Parenting On a Different Path

Elias' mum holds him close to her, his hand on her necklace. They are in the hospital after his birth, and Elias has his NG feeding tube taped to his face

Before my son Elias was born (four years ago today!), two of my closest friends were expecting babies just months apart from me. I felt like we'd hit the parenting jackpot! For nine magical months, we were all in sync, comparing pram models, daydreaming about soft play dates and shared birthday parties. I felt like I had found my parenting tribe before my baby had even arrived.

And then, everything changed.

Elias arrived with complexities we weren’t prepared for. Within weeks, our path veered sharply away from the one we’d envisioned. There were hospital appointments, early interventions, diagnoses, and a silent, overwhelming grief for the parenting experience I thought I’d have.

My friends did their best. They sent messages. They invited me to the groups, the meetups, the coffee catchups. But I couldn’t do it. I was exhausted — emotionally and physically — and I couldn’t relate anymore. I wasn’t weighing up which baby-led weaning book to follow; I was learning to read MRI reports and how to reinsert Elias' feeding tube when he pulled it out (cue a Christmas morning trip to A&E in my Christmas best when I eventually decided it was time to get confident doing it myself). While their babies were hitting milestones, mine was missing them. It hurt. So, I retreated.

I fiercely defended Elias, I still do. But back then, it was more about survival. I pushed people away because I was scared they wouldn’t understand. And honestly, sometimes they didn’t.

Finding Peace in the Shift

One of the hardest things I’ve had to learn is that parenting a disabled child puts you on a different path. Not better. Not worse. Just different. And different can still be beautiful, even when it’s lonely at times.

It took me a while to realise that not every friendship can or will survive that shift. Some people will still expect you to be the old version of yourself, but the reality is you've changed at a molecular level now, and your life will never be the same. Some won’t know what to say. Some will say the wrong things. Others will slowly fade because they don’t know how to hold space for your grief and your joy. And you know what? That’s OK.

Because my wonderful Elias deserves to be surrounded by people who see him. Who love him. Who make space for him. And so do I.

Practical Ways to Navigate Friendships as a Complex Needs Parent

If you’re a new parent navigating this emotional landscape, here’s what’s helped me:

1. Give yourself permission to grieve

It doesn’t mean you love your child any less. It just means you’re human. Let yourself feel the loss of what you expected, it clears the way to embrace what is.

2. Be honest with your friends

The good ones will want to know how to support you, but they may not have the language. Tell them what helps and what doesn’t. Share your world, even the messy bits.

3. Find common ground

You may not be able to bond over weaning or sleep training, but you can still laugh about how little time you get to shower, or cry about how relentless parenting can be.

4. Let go without guilt

If someone makes you feel less than, or like your child’s differences are an inconvenience, let them go. Your energy is precious, and your child is not up for debate.

5. Find your new village

Connect with other SEND parents. Online, in person, however you can. There’s something healing about being with people who just get it without needing the full backstory.

A Beautiful, Unexpected Road

I love my friends. I always will. We no longer share the same parenting experience for our three boys, but we’ve learned to meet in the middle and honour both paths.

If you’re in the thick of it, feeling like the world is moving on without you, you're not alone. This road may be different, but it’s paved with just as much love, joy, and meaning. And the right people will walk it with you, even if it takes a while for your steps to align again.

Your child is worth fighting for. Your peace is worth protecting. And your story, complicated, beautiful, and unexpected, is still unfolding.