Adolescence brings heightened emotions, sensory sensitivities, and social misunderstandings that are often misread as behavioural problems. The expectation that boys must ‘toughen up’ or ‘fit in’ is particularly unforgiving when your child processes the world differently.
By Janice Goveas
For years now, no matter where I go or what I do, I am introduced the same way: Aiden’s mama.
It slips into conversations casually, at work, among friends, sometimes even in spaces where my professional identity should lead. At first, it unsettled me. After all, many parents, especially mothers, work hard to protect their identities beyond parenthood. We want to be seen as whole people, professionals, thinkers, individuals rather than just someone’s parent.
But parenting a neurodivergent child quietly dismantles the illusion that identity can be neatly compartmentalised.
I am Janice, and I am raising a 13-year-old boy on the autism spectrum. Aiden is intelligent, curious, funny and very much his own person, and I identify as an ADHD adult — thanks to one of the evaluations I did for myself when getting him tested. These two realities intersect daily, sometimes chaotically, sometimes beautifully, but always in ways that have encouraged me to look at things from a new light, unlearn everything that society tells you parenting, success, and even motherhood should look like.
Parenting a neurodivergent child I know didn’t follow a template — and I learned that very early in our journey. There were no predictable milestones to celebrate, no universal benchmarks to chase. It opened a whole plethora of discoveries, of adaptation and improvisations. This was coupled with emotional labour that rarely pauses, decision-making without clear answers, and an unrelenting awareness that what works today may not work tomorrow.
You stop measuring progress through grades and trophies and start paying attention to quieter victories: A new word spoken, a piece of music mastered, a journey completed without overwhelm, a new friendship.
Adolescence brings heightened emotions, sensory sensitivities, and social misunderstandings that are often misread as behavloural problems. The expectation that boys must “toughen up” or “fit in” is particularly unforgiving when your child processes the world differently. Advocacy became second nature to me — explalning, negotlating, and protecting, while also teaching him how to exist confidently in a world that is not always gentle.
Single parenting, unexpectedly, became a source of clarity for me. With fewer external expectations to manage, I was able to accept Aiden’s diagnosis faster and make decisions centred entirely on his needs. Nature replaced regular schools, and the absence of forced modifications allowed him to thrive. What seemed unusual from the outside became a transformative experience for him and a stabilising one for me.
This experience also changed my professional perspective. Parenting Aiden deepened my understanding of inclusion, going beyond the usual corporate language. It guided me to start conversations about neurodiversity at my workplace, to support other caregivers quietly navigating similar paths at work and outside it. What often goes missing in inclusion dialogues is the caregiver, the invisible labour, the emotional toll, the resilience required just to keep showing up.
Schools, too, remain largely designed for one kind of child. Although there have been conversations about lncluslvity, empathy is often assumed rather than explicitly promoted. In a world that is still adapting to neurodiverse individuals, homeschooling offers a path by demonstrating that intellectual rigour does not have to be restricted to a set framework. Aiden’s deep interests, which included math, geography, music and aviation, acted as stimuli for his academic growth.
Consequently, during his homeschooling years, he has visited nine nations, possesses a more sophisticated comprehension of flight trajectories than many adults, and derives satisfaction from deciphering intricate systems that captivate his interest. These experiences shaped not just his intellect but his confidence.
Some days, I still resist the label of Aiden’s mama. It feels reductive. But I’m realising that it’s not a loss of identity, but a moulding of it. Parenting him has given my life a more focused purpose, challenged my assumptions and increased my sensitivity and inventiveness. It has taught me that success is not about fitting into the world as it is, but about making space for who your child already is. Maybe it’s also something we as adults might learn too.
So yes, I am Aiden’s mama.
Not as a title that eclipses me, but as a reality that has transformed me.
