When Your Child Doesn’t Fit the Mum Group model.

They say it takes a village to raise a child.

But what happens when your child doesn’t fit the village?

What happens when the mum group that seems so easy for everyone else suddenly feels like another place where you have to explain, apologise, manage, translate, soften, justify, and brace yourself?

When my daughter was little, mum groups felt mostly normal.

My Mothers Group at someone's baptism.

Her autism and ADHD were always there, but like many girls, they were not diagnosed until much later. She met milestones. She joined in. She did what the other kids did-sometimes quicker. I had a mum group I enjoyed. I ended up playing soccer with one of the mums. I went to church with two of the other women. There were differences, of course. Looking back now, I can see them more clearly. But at the time, her neurodivergence was more palatable to the world. It fit more neatly inside what people expected little girls to be. It was easier for others to miss. Easier for others to accept. Easier for others to explain away.

Then came Billy.

Cutest little read head!

And Billy’s early years were different from the beginning. Within hours of his birth, I developed horrific postpartum depression. I spent months in and out of hospital in a mother and baby unit and then on to inpatient mental health wards. While other mums were finding their rhythm, going to groups, making friends, drinking coffee while their babies lay on play mats, I was trying to survive. By the time I felt well enough to even try to find a group, Billy was already missing milestones. The gap between what other children were doing and what Billy needed was becoming more obvious. And I hate even saying “the gap” or “the difference,” because my son is not less. He is not wrong. He is not a problem to be solved. But the world made it very clear, very early, that families like ours were not always easy to make room for. With Billy, I felt like we didn’t fit from the very beginning. Not because he was doing anything wrong.

But because so many spaces are built around quiet children, compliant children, predictable children, children who can transition easily, sit still, follow instructions, play the “right” way, and leave when it is time to go without their whole nervous system falling apart.

Billy was not that child.

He needed to retreat. He struggled to understand why something was finishing. For years, he needed to eat standing up-something we later understood was connected to trauma, though we didn’t know that at the time. He communicated distress in ways other people did not understand. And when people don’t understand, they often judge.

They call it naughty.

They call it disobedient.

They call it bad behaviour.

And if they are judging the child, they are usually judging the mother too.

I used to feel like I had to explain everything. Apologise for everything. Manage everyone else’s reactions before I could even support my own child.

I felt like I had to prove I was not a “bad mum.”

That I wasn’t lazy.

That I wasn’t permissive.

That I wasn’t “letting him get away with it.”

That I was parenting-just not in a way that looked neat, tidy, or socially comfortable.

Because what so many people don’t understand is this:

Behaviour does not define the child.

A child melting down is not a bad child.

A child running away is not a bad child.

A child making noises, hiding, refusing, crying, screaming, shutting down, or struggling to leave somewhere is not a bad child. And the parent beside them is not automatically a bad parent. Sometimes that parent is doing more invisible work before 9am than other people do all week.

There are things people don’t see.

They don’t see the special locks on the doors because your child escapes.

They don’t see the cameras in rooms for safety.

They don’t see that sometimes the day starts at 11pm the night before, and you are awake through it all.

They don’t see the planning, the risk assessments, the constant scanning, the mental load, the grief, the exhaustion, the fear, the love. They don’t see that sometimes you cannot simply “pop to the shops” because your child’s needs and your own body make that impossible. They don’t see the life behind the moment they are judging.

And that is why finding a village can be so hard.

Because a real village is not just people who sit beside you when your child is calm and cute and easy to understand.

A real village stays when your child is loud.

A real village does not flinch when your child communicates differently.

A real village does not cringe when your child verbally stims at a coffee shop.

A real village does not use words like naughty, bad, spoiled, manipulative, or attention-seeking to describe a child whose nervous system is overwhelmed.

A real village checks in.

A real village has no expectations.

A real village makes room.

For a long time, I grieved the village I thought I would have.

I grieved the easy mum group experience.

I grieved the casual coffees.

I grieved not feeling like I could just arrive somewhere without needing to prepare, explain, or brace.

I grieved the version of motherhood I thought I was supposed to get.

And it has taken me years to begin recovering from that.

Now, as I watch people I love go through similar journeys, I see it all again. The loneliness. The uncertainty. The quiet heartbreak of sitting in a room full of parents and still feeling completely alone.

And that is why I want to create what I wish I had.

A playgroup for families raising neurodivergent children, disabled children, or children who simply do not fit neatly into mainstream spaces.

A place where you do not have to apologise for your child existing.

A place where there are no expectations.

A place where we do not call children naughty for struggling.

A place where parents can come as they are.

Tired.

Overstimulated.

Late.

Unshowered.

Holding coffee like it is a life support system.

Carrying the weight of appointments, therapies, school meetings, sleep deprivation, safety concerns, and the constant ache of wanting the world to see the child you see.

Because our children deserve spaces where they are not tolerated, but welcomed.

And parents deserve that too.

If you are sitting at a playgroup, a park, a birthday party, a school event, or a coffee shop feeling like you do not belong, I want you to know this:

Maybe that was never your village.

Maybe you were not too much.

Maybe your child was not too much.

Maybe the space was simply too small.

So build differently.

Find the people who show grace.

Find the people who do not judge.

Find the people who understand that behaviour is communication.

Find the people who see your child before they see the struggle.

And if you cannot find that village?

Sometimes you have to create it.

Because if the village does not make room for our children, then we build a better one.

If you live in North Lakes are are looking for your village i am trying to help that happen. Check out what we are trying to create.