Navigating Neurodivergence in Foster Care
It’s a strange thing, getting diagnosed with neurodivergence.
You hear about it more and more these days, which sometimes makes me second-guess my own diagnosis. Am I really neurodivergent? Do I really have ADHD? From everything I’ve learned—yes. Looking back over my life, it’s actually quite obvious. I clearly have ADHD, and likely ASD too. I’m still surprised I didn’t see it earlier.
But I just didn’t know enough about it—especially how it shows up in women. I only had the stereotypical images in my head: the hyperactive kid bouncing off the walls, or someone with autism who can’t engage socially at all. That wasn’t me, so I didn’t connect the dots.
I now see how my ability to mask hid my symptoms—not just from others, but even from myself. I knew I was struggling, but I pushed through, ignored it, or felt ashamed of it. I hated those parts of me and pretended they didn’t exist.
Even in the early days of marriage, I didn’t understand my reactions. I’d snap or yell when pushed too far, and I’d feel completely broken. But now? Now I can see what was happening. If I saw someone pushing a neurodivergent person the way I was pushed, I’d tell them to stop. My brain just works differently. I get overwhelmed. I get overstimulated. My nervous system is on high alert, and so too much of something can push me over the edge.
There’s grief in that realisation—grief over not knowing sooner, over the years of shame, over all the times I thought I was just “too much” or “not enough.” The shame of losing my overreactions. The shame of not coping. The shame of just being me.
But I’m learning to accept myself, and it’s changing everything. Understanding my ADHD has brought freedom. I don’t have to hide all my “stuff” anymore. Yes, I’m a mess—my desk, my bedroom, my brain—they’re all messy. But it’s okay. Because when I stop wasting energy hiding it, I actually have the capacity to deal with it.
Getting diagnosed hasn’t “fixed” anything, but has brought another layer of understanding and healing. I’m learning to say: I’m not broken, I’m just different. And that’s okay.
There’s a lot of noise around ADHD these days—people saying it’s overdiagnosed, that everyone has it, or that it’s just trauma. But whatever the label, the truth is: my brain works differently. And trying to pretend otherwise has only ever hurt me.
As a foster parent with ADHD, the challenges are real. I get overwhelmed by noise and chaos. I like structure, routine, and doing things my way (which, let’s be honest, is often the best way—haha). Many of the kids in care have their own neurodivergence, whether ADHD, ASD, FASD, or trauma-impacted brains from drug exposure or attachment disruptions.
Some days, I worry I’m not a good enough foster mum because of my own challenges. But then I think about all the children I’ve cared for and how their brains work. They need someone who understands.
My neurodivergence makes me more empathetic. I don’t just give these kids a home—I give them understanding. I get their struggles, because I’ve lived them too.
So if you’re a foster carer and you’re neurodivergent—hang in there. I know it’s hard. But you’re exactly the kind of person these kids need. You can do this. Your differences are not a disqualification—they’re a gift.
Love always,
Dani :)