The Bruises We Don’t Talk About
Some days, parenting leaves marks you can actually see. Bruises on your arms. Scratches that sting for hours. Soreness that lingers long after the tears have stopped. I never imagined this part of motherhood. I don’t think any parent does. And yet here I am, bruised, exhausted, and still loving my child with everything I have.
When Love and Hurt Coexist
Parenting isn’t always bedtime stories and soft giggles. Sometimes it’s chaos that spills over, a storm that lands on your skin. You know your child isn’t trying to hurt you. You know they’re scared, trapped in their own overwhelm, clawing for a way out. And still, it hurts.
Saying that doesn’t mean you’re blaming them. It means you’re human. You can love your child completely and still admit that it’s hard. You can see their struggle and acknowledge your own.
What I Didn’t See Coming
When my son was first diagnosed as autistic with ADHD, I couldn’t have imagined what would follow: the fierce aggression that would erupt without warning, the sleepless nights that stretched endlessly, the quiet fear that crept into the spaces between love.
I saw a curious little boy who carried a red stuffed dinosaur everywhere and loved villains because “they’re more interesting than heroes.” I didn’t see the holes in the walls, the broken glass, or the moments I’d lock myself in the bathroom and cry while waiting for the storm to pass.
The Stories the World Prefers
People rarely talk about this side of autism and neurodiversity. The world prefers tidier stories: the prodigy, the quirky genius, the uplifting transformation. Those narratives are hopeful, but they leave many of us out.
They skip the nights you hold your child while they scream, praying they won’t hurt themselves.
They skip the mornings you hide your bruises under long sleeves before starting the day.
Strangers in grocery stores offer unsolicited advice about discipline. Others look away.
Even within the autism community, there’s a divide between those who can celebrate neurodiversity and those of us who are simply trying to survive it.
The Silence That Hurts
I’m grateful for the growing awareness and celebration of difference, but relentless positivity can become its own kind of silence. Sometimes love doesn’t look like joy. It looks like stamina.
Many of us stay quiet because we’re afraid.
Afraid of judgment.
Afraid someone might call the authorities.
Afraid the world will stop seeing our children as the good, complex humans they are.
But silence doesn’t protect anyone. It only deepens the loneliness.
The Weight We Carry
The truth is, parents like me are tired. We fight insurance denials for therapies that help our kids function. We drown in paperwork. We wait months or even years for appointments that might bring relief. We spend long hours in emergency rooms when we can’t keep our kids, or ourselves, safe.
Sometimes I look at my other child and wonder what this life is teaching them. Their love for their brother runs deep. They’ve witnessed chaos and fear that most kids their age can’t imagine. They’ve had to grow compassion and resilience early, far earlier than they should have to. This life ripples through every corner of our family.
It’s not the life I imagined. But it’s the one we have. And inside it, love still endures—stubborn, messy, unbreakable.
The Moments That Keep Me Going
There are moments that stop me in my tracks. Small, quiet flashes that remind me why I keep showing up:
A laugh after a hard day.
A text that spills feelings too big to say out loud.
A whispered apology hours after a storm.
Those moments don’t erase the pain, but they sit beside it—proof that connection survives even in the cracks.
Why I’m Writing This
I’m not writing this to shock anyone or ask for pity. I’m writing because the unvarnished truth matters. Too many parents carry this alone, whispering their pain in therapist offices or behind closed group chats, terrified of what might happen if they said it out loud.
I want a world where bruises can be spoken of without shame. Where we can admit that parenting sometimes hurts without being called ungrateful or cruel. Where acknowledging the hard parts doesn’t erase the love that holds it all together.
If You See a Parent Struggling
If you see a parent struggling in public, take a breath before you judge. What looks like bad behavior might be a meltdown beyond anyone’s control. Offer a kind glance. Ask if they need help. Sometimes being seen is enough.
To the Parents in the Trenches
To the parents walking this road—the ones who hold their kids through the fiercest storms, who clean up the wreckage, who let quiet tears fall before carrying on—I see you. You’re not alone.
I’ll sit with you in the darkness, waiting for the light to find its way back in, because it always does. And when it does, it’s softer now, filtered through everything we’ve survived. It shines differently through the cracks we never asked for but now wear as proof of what love can endure.
Maybe that’s what real parenting is. Not perfection. Not peace. But the steady, unshakable choice to stay and keep loving, even when it hurts.
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About Liz Koch:
Liz Koch writes about the messy, meaningful realities of life and neurodiverse parenting. She shares the chaos, the triumphs, and the lessons learned, offering an honest look at the daily balancing act between family, identity, and growth.
PDA North America is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization that has supports and resources for Pathological Demand Avoidance/ Pervasive Drive for Autonomy. We provide resources for families, professionals and PDA individuals. Please consider a donation to allow us to better support PDA individuals.
