then Our McDonald’s Burger Came
We pull up to the next window, and the young man is sweet, and he hands me a small Coke.
Not a medium.
I freeze. Like, literally, deer-in-headlights freeze.
He looks at me and can tell something’s wrong. Now my anxiety is kicking in, but I don’t want to cause a scene. So I turn to kiddo and ask her if this size is good. She says yes, but she’s starting to get nervous. I’m now on high alert, looking for signs of a meltdown, which could occur.
The young man asks me to pull up to the next window to get our food. As we wait, I’m trying to explain that the poutine is the same, and the burger should taste the same.
But kiddo is getting upset.
And sure enough, the burger comes.
Different wrapping. Different look. Different feel.
FUCK.
And now she’s crying and apologizing. She’s telling me she’s sorry, but she can’t eat it, and she’s being made to feel like there’s something wrong with her because she can’t.
So I reassure her as I drive in a circular pattern back into the drive-through line and pull up to order again. The same person takes my order.
“McDouble?” she says, or something along those lines.
And I say something like, “No. I want the….(insert spiel here)…remember, that’s what I ordered the first time. The EVM. Have you heard of ARFID? It’s an eating disorder, and it makes it hard for kids with autism to eat certain foods. She has to eat the same foods every time, and the EVM Meal is one of those. So I’ve got an upset kid with autism beside me because we didn’t get the order right the first time.”
I’m not yelling. But I’m blunt. And I offer no other explanation.
Silence.
I roll up to the window and pay. Frost. Silence.Might as well have been at Wendy’s.
I roll up to the next window. We get our medium Coke, and the young man is somber and respectful and subdued. We roll up to the third window to get the meal we originally wanted, after paying an extra $10 for a meal I didn’t order, didn’t want, and have a history of having to fight for.
I might also mention that at.no.time.did.anyone offer to refund us our money for the mistake in the first order.
The Drive Home
Sure enough, I’m replaying this all the way home from St. Thomas to Port Stanley. Feeling, in turn, ashamed for not being kinder, frustrated because I am ALWAYS having to explain a simple order to the people in the drive-through, and wondering whether, moving forward, we should even continue to go to this McDonald’s.
What is very clear to me is that there is a gap in understanding somewhere. There isn’t enough understanding of autism and invisible disabilities, there isn’t enough understanding of ARFID, or, probably, both.
So now I’m in the position of thinking maybe I should go in and explain why this particular meal is necessary.
But will they believe me?
How many times have parents of kids with ARFID been disbelieved?
And here’s the other thing. My kiddo doesn’t “look autistic.” She’s beautiful, tall, and normally happy as she sits next to me in the passenger seat, most times with earbuds in to help her deal with her sensory sensitivities. She doesn’t “look” like she has an eating disorder.
And I’m sure after today, everyone on the McDonald’s side thinks I was being a complete and utter bitch.
Frankly, I’m soooo tired of having to explain my daughter’s disability to people, because I have to do it so often. And all I wanted was to get my daughter the fucking meal I ordered so she’d eat something substantial for the first time that day.
So.
In an effort to advocate for others out there who may feel this same frustration, and in an effort to explain why this particular meal is so important, here’s some information about autism and ARFID that I wish more people knew.
And YES…I AM talking to you, McDonald’s employees and managers. If you know better, maybe we can ALL do better, myself included.
A Quick Primer on Level 1 Autism and ARFID
First, Level 1 autism does not mean “Autism Lite™.” It doesn’t mean “barely autistic.” It doesn’t mean someone only has a little bit of autism. And it certainly doesn’t mean the disability only exists if you can recognize it through the passenger-side window of a car.
Level 1 autism means a person requires support. My daughter can talk. She’s smart, funny, beautiful and sarcastic. She can also experience significant sensory sensitivities, anxiety, difficulty with unexpected changes, and a nervous system that can become completely overwhelmed by something another person might barely notice.
Which brings us to ARFID.
ARFID stands for Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder. It is an actual eating disorder. It isn’t picky eating, bad parenting or manipulation. And it isn’t something you fix by saying, “She’ll eat when she’s hungry enough.”
Sure, Jan.
For people with ARFID, things like taste, smell, texture, temperature, appearance and consistency can determine whether a food feels safe enough to eat. Things most of us wouldn’t even think about, like packaging, presentation, drink size or whether something looks slightly different than usual, can matter too.
And safe foods can disappear. That’s one of the particularly shitty parts of ARFID. Something your child reliably ate for months, or even years, can suddenly become something they simply cannot eat.
My daughter’s safe-food list is already severely limited, so when she has a substantial food that is safe, I protect the ever-loving shit out of it.
Would I prefer that safe food to be grilled salmon, broccoli and quinoa? Absolutely.
The ARFID gods have declined my request.
Instead, one of her safe foods is a McDonald’s Double Cheeseburger Extra Value Meal, no pickles or onions, Coke, poutine instead of fries.
And “basically the same thing” doesn’t necessarily mean the same thing to an autistic brain with ARFID. Different wrapper, different drink size, different presentation, different appearance, something assembled differently, even Coke with a different syrup-to-carbonation ratio.
To most people? Meh.
To her nervous system? This isn’t the food I know. I can’t eat this.
And she isn’t choosing that response.
Today my daughter sat beside me crying and apologizing because she couldn’t eat a hamburger.
Think about that.
She wasn’t throwing a tantrum because she didn’t get what she wanted. She wasn’t demanding I buy her something better.
She was apologizing because her disability wouldn’t allow her to eat the food sitting in front of her.
That’s ARFID.
That’s why the wrapper matters. That’s why the size of the Coke matters. That’s why I check the carbonation. That’s why I will drive around and buy the entire damn meal again.
And that’s why, when someone helpfully tries to save me five bucks by substituting a cheaper meal, I keep saying, “No, thank you. I need the Double Cheeseburger Extra Value Meal.”
Trust me. I would LOVE to save the five bucks. I’d love to save the whole damn amount and make her a sandwich at home.
But feeding a child with ARFID isn’t about winning a parenting battle. Sometimes it isn’t even about creating the nutritionally perfect meal. Sometimes the goal is simply getting enough food into your kid.
And right now, McDonald’s happens to make one of the increasingly few substantial meals my daughter can reliably eat.
And Finally, My Part in This
I also want to be fair. I could have handled today’s interaction better.
I was frustrated. I was worried about my daughter. I’d already spent the morning cataloguing pages and pages worth of the ways she struggles in a world that wasn’t exactly designed with her in mind. Then I watched her cry and apologize because she couldn’t make herself eat a hamburger.
So yes, when I went around that drive-through the second time, I was blunt. Probably too blunt. And to the employee on the receiving end of that frustration, I’m sorry.
She didn’t know what had happened inside my car after we left that first window. She didn’t know about ARFID. She didn’t know about my morning, our five-year wait for autism services, the super-long document, the shrinking safe-food list, or the crying teenager sitting beside me. She just knew an irritated woman had come back through her drive-through.
I can own that.
But I also think there’s something worth learning from what happened. I don’t expect every McDonald’s employee to understand autism, ARFID, sensory processing or restrictive eating disorders. I don’t expect them to understand why on God’s green earth I’m insisting on paying MORE MONEY for what appears to be almost exactly the same hamburger.
I just need them to believe me when I say I need the thing I ordered.
I shouldn’t have to disclose my daughter’s disabilities through a drive-through speaker to justify buying a particular cheeseburger. And she shouldn’t have to “look autistic” or “look like she has an eating disorder” for her needs to be real.
Sometimes when someone says, “No, thank you. I know that’s cheaper, but I need the meal I ordered,” there may be a reason you can’t see.
You don’t have to understand it. You don’t even have to know what it is.
Sometimes, you just need to give them the damn cheeseburger.
My dad is a retired optometrist, and I remember him using a machine on people that helped sharpen their vision. It was a cumbersome thing, two huge steel circles side by side, akin to the eyeballs of some otherworldly praying mantis. He’d put it up to your face, as close as you could stand, and while you were wearing these colossal frames, he’d switch the lenses for each eye until you had perfect vision between them.
Always in his calm, soothing voice: “Is it clearer here?” Flip lens. “Or here? How about now, better here?” Flip. “Or here?”
Through this process, you could suddenly see things with more sharpness and acuity, noticing details like shading and definition that were so subtle, you were unaware you were even missing them.
I noticed a few of those details today.
Since my own neurodivergent diagnosis, each day seems to hold some sort of new awakening, an awareness of just how hostile the world around us can be to people who don’t experience things the same way. I was watching my daughter during her swimming lessons and marveling at how well she was doing. In my head, I was, once again, coming to the realization of just how differently she sees, and more importantly FEELS, the world around her. And how much confusion, overstimulation, and even pain all of those sensory inputs can cause her.
As I was (yet again) reminding myself of her tenacity and bravery, my attention shifted to the other end of the pool.
The Kid Who Couldn’t Sit Still
There was a young lifeguard, maybe 16–17ish, give or take (at my age, they all look so young!), teaching a group of seemingly five-to-eight-year-olds. They were backed against the pool’s edge in the shallow end, holding their flutterboards in front of them while he gave instructions.
What caught and held my attention was the instructor shouting, “Jordan, listen to me. Stop messing around or you won’t get to go.”
The kiddo in question was obviously fidgeting, dunking under the water, and having trouble sitting still long enough to listen. As I watched, I saw the instructor demonstrate that he wanted the kids to push the flutterboard in front of them with straight arms and practice their scissor kicks behind them. Of course, he was about 10–15 feet away from the kids, and with all the sights, sounds, and sensations they were experiencing in the pool, it was likely difficult for some of them to pay attention.
But that wasn’t what caused my ears to perk up with a “Wuh-ohhh,” à la Scooby-Doo.
He then proceeded to tell them he wanted them to practice the technique and swim to him, one at a time. Given that each child took several minutes to swim to the instructor and back to the wall, the result was that the children at the end of the line were standing still, doing nothing, in the hot sun, for many minutes at a time.
But what really creamed my corn and baked my cheese (it’s lunchtime and I’m getting hungry) was that instead of letting Jordan go first, because this was the child who was obviously having the hardest time standing still and seemed to require movement to attend, he rewarded the kids who had been standing quietly and listening.
And this broke my heart.
First, as a figure skating coach of nearly 30 years, who is NCCP Level 3 certified and Level 4/5 trained, and who spent the better part of my career not only learning best practices for coaching but teaching them to others, no child should be standing around waiting their turn for that long. There were a million ways this young instructor could have engaged all the students at once.
He could have had them perform the skill together without venturing into the deep end, so they could simply touch down in the shallow end. He could have given the waiting kids a skill or fun game to practice in the water, perhaps holding onto the side of the pool and practicing their kicks 20 times, then grabbing their board, swimming out to him and back, where he could give feedback as they went.
This is a fairly standard coaching faux pas. But it’s made worse when you consider that out of those five kiddos, statistically there’s a decent chance at least one of them was neurodivergent.
Take one guess which kiddo had caught everyone’s attention.
And suddenly, all my daughter’s dance practices came flashing back to me. The ones where the kids who could sit still and take instruction were rewarded, and the ones who couldn’t were punished. Kids with invisible conditions like ADHD, ASD, AuDHD, and a myriad of others can struggle with these skills through no fault of their own.
You wouldn’t ask a hard-of-hearing child to just listen more carefully. You wouldn’t expect a child with a physical disability to simply try harder to make their body do something it cannot do. So why do we get upset and attribute a child’s struggle to follow directions, sit still, regulate their body, or pay attention to a behavioural problem when their brain may literally process those demands differently?
Yet as coaches, instructors, teachers, and parents, we do it all the time.
I know I did it before I became the mom of a neurodivergent child and then was diagnosed myself, at 57, with ADHD and ASD. And I STILL do it in moments of frustration and exhaustion. When it’s the end of a very long day, I sometimes have to consciously remind myself of that familiar phrase: she’s not giving me a hard time. She’s having a hard time.
And suddenly my entire history came rushing back. Being a figure skater in group lessons. The instruction I received in my coaching courses that failed to prepare me for virtually ANY type of neurodivergence. And, more heartbreakingly, all the coaches and instructors who have worked with my daughter who, however well-meaning, and however well they THOUGHT they understood neurodivergence…did not.
My daughter quit dance because of this. Something she was good at, something she loved, and something that was soooo good for her on so many levels. She got tired of watching neurotypical kids who could attend, focus, and progress more quickly receive more attention. And, of course, more attention fostered faster progression, which meant kids like my daughter never had an even playing field.
So, as I mentally prepared the blog I was going to write in my head after this realization, my daughter finished swimming and we came home (after our McDonald’s run, obviously).
As soon as I walked into the house, the smell of burnt plastic assailed my daughter and me. It was so strong when we walked into our mudroom that we almost choked. My kiddo immediately went downstairs to her room, but I, of course, went into threat-response mode. As you do.
I went into the kitchen, where my mom was heating a huge pot of water on the stove. My mom dismissed my sense of smell, telling me nothing smelled and she was just boiling water. The smell wasn’t as bad in the kitchen, but when I went back into the mudroom, there it was again: a melting, burning, plastic smell that made me wary.
Of course, I did a circuit of the house, all the while my mother telling me nothing smelled. But it wasn’t just what she was saying. It was the way she was saying it. As if I was crazy. As if there was nothing to be worried about. As if, yet again, I was making too much out of nothing. As if my concern that something might actually be burning was too much and a bother to her.
As if I was a bother.
So I went upstairs to my room and proceeded to put laundry away. In the process, I got distracted and ended up Marie Kondo-ing my closets, which took the better part of an hour.
(And yes, my daughter and I still live with my parents, and I’ve decided I’m going to stop feeling guilty about that. I needed help raising a neurodivergent kiddo on my own, and now I’m helping care for my father, taking on more responsibilities around the house and yard to make sure everything is okay, and giving my mom longer breaks when she needs them. And I’ve always paid our own way and helped with household bills.)
Anyhoo…where was I before I attempted to justify my existence yet again? Hello, ADHD much?
Oh, right.
After my closets were sufficiently bare, I went back downstairs, and there was the smell again. Just as strong and just as worrisome. So I did another inspection, again to just as much judgment and criticism from my mother.
Boom. Second epiphany.
How many times have kids like Jordan, or even people like me when we were younger, been berated or dismissed because of our extraordinary senses? Sensory differences are incredibly common among autistic and otherwise neurodivergent people. Sounds can be louder. Lights can be brighter. Smells can be overwhelming. Textures can hurt. Things other people barely register can hit our nervous systems like a truck.
How many times each day, in schools, sports, workplaces, and homes, were we made to feel like the way we experienced the world was made up? All in our heads? Too much? Attention-seeking? Misbehaviour? Something we were doing to cause problems for other people?
How many times did we receive the message that we were bad?
How many times were we ignored, dismissed, or punished for our inability to fit neatly into a world that can be profoundly hostile to people whose brains and bodies work differently? And is it any wonder that I now sometimes feel crippling levels of loneliness and a sense of being “othered,” even within my own family?
I remember often feeling like I didn’t fit in. I didn’t share similar interests, struggled to relate on a fundamental level, and couldn’t simply shed injustices or slights the way my brothers seemed able to. And because I couldn’t, the message was always that I was too much.
Which brings me back to Jordan. How many kids like him have been punished instead of accommodated?
Maybe Jordan Wasn’t the Problem
I can tell you that in nearly 30 years of coaching with Skate Canada and going through the NCCP system, there was minimal content devoted to invisible disabilities. Sure, there is an entire branch of coaching designed for Special Olympics, but newsflash: kids like my daughter, who don’t have an intellectual disability, do not qualify.
So where do they go? Are they accommodated in our mainstream coaching systems? What about testing and competitive systems? Are accommodations and scaffolding provided for those kids? Because expecting equality without providing equitable support isn’t actually equality.
Are coaches taught how to recognize when a child isn’t refusing to listen, but can’t process the instruction in the environment we’ve created? Are we changing the environment, or are we trying to change the child?
Because if one child can stand quietly against the wall for ten minutes while another needs to move, why is standing quietly the behaviour we’re rewarding? If one child learns by listening to a verbal explanation while another needs to see it, do it, repeat it, move through it, or receive the instruction one-on-one, why have we decided the first child is the “good listener”?
Maybe Jordan wasn’t the problem. Maybe the lesson was.
And as it became ever more obvious to me today, this world, and so many of the activities within it, still aren’t safe or equitable places for kids with invisible disabilities. It’s as if because you can’t see their disability, it doesn’t exist, and therefore accommodating it is optional.
It isn’t.
Maybe that’s what diagnosis has been doing for me. It’s like my dad’s giant optometry contraption has been sitting metaphorically in front of my face, flipping lenses one at a time.
Is it clearer here? Or here?
And every day, something else comes into focus: my daughter, Jordan, my coaching career, my childhood, my family, myself.
Things that were always there, but whose edges I couldn’t quite see. And now that I can see them clearly, I don’t think I can ever unsee them.
Full disclosure: I was emotionally exhausted and wanted to capture this while it was still fresh, so I stream-of-consciousness dumped everything into ChatGPT and had it help organize my thoughts into a readable post. Usually I write the majority of my content myself and use “Chatty” more for editing, structure, brainstorming, and helping my ADHD brain untangle itself.
There are moments, as a parent of a struggling neurodivergent teen, where you suddenly realize your child has been growing the entire time…just not always in the ways society measures.
Kiddo had her first cardiac stress test today. Which sounds adorable if you phrase it like, “baby’s first stress test,” but apparently cardiology frowns upon that kind of humour.
She came home exhausted. Pale. Achy. Just completely wiped.
Earlier in the day I’d gently suggested maybe she crack open her math book for a bit. Later, when I went downstairs to check on her, there was still no math happening.
Instead, she looked at me with this sad little face and said, “Mom…am I a failure? I want to do school and math. I just can’t.”
And honestly? That sentence punched me directly in the soul.
Because I think a lot of neurodivergent kids eventually start confusing “I can’t right now” with “I am bad.”
And the truth is, this kid has been fighting through exhaustion, chronic nausea, dizzy spells, suspected POTS symptoms, executive dysfunction, anxiety, burnout…all while still trying to figure out who she is as a person.
So I told her there was no pressure. That she was sick. That struggling doesn’t make her a failure.
Then somehow, as conversations with teenagers do, we went from discussing math avoidance to tattoos.
Naturally.
She pulled up her tattoo board. We debated what I’d theoretically allow when she turns sixteen. I joked that my bf offered to take her for her first tattoo one day, which honestly feels both sweet and mildly illegal somehow.
At one point she showed me a dragon tattoo, and I said something about spirit animals.
Friends.
When I tell you this child immediately launched into a nuanced discussion about closed Indigenous spiritual practices, colonialism, cultural appropriation, and why my Gen-X “we’re all spiritually connected” worldview maybe wasn’t the progressive masterpiece I thought it was…
Humbled. Absolutely humbled.
At one point I found myself defending things I believed twenty years ago while my chronically ill teenager calmly cross-examined me from under a blanket nest.
We somehow ended up discussing Voodoo, Asatru, comparative religion, archetypes throughout human history, and whether belief systems are universal human attempts to create meaning out of chaos.
You know. Standard post-cardiac-stress-test mother-daughter bonding.
And here’s the thing: She won the debate. (Who am I kidding, she wins every debate!)
Not because I suddenly agreed with every point she made, but because she was thoughtful. Informed. Curious. Nuanced. Passionate.
And because midway through the conversation, when I made a facial expression she didn’t like, she calmly said: “I don’t like when you make that face. It feels condescending.”
No meltdown. No screaming. No escalation.
Just direct communication.
Then she told me she was proud of herself for setting a boundary calmly.
And I realized I was proud too.
Because when your kid is struggling with school, mental health, chronic illness, burnout, executive functioning, or just surviving day to day…it’s very easy to start measuring their worth by productivity.
Did they do math? Did they clean their room? Did they attend class? Did they hand things in? Did they function?
Meanwhile, your child is quietly becoming.
Becoming thoughtful. Becoming articulate. Becoming emotionally aware. Becoming someone capable of critical thinking and self-reflection and ethical nuance.
Those things count too.
Sometimes I think parents like me get so focused on visible milestones that we miss the invisible ones happening right in front of us.
Tonight, my daughter didn’t do math.
But she also politely dismantled her Gen-X mother’s spiritual universalism after a cardiac stress test.
And honestly? That feels like development too.
I’d love to hear about a moment recently where your child surprised you, connected with you, or reminded you who they’re becoming underneath the struggle.
I wasn’t the best version of myself yesterday, and I’m having trouble letting myself off the hook for it.
In the span of about 45 minutes, I lost my temper and spoke harshly to two separate service workers, and I’m deeply ashamed of my behaviour. I pride myself on treating people the way I want to be treated, with kindness, grace, empathy. I’ve spent most of my life trying very hard to be a good person.
Yet in those moments, it was like I was outside myself looking in.
I could feel my cheeks flushing, everything getting hot, my heart rate ramping up. My breathing changed. My thoughts…well, “racing” doesn’t even begin to cover it. I couldn’t hold onto them long enough to put two together coherently. Speaking in full sentences suddenly became difficult.
And here’s the kicker: I lost it over such small, innocent things. Things that most people, and honestly even me on a good day, wouldn’t stress over at all.
But in those moments, all my brain could perceive was:
“Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!”
I was ashamed immediately afterward. I apologized. More than once. Because neither person deserved that.
But I still can’t let it go.
And what I’m beginning to realize is this wasn’t really about McDonald’s or Walmart. This is part of a pattern that stretches throughout my entire life, one that has profoundly affected my mental health, my relationships, and the way I move through the world.
Let me explain.
Already Running on Empty
Yesterday had already been a lot before the cheeseburger meal incident even happened.
I was stressed about money because my car has been making a weird noise and I’m trying to figure out how to cover everything until child support and my next paycheck arrives. Kiddo has been dealing with some ongoing health issues that have been scary, complicated, and exhausting to navigate, and the doctor’s appointment we had just come from required me to do most of the heavy lifting and advocating yet again.
If you’re a parent of a medically complex or neurodivergent kid, you know the drill. You walk in hoping someone will connect the dots, listen carefully, maybe even take some initiative…and instead you leave feeling like you just performed a one-woman TED Talk while simultaneously trying to remember symptoms, timelines, medications, and not sound “too emotional” while doing it.
At the same time, Dad has been very ill for a long time now, and when he has a few bad days in a row, it can feel catastrophic. Mom is exhausted and emotional. I still had work waiting for me at home. The grass needed cutting. My brain already felt like a browser with 47 tabs open and one of them blasting music I couldn’t find.
I’m also starting to realize just how much chronic stress and possible autistic burnout lower my ability to cope with even minor disruptions.
The Cheeseburger Meal
So we stopped at McDonald’s.
Now, for context, kiddo is autistic and likes sameness. Predictability matters. We’ve been ordering the exact same meal for probably a decade. Literally.
Extra Value Double Cheeseburger Meal. No onions. No pickles. Coke. Substitute poutine.
Same order. Same McDonald’s half the time. Often the same employee.
So when the employee suddenly asked, “Did you mean the McDouble?” my brain completely short-circuited.
I said no, the Extra Value Meal, and she said she just wanted to make sure I got the right thing. Which was kind and reasonable. But suddenly I felt confused and flustered and overwhelmed all at once.
Because a few years ago, at another McDonald’s, I had gotten into a weird argument where an employee insisted they didn’t have Extra Value Meals anymore even though I had literally ordered one there the week before. Another voice came over the speaker. They argued with me. I ended up ordering something different, then parked and went inside only to discover the Extra Value Meal still sitting there on the self-order screen like a tiny greasy monument to my growing insanity.
So yesterday, that memory came flooding back instantly.
And suddenly this wasn’t just: “Which burger did you want?”
It was: “You’re confused.” “You’re wrong.” “The script changed.” “You’re not being understood.”
I know how ridiculous that sounds written out. Trust me. But my nervous system did not interpret it as a minor inconvenience. It interpreted it as a threat.
So I clarified I wanted the Extra Value Meal, and when I was answered with, “They’re all Extra Value Meals” I snapped back, “I’ve been ordering this same thing every day for five years, I know you have it.”
Side note: it was probably closer to ten years, but remember…confusion? Racing thoughts? Check and check.
I’m learning that this kind of distress around sudden change and disrupted expectations is actually pretty common in routine disruptions in autism.
By the time I got to the window, I had calmed down enough to apologize. I explained that kiddo is autistic and needs consistency, and the employee was actually lovely about it.
But I drove away thinking: What the hell was that?
Primed
Then came Walmart.
Now let me tell you something about Walmart self-checkout.
I hate it.
Every time I go, my anxiety increases exponentially.
The bustle of people. The carts. The noise. The constant blips from every self-scanner going off at once. I can never tell which sounds belong to my machine and which belong to someone else’s. My brain doesn’t filter them out.
And the heat.
Oh my god, the heat.
I struggle badly with overheating, especially when I’m stressed. It’s not uncommon for me to take off my coat and sweater while scanning groceries because I suddenly feel like I’m boiling alive under fluorescent lighting.
And naturally, I have a system.
Of course I do.
I position the cart just so. Purse on the floor instead of in the cart because someone might take it. Coat off. Sweater off. Scan carefully. Check the screen after every item because with my luck, one won’t scan and I’ll somehow get accused of shoplifting, another weirdly intense fear of mine.
I make little piles after scanning so I know what goes into which bag. Then I bag. Then I reload the cart. Then I double-check the screen. Then I pay.
When I finally walk through those sliding doors into the parking lot and feel the breeze hit my skin, I have NEVER. BEEN. SO. GRATEFUL. to breathe outside air.
Even if it’s a Walmart parking lot.
I’m starting to realize how much of this was probably sensory overload mixed with hypervigilance and an already overloaded nervous system.
So before the interaction even happened, I was already primed. My nervous system was already overloaded, and I still hadn’t recovered from our McDonald’s kerfluffle.
Under Surveillance
Then the scanner glitched.
The first item scanned twice. No problem, I thought. Honest mistake. The employee came over, removed it, and then had to review the video footage to confirm what had happened.
Which, rationally, I understand.
But emotionally? My nervous system immediately clocked it as: You’re under surveillance.
Then later, while scanning cat food, another item accidentally scanned twice. Again.
Only this time, the machine froze and flagged an error. Before I even had time to explain, another employee was there reviewing footage again while I stood there trying to explain that I was literally holding four cans while the screen showed five.
And I could feel the threat response escalating in real time.
Not because anyone was actually accusing me outright, but because my brain had already shifted into hypervigilance mode.
The first video review primed me. The second one confirmed the fear.
By the time the employee kept insisting the scan was correct while I stood there counting cans in my hand like a sweaty, overstimulated Sesame Street character, something in me snapped.
Not in a dramatic screaming way.
But sharply. Harshly.
“What are you not getting? I have four in my hand.”
Even writing that makes me cringe.
Then, because the universe apparently enjoys irony, the machine flagged me again while I was bagging my groceries. Another employee came over and explained the system had become confused by the placement of my reusable bag.
At this point I was internally one blinking fluorescent light away from a full system shutdown.
Later, as I was leaving, I found the first employee again and apologized.
Because she didn’t deserve that either.
The Shame Spiral
But then came the shame spiral.
And honestly? The shame spiral is the part I know best.
Because this is what I do.
I replay interactions endlessly in my head. I remember coaching moments from years ago where maybe I was too hard on a student. Not abusive. Not cruel. But maybe too intense. Too impatient. Too much.
And I can’t let myself off the hook for it.
Ever.
My brain immediately jumps to:
What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I control myself? Why didn’t I just say this differently? Why am I like this?
And underneath all of it is this terrifying belief I’ve apparently carried my entire life:
If I’m not perfect, I’m bad.
Not imperfect. Not stressed. Not dysregulated.
Bad.
Monster-level bad.
I’m beginning to realize how much rumination and black-and-white thinking have shaped my inner world.
My Map Is Gone
At the same time, I’m also beginning to realize that some of the things I thought were personal failings may actually be connected to being neurodivergent.
Like how deeply routine disruptions affect me.
For example, my mother sometimes tidies or reorganizes my things without asking. She means well. Truly. But it drives me absolutely insane.
Why?
Because I have a system.
I know where things are. It may not look organized to anyone else, but it works for me. So when I go to grab medication or keys or paperwork and it’s suddenly been moved, it doesn’t just mildly annoy me.
It disrupts the entire flow of my day.
It feels like my map is gone.
And if I’m already overwhelmed, that unexpected obstacle can feel enormous.
The same goes for interruptions.
If I’m hyperfocused on something and someone suddenly pulls me away from it, my reaction is almost physical. It feels jarring. Like my brain is being yanked out of one mode and shoved violently into another before I’m prepared.
Apparently distress around interrupted hyperfocus is also pretty common in neurodivergent adults, which honestly made me feel both validated and mildly attacked.
I used to think this just meant I was difficult. Anal. OCD. Controlling.
Now I’m wondering if it’s something else.
Maybe I’ve spent my entire life trying to manage an overloaded nervous system without understanding that’s what I was doing.
Understanding vs Excusing
And maybe that understanding matters.
Not because it excuses hurting people.
It doesn’t.
I am still responsible for how I speak to people. Full stop.
But maybe understanding the wiring underneath it all helps explain why some things feel so disproportionately overwhelming to me. Maybe it explains why I have to work harder than the average person to regulate myself when I’m overloaded.
And maybe, just maybe, understanding that isn’t “playing the victim.”
Maybe it’s finally learning to stop treating myself like a monster every time I struggle.
I don’t have neat answers yet.
I don’t know how to completely let myself off the hook while still holding myself accountable.
I don’t know how much of this is autism. Or ADHD. Or stress. Or perimenopause. Or burnout. Or just being human.
Probably all of the above.
What I do know is this:
I don’t think I was ever really angry about the cheeseburger meal.
