I just started a private group—Neurodivergent Dads. Brand new, no BS, no judgment. Just men with different wiring trying to figure this out together. If you want in on the ground floor:

Saturday morning. Four kids. Four sports. Two opposite directions.

My son’s hockey game is two hours north. My daughter’s soccer semifinal is two hours south. They both start at 10:30 a.m. These schedules were created by someone who actively dislikes me.

I’m in the kitchen packing three coolers. Someone can’t find shin guards. The six-year-old is wearing one shoe and a superhero cape. My wife asks where the extra water bottles are.

I didn’t yell. But the words came out like a legal notice.

She pauses. Looks at me.

And she’s right. My voice has edges. My jaw is locked. My shoulders are touching my ears. I’m holding a Ziploc bag of orange slices like it personally offended me.

And here’s the truth: I’m not mad at her. I’m not mad at anyone.

I’m just at maximum internal capacity — and my tone is the overflow valve.

From the outside, it looks like anger. Inside, it feels like this:

My body absorbs chaos. Every missing cleat, every time calculation, every “Dad, where’s my jersey?” goes straight into my chest and shoulders.

My brain isn’t furious. It’s running logistics simulations:

And then someone asks me a question.

All that pressure has to exit somewhere — and it comes out through my voice. Not rage. Not hostility. Just static. Discharge.

Other people don’t see the internal storm. They just hear thunder.

I finally tried to explain it:

She listened. She tried. But her nervous system doesn’t work like mine. When she’s stressed, she goes quiet. When I’m stressed, I go loud.

So even when she understands the words, her body still hears a threat.

We didn’t solve it over coffee. There was no emotional montage.

I tried again: “I’m not mad. I just get… full.”

She looked at me like I’d tried to describe a color she’s never seen.

Not because she doesn’t care — but because this isn’t how she processes the world. We were two people in the same storm, using different survival tools. And neither of us knew how to translate.

No redemption arc. Just the ongoing work of trying to put language around something I barely understand myself.

These aren’t hacks. They’re guardrails to keep me from accidentally hurting the people I love.

I wake up before everyone else.

Quiet kitchen. Coffee. No questions. I pack gear, load the car, line up shoes by the door. If the world starts organized, I don’t combust.

It’s not perfect. But it creates a buffer. And a buffer is the difference between “Sure, I can help” and “WHY WOULD YOU ASK ME THAT RIGHT NOW?”

When I feel my jaw tighten and my voice loading pressure:

Step 1: Say it out loud:
“I’m overwhelmed. I need a minute. I’m not mad.”

Step 2: Leave the room — bathroom, bedroom, garage, doesn’t matter.

Step 3: Come back when my tone isn’t carrying 300 PSI.

It’s hard. My brain wants to discharge immediately. But pausing for 3 minutes is better than repairing damage for 3 hours.

I used to bite my hand. Hard. Hidden. Instant pain → instant reset. Not healthy. Just honest.

Now I’m working on this instead:

Naming it doesn’t erase it. But it helps separate tone from intent.

I don’t want my kids to grow up thinking Dad was always angry — when really, he was overwhelmed and unskilled at saying so.

Some mornings, I get it right. I name the pressure before it spills. I walk away before my tone swings the hammer.

Other days, I still sound mad at the water bottles.

But I’m learning. To pause between feeling and speaking. To give language to what my nervous system wants to translate into volume.

I’m not trying to be the calmest dad.
I’m trying to be a little less explosive — and a little more understood.

Maybe one day, they won’t hear anger.
They’ll just hear me thinking

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Focused questions designed to spark meaningful dialogue—whether at the dinner table, during a car ride, or at bedtime. Use these questions to build trust, curiosity, and laughter in your relationships.

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