What I Hope They Never Have to Feel

There are things I’ve learned to live with that I hope my daughters never have to.

Not because they’re weak. Not because they can’t handle it.

But because I never should have had to either.

I’m almost fifty now, a father to three girls, and I’m still learning how to speak honestly about the things that used to stay buried. The rules no one explained. The awkward moments that seemed to hit harder than they should have. The way I used to plan everything I said before it left my mouth, because getting it wrong felt worse than staying quiet.

I never thought I was broken. I just learned early that speaking too soon or too directly could lead to embarrassment. So I held back. I listened first. I watched how people moved, how they reacted. I became good at reading the room before I ever learned to read myself.

Looking back, I was quick-witted and gifted. I knew how to adapt. I could change masks in an instant and managed to rise to almost every occasion. I trusted my ability to adjust to what was needed in the moment. But I didn’t yet know how to be my true self. That part took longer. That part I had to earn through experience.

What makes this more complicated is raising daughters who are also wired differently, but in their own ways. And because they’re girls, the world responds differently to their quiet, to their intensity, to their overwhelm. Their struggles are real, but they’re interpreted through a different lens than mine ever were. Where I was seen as disruptive, they’re often described as sensitive. Where I was loud or impulsive, they might shut down completely. The pressure to fit in is still there. The expectations are shaped by gender, and that changes how their differences get treated.

So I don’t compare.

But I do pay attention.

Because I know what it’s like to carry a mind that won’t slow down, a heart that feels everything, and a nervous system that gets flooded without warning.

And I know how tempting it is to fall into the excuse trap. To say, “this is just how I am,” instead of asking, “is there another way?” But I’ve learned that owning my neurodivergence doesn’t mean I stop growing. It means I learn how to work with it, not against it. It means I stay curious and keep choosing what helps me move forward.

I’ve turned my intensity into drive.

My sensitivity into connection.

My struggle into something I can pass on as wisdom, not just survival.

Even now, when old patterns show up again, I meet them with more compassion. I know they don’t define me. They remind me how far I’ve come.

I don’t want my daughters to hide who they are. I want them to understand it.

I don’t want them to perform. I want them to be seen.

And I don’t want them to shrink just to be accepted.

I want them to be whole.

That’s part of why I built MyTimeout.ca. I built it for them, and I built it for anyone who is trying to understand their own wiring. It’s for the parents, the teachers, the coaches, and the people who have spent years explaining themselves in order to be understood. It’s a space to learn, to reflect, and to come back to yourself without shame or apology.