On pathological demand avoidance, the exhaustion of co-regulation, and loving a child through a world that asks more of them than their nervous system can sometimes give.
Jessica Choate RN
If only I had enough words to describe the amount of patience motherhood has required of me.
Not the beautiful, romanticized patience people talk about when they describe raising children.
I'm talking about the kind of patience you have to reach into the deepest parts of yourself to find.
The kind that requires you to swallow your frustration when every nerve in your body is begging for the moment to be over.
The kind that asks you to remain calm while the person standing in front of you is completely losing their mind over something that should take thirty seconds.
Like putting a T-shirt in the dirty clothes.
Thirty seconds.
That's all it should take.
Pick up the shirt.
Walk to the hamper.
Drop it in.
Done.
Except sometimes, in our house, that thirty-second task turns into thirty minutes of negotiating, encouraging, waiting, reassuring, and trying desperately not to let my own frustration take over.
And sometimes, after all of that, the shirt still doesn't make it into the hamper.
Not because I haven't asked.
Not because I haven't explained.
Not because my child doesn't know how to do it.
But because something about being asked to do it has made the task feel unbearable.
And there I am.
Standing in the middle of my home.
Looking at a T-shirt.
Trying to regulate two nervous systems when I'm not entirely sure I have enough capacity left to regulate my own.
Welcome to parenting a child with PDA.
And if you've never experienced it, I don't know that I can adequately explain how something so seemingly insignificant can become so incredibly exhausting.
It's Not About the Damn T-Shirt
That's what I'm learning.
It's almost never about the actual task.
Pathological Demand Avoidance, often called PDA, is a term used to describe an extreme difficulty responding to everyday demands. Some people prefer to call it a Persistent Drive for Autonomy, because the word pathological doesn't capture how overwhelming those demands can feel.
For some children, a request that seems perfectly reasonable to everyone else can trigger intense anxiety, distress, or a sense of losing control.
And when that happens, their nervous system may respond as though something much more threatening is taking place.
Fight.
Flight.
Freeze.
Shutdown.
Meltdown.
What looks like defiance on the outside may be a child experiencing a level of distress they don't yet know how to manage.
And that's difficult to remember when you're standing there asking someone to put away a shirt.
Because from my perspective, it's simple.
From theirs, it may feel impossible.
And the more I insist, the harder it can become.
What started as a simple request can turn into a battle neither of us ever wanted to fight.
The child feels pressured.
I feel ignored.
The child becomes overwhelmed.
I become frustrated.
And suddenly we're no longer dealing with laundry.
We're dealing with two human beings whose nervous systems are struggling to find safety in the same moment.
That's the part that doesn't make it into the parenting books.
Sometimes the task isn't the problem. The pressure surrounding the task is.
It's Having to Find Patience You Don't Feel
I wish I could tell you that understanding PDA makes it easy.
That once you recognize what's happening beneath the behavior, patience simply comes naturally.
That you never become frustrated again.
That you're always able to respond with compassion, gentleness, and perfect emotional regulation.
But that wouldn't be honest.
Because sometimes I'm exhausted.
Sometimes I'm overstimulated.
Sometimes I have a hundred things that need my attention.
Sometimes I've already spent the entire day responding to everyone else's needs, and I don't have much left to give.
I'm a mother of seven.
I'm a nurse.
I'm neurodivergent myself.
I understand what it means to have a nervous system that doesn't always cooperate with what the world expects of it.
And even with that understanding, there are moments when I find myself thinking:
Please.
Can we just do this one little thing?
Why does everything have to be so hard?
And then comes the guilt.
Because I know my child isn't choosing to experience the world this way.
I know they're struggling.
I know the intensity of their reaction is often much bigger than the task in front of them.
But knowing that doesn't mean I stop being human.
It doesn't mean my own sensory needs disappear.
It doesn't mean I suddenly have unlimited emotional capacity.
Sometimes I'm standing there taking deep breaths, not because I'm naturally calm, but because I'm actively fighting to remain calm.
Sometimes I have to walk away for a moment.
Sometimes I have to remind myself that we're on the same team.
Sometimes I don't handle it as well as I wish I had.
And then I have to repair.
Apologize.
Try again.
Because patience isn't always a peaceful feeling.
Sometimes patience is choosing not to turn your frustration into your child's shame.
Sometimes it's recognizing that you need a moment before you respond.
Sometimes it's letting the shirt stay on the floor.
Not forever.
Not because responsibilities don't matter.
But because the relationship matters more than winning a power struggle over laundry.
It's Regulating Yourself While Someone Else Is Falling Apart
There is an invisible emotional labor involved in parenting a child who struggles with everyday demands.
And I don't think people fully understand how exhausting it can be.
You aren't simply managing behavior.
You're constantly trying to recognize what might be happening beneath it.
Is my child overwhelmed?
Anxious?
Hungry?
Overstimulated?
Exhausted?
Has the day already required more of them than they can tolerate?
Is this the wrong moment to introduce another expectation?
Is my tone making the request feel more threatening?
Am I unintentionally escalating the situation by trying to solve it?
And all of those questions are happening while you're also managing your own internal experience.
Your frustration.
Your exhaustion.
Your sensory limits.
Your responsibilities.
Your desire to just get through the day.
It's an enormous amount of processing.
Sometimes my child cannot see past their own frustration.
And I have to remind myself that, in those moments, they're not necessarily capable of considering my perspective.
Not because they don't care about me.
But because distress can narrow what any of us are able to process.
So I try to become the steady presence.
The softer voice.
The person who doesn't match their intensity.
The one willing to slow down when everything inside me wants to hurry up.
And sometimes I succeed.
Sometimes I don't.
Because the truth is, I cannot magically regulate another person's nervous system.
I can offer safety.
I can reduce pressure.
I can model calm.
I can stay connected.
But I cannot force regulation to happen.
And that's another difficult lesson.
I can be the calm beside the storm without being responsible for making the storm disappear.
It's Having to Parent Differently Than You Were Taught
Most of us grew up with some version of the same parenting philosophy.
Children should listen.
Parents should be respected.
When you're told to do something, you do it.
If you don't, there are consequences.
And I understand why that approach feels logical.
We want to raise responsible children.
Children who understand expectations.
Children who grow into capable, independent adults.
But what happens when the very act of placing an expectation on your child creates the overwhelm that prevents them from completing it?
What happens when insisting on compliance doesn't teach responsibility, but instead pushes your child further into distress?
What happens when consequences don't improve the situation?
When rewards become another form of pressure?
When encouragement begins to feel like a demand?
Suddenly, the parenting strategies you've been taught don't seem to fit the child standing in front of you.
And you're left learning an entirely different language.
A language built around collaboration.
Flexibility.
Autonomy.
Connection.
Sometimes that means offering choices instead of instructions.
Sometimes it means doing something together instead of asking them to do it alone.
Sometimes it means changing the wording.
Sometimes it means recognizing that what worked yesterday might not work today.
And sometimes it means abandoning the plan entirely.
Not because you're allowing your child to run the household.
But because you're learning to distinguish between a boundary that matters and an expectation that can wait.
Safety still matters.
Other people's needs still matter.
Responsibilities still matter.
But the path toward meeting those needs may look different than it does for another child.
And perhaps that's one of the hardest parts of this journey.
Learning that treating your children fairly doesn't always mean parenting them identically.
One child might respond beautifully to a reminder.
Another might experience that same reminder as unbearable pressure.
One child might need structure.
Another might need more flexibility within that structure.
And as their mother, I'm constantly learning how to meet different needs without losing myself in the process.
It's Crying Because You Wish Life Wasn't So Hard for Them
This is the part that breaks my heart.
Not the laundry.
Not the arguing.
Not the time it takes to complete simple tasks.
It's watching my child struggle with things that other people seem to move through so effortlessly.
It's wondering what life must feel like inside a nervous system that can turn ordinary expectations into enormous obstacles.
It's recognizing that my child may already be carrying frustration, confusion, and shame about why things feel so difficult.
It's knowing that the world won't always respond with patience.
That teachers may misunderstand.
That other adults may see defiance where there is distress.
That people may mistake their struggle for disrespect.
That someone may look at them and assume they simply need stricter discipline.
And I worry.
Not because I believe my child is incapable of building a beautiful life.
But because I know how often the world measures people by their ability to comply with expectations that were never designed around their needs.
I worry about their self-esteem.
About how they interpret their own struggles.
About whether they'll begin believing they're difficult, lazy, bad, or broken.
I worry about how many times they'll be told to just try harder.
To stop arguing.
To stop being dramatic.
To do what they're told.
And I wonder how much of that language they might eventually turn against themselves.
Because I know something about that.
As a late-diagnosed AuDHD woman, I know what it's like to grow up wondering why things that seem simple for everyone else can feel impossibly difficult for you.
I know what it's like to be intelligent and capable in some areas while struggling tremendously in others.
I know what it's like to push yourself beyond your limits trying to meet expectations that don't account for how your brain functions.
And I know the shame that can come from believing your struggles are personal failures.
I don't want that for my child.
I don't want them to grow up believing their worth depends on how easily they can meet someone else's demands.
I want them to develop skills.
Independence.
Confidence.
Resilience.
But I don't want them to have to hate themselves into developing those things.
I want my child to learn how to navigate the world without believing there is something fundamentally wrong with who they are.
And some days, the enormity of that responsibility brings me to tears.
It's Grieving the Mother You Thought You Would Be
There's another part of this experience that I don't think mothers talk about enough.
Sometimes you have to grieve the version of motherhood you imagined.
Not because you regret your child.
Not because you wish they were someone else.
But because you didn't expect ordinary life to require this much negotiation.
You didn't expect getting dressed to become an emotional event.
You didn't expect to spend half an hour navigating a request that should take seconds.
You didn't expect to become so skilled at reading subtle shifts in your child's nervous system.
You didn't expect to rehearse how to ask someone to do something without making them feel pressured.
You didn't expect to feel physically exhausted by a day in which, from the outside, you seemingly accomplished very little.
And sometimes you miss the simplicity of being able to just ask.
Without calculating.
Without anticipating.
Without preparing yourself for the possibility that an ordinary request might become overwhelming.
There are days when I wish I could simply say, "Please pick up your shirt," and move on.
Without an emotional negotiation.
Without tears.
Without thirty minutes disappearing.
Without anyone feeling defeated.
And then I feel guilty for wishing things were easier.
But I'm learning that I can love my child exactly as they are and still acknowledge that parenting them can be incredibly difficult.
I can celebrate their beautiful, unique mind while grieving how hard certain things are for them.
I can be grateful for the opportunity to understand them while wishing understanding didn't require so much emotional labor.
I can adore my children and still need a break.
Loving your child unconditionally doesn't mean parenting them is never exhausting.
And admitting that doesn't diminish the love.
It simply makes room for the truth.
It's Learning That Connection Matters More Than Control
I used to believe successful parenting meant getting the task accomplished.
The child listens.
The chore gets done.
The expectation is met.
Everyone moves on.
But this experience is teaching me to measure success differently.
Sometimes success is noticing the overwhelm before it becomes a meltdown.
Sometimes it's choosing to stop pushing.
Sometimes it's offering help without making my child feel incapable.
Sometimes it's letting them have more autonomy over how something gets done.
Sometimes it's realizing the task can wait.
Sometimes it's recognizing that I am becoming dysregulated and taking responsibility for my own response.
And sometimes success has absolutely nothing to do with completing the task.
Sometimes success is that we made it through a difficult moment without damaging our connection.
That my child knows I'm still on their side.
That they don't have to earn my affection through compliance.
That we can have a hard day without either of us becoming the villain.
That we can disagree, struggle, become frustrated, and still find our way back to one another.
I don't want my children to fear me into obedience.
I want them to trust me enough to let me help them develop the skills they need.
And trust isn't built through winning every power struggle.
It's built through safety.
Consistency.
Repair.
Through showing up again and again.
Through proving that my love doesn't disappear when things become difficult.
Not every demand can be removed.
Not every boundary can bend.
But I am learning that being a safe parent and being a permissive parent are not the same thing.
I can hold boundaries without humiliation.
I can encourage responsibility without shame.
And I can recognize that my child's difficulty completing a task is not automatically a reflection of my authority as a parent.
Some Days, I Need Someone to Understand Me, Too
I want to say something for the parents who are quietly exhausted.
The ones who are trying so hard to remain patient that they barely recognize their own needs anymore.
The ones who spend their days de-escalating, explaining, accommodating, redirecting, comforting, and trying again.
The ones who feel judged because their parenting doesn't look like everyone else's.
The ones who have been told they just need to be stricter.
More consistent.
Less accommodating.
The ones who are doing everything they can and still lie awake wondering whether they're doing enough.
I see how exhausting this can be.
There are moments when it feels like you aren't allowed to have your own emotional response because someone else needs your regulation more.
When you're already overstimulated, but the day keeps asking more of you.
When you're desperate for someone to recognize that you're struggling, too.
That you also have limits.
That your nervous system matters.
That your exhaustion is real.
That sometimes you need someone to hold space for you while you're holding space for everyone else.
And I think that's important.
Because a child who needs extra support does not stop needing a mother who is supported herself.
We cannot expect parents to provide endless co-regulation without acknowledging their need for care, rest, and relief.
I am allowed to have needs.
I am allowed to feel frustrated.
I am allowed to ask for help.
I am allowed to acknowledge that some days are incredibly hard.
And I am allowed to be imperfect.
My child doesn't need me to be a mother who never becomes overwhelmed.
They need me to be a mother who can recognize when I am overwhelmed, take responsibility for my responses, and repair when I get it wrong.
That is something I can keep learning.
The Patience I Never Knew I Had
If motherhood has taught me anything, it's that love is not always soft and effortless.
Sometimes love is standing beside a laundry hamper, breathing through your own frustration while your child falls apart over a task that should take thirty seconds.
Sometimes love is letting go of the schedule.
The expectation.
The need to prove that you're in control.
Sometimes love is getting down on their level and remembering that the child in front of you is not giving you a hard time simply for the pleasure of making your life difficult.
They may be having a genuinely hard time.
And sometimes love is admitting that you're having a hard time, too.
There are moments when I wonder why things have to be so difficult.
Why ordinary requests can create such extraordinary distress.
Why something so small can demand so much emotional energy from both of us.
And sometimes I cry.
Because I wish life were easier for my child.
Because I wish I could take away the pressure they feel.
Because I wish I could help them experience the world without so many ordinary things becoming overwhelming.
Because I know I cannot protect them from every expectation life will place on them.
And because sometimes, I am just a tired mother who wants to put away the laundry without anyone falling apart.
But when I look beyond the frustration, I see something else.
I see a child who needs understanding.
A child who deserves dignity.
A child who is still learning what their nervous system can tolerate and how to navigate the world around them.
A child who needs the freedom to develop at their own pace, with support that actually meets their needs.
And I see a mother who is learning, too.
A mother who doesn't always get it right.
Who sometimes raises her voice.
Who sometimes runs out of patience.
Who sometimes questions everything she thought she knew about parenting.
But who keeps coming back.
Keeps learning.
Keeps apologizing.
Keeps trying to understand the experience unfolding beneath the behavior.
I may not always be able to make the world easier for my child.
But I can try to make home a place where they don't have to prove their worth through compliance.
Where mistakes don't threaten connection.
Where big feelings don't make them unlovable.
Where they can be supported in learning responsibility without being shamed for struggling.
And where their mother is learning that she deserves that same compassion, too.
Because at the end of the day, I don't want my child to remember me as the woman who won every argument.
I want them to remember me as the woman who kept trying to understand.
Who loved them when things were easy.
And when they weren't.
Who recognized the difference between intentional harm and genuine overwhelm.
Who was willing to question the way she'd been taught to parent.
Who understood that independence grows best when a child feels supported rather than constantly defeated.
And who sometimes let the T-shirt stay on the floor because she could see that her child needed connection more than another demand.
It's never just a T-shirt.
It's patience.
It's exhaustion.
It's emotional regulation.
It's learning to release control without abandoning guidance.
It's the grief of watching your child struggle with things you wish were easier for them.
It's discovering how much love can exist inside a moment that looks, from the outside, like nothing more than an argument over laundry.
And some days, it's crying alone because you don't know how to make things easier.
But tomorrow, we'll try again.
Maybe with a different approach.
Maybe with fewer words.
Maybe with more choices.
Maybe the shirt will make it into the hamper.
Maybe it won't.
Either way, my child will know something I hope they carry long after they leave my home.
You are not difficult to love because some things are difficult for you to do.
And I am not failing as your mother simply because some days are harder than either of us expected.
We're learning together.
One breath.
One moment.
One ordinary, extraordinary challenge at a time.
— Jessica Choate, RN
The Unmasked Journal | Plant Medicine Healing
To the parent who understands:
If you've ever spent thirty minutes trying to navigate a thirty-second task, only to end the experience questioning your patience, your parenting, and your entire nervous system, I see you.
And to the child who is struggling:
I hope you never mistake the difficulty of a task for a measure of your worth.
You deserve support, understanding, and a life that makes room for the way your brain experiences the world.
What's one ordinary parenting moment that other people don't realize can be incredibly difficult?