It’s taken me a while to write this. I’ve carried this quietly for weeks now, unsure whether to share it publicly, unsure how to find the words. The truth is, this story is still unfolding, still tender.

Earlier this year, after a long road of wondering, advocating, and praying, our son Liam, who’s nearly 21, was officially diagnosed with ADHD and Autism Spectrum Disorder (AuDHD).

We didn’t arrive here quickly or easily. It was a slow, uphill journey that included years of suspicion, heartbreak, and what felt like a thousand tiny paper cuts of being dismissed, overlooked, or misunderstood by the very systems that were supposed to help.

This diagnosis has cracked open a deep well of emotions like relief, grief, exhaustion, gratitude, and far more questions than answers. But most of all, it’s brought clarity. It’s like the fog finally lifted, and we can see the road ahead more clearly than ever before.

The Fight That Started in Kindergarten

From the moment Liam started school, I knew something was different. Not wrong, just different. He processed things differently, reacted differently, communicated differently. And while I couldn’t name it at the time, I felt it in my bones. The way a mother knows.

I brought it up again and again to teachers, principals, and our family doctor. I filled out forms, chased down referrals, sat through meetings, and fought through tears. We weren’t looking for a label. We were looking for understanding.

But help didn’t come. Not for years.

Every school day felt like a mountain to climb. Liam worked so hard to fit in, mostly so he wouldn’t get into trouble or be called lazy by the teachers. I can’t imagine the energy it took to get through each day!

He graduated from high school just as the pandemic was hitting. And while others were celebrating with drive-by parades and virtual cap tosses, I joked that I deserved a trophy too. Behind the laughter was pure exhaustion. Getting him to that finish line took everything we had. I had spent years advocating, protecting, and helping him manage places that never quite understood him.

The Crash After Graduation

When Liam entered university, we hoped for a fresh start. But instead, the bottom dropped out.

The course load, the schedule, the social dynamics, the overwhelm, it was too much. He started to pull inward. The boy who had always been full of light, humour, and quirky brilliance became unrecognizable to me. Depression kept him in bed until he failed classes. He lost confidence in himself, and the questions started:

“What’s wrong with me?”
“Why can’t I be like other people?”
“Am I just lazy? Stupid? Broken?”

He wasn’t any of those things. But the world had been trying to convince him otherwise for years.

That’s when we knew we couldn’t move forward without real answers. University was no longer an option without support. We needed clarity. And finally, we got it.

The Diagnosis That Changed Everything

Liam’s diagnosis of ADHD and ASD didn’t shock me. If anything, it confirmed what I’d always known. But having it in black and white still took the wind out of me.

There was immediate relief, finally, a name for what we’ve been navigating all these years. But alongside that relief was anger. Why did it take so long? How many opportunities were missed? How many moments of joy were replaced by shame, confusion, or frustration?

I grieved for the little boy who tried so hard, who masked his struggles to fit in. I grieved for the teenager who couldn’t understand why the world felt so loud, so disjointed, so confusing. I grieved for the young man who carried a weight he never should have had to bear alone.

But in the middle of that grief, I also found something else. Compassion. Understanding. Hope.

Seeing Liam Clearly

The diagnosis didn’t change who Liam is. It gave us a map to better understand how he’s been experiencing life.

He is loyal and kind. He is empathetic and notices what others overlook. He jumps in with two feet into whatever he is doing. People who spend time with him love him! He is funny. He is a gift. He has an attentive spirit that makes people feel safe and appreciated.

His sensory sensitivities, his ability to hyperfocus, the way he needs space to process, and how planning doesn’t come naturally… none of these are flaws. They’re part of his unique wiring.

Now, we get to support him with eyes wide open. No more guessing. No more walking in the dark.

Learning Alongside Him

This diagnosis has forced me to confront my own assumptions, especially around autism. I’ve had to unlearn what I thought I knew and make space for a broader, more beautiful understanding of neurodiversity.

I’ve also had to deal with the reactions of people who don’t get it. People who roll their eyes at “labels.” People who think we’re making excuses. People who have opinions but no understanding. People who lack compassion for anything “different”…

And that’s okay. Not everyone has to get it. But we do. And more importantly, he does.

Walking Forward With Hope

Our journey isn’t wrapped up with a bow. It’s ongoing. There are still hard days. But now, we have language. We have tools. We have support. And most of all, we have each other.

We’re building a future with Liam that honours who he is. One that makes room for his strengths and gently supports his challenges. One where he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he is not broken, not behind, and not less.

He is wonderfully made. Just as he is.

A Word to Other Parents

If you’re walking this road with your child, whether they’re five or twenty-five, I see you. It’s okay to feel all of it. The grief. The relief. The guilt. The hope… All of it.

You’re not alone. And it’s not too late.

Advocate. Ask questions. Push when you need to. And when the answers finally come, let the clarity give you space to breathe again.

A Word to the Liams of the World

If you’ve just found out that your brain works differently, maybe you’ve been diagnosed with ADHD, ASD, or both, please hear this:

You are not the problem. You are not too much. You are not a mistake.

The world might not always make space for people like you. But that doesn’t mean you don’t belong. You absolutely do.

We need your voice. We need your kindness. We need your way of seeing things that others miss.

You are loved. You matter. And you bring something beautiful to this world.

We’ll Keep Walking

Liam is still figuring all of this out. And we are walking every step of it with him.

If you know him or if you want to send a little encouragement his way, feel free to leave a message in the comments. Your words might be exactly what he needs to hear.