Wonderfully Wired, Wildly Loved: What God Made a Mother For — And the Kind of Father Who Makes All the Difference
An open letter of love, advocacy, and divine design — for every parent, especially those raising a wonderfully wired, neurounique child.
I hope these words meet you where you are, and remind you: you’re not alone.
. . .
"They don't warn you that their losses are your losses too. They don't tell you their tears are also yours, their hurts are also yours..."
The words jumped off the page and settled deep in my soul — words from a collection of essays on motherhood I've been reading. They speak truth for every mother and spark a quiet storm of realisations within me.
That explains a lot.
How her struggle wraps itself around my heart until I can barely breathe.
How her tears fall inside me too.
No one tells you how deeply attuned you’ll become —
how you’ll learn her every breath,
sense when something’s off before she even knows it herself,
carry her pain like your own.
Because somehow… it is your own.
ADHD is part of her journey—but she is, first and always, a beloved child of God, fearfully and wonderfully made.
I’m a mother to a neurodivergent child.
She is not broken.
She is not “too much.”
She is not a problem to fix or a behaviour to manage.
She is a child — whole, radiant, brave — trying to navigate a world that moves faster and demands more than her little body and mind were built for.
People see the meltdowns. The fidgeting. The forgetfulness.
They don’t always see the effort.
The incredible energy it takes to focus, to stay still, to hold in emotions that come in tidal waves.
They don’t always see the kindness, the creativity, the sensitivity behind the storm.
Even those who love her can get triggered — even her own father, in moments when it all feels too loud, too messy, too much.
But I see her.
I know her.
And when others don’t understand, I advocate.
When she doesn’t have the words, I give her mine — until she finds her own.
Don’t dismiss what we feel as being “too emotional”.
This deep sensitivity, this attunement to our children’s pain — isn’t weakness.
It’s a God-given gift.
It’s how He equips us to mother.
To notice what no one else does.
To translate what can’t yet be said.
To validate the struggle,
so our children can learn to believe in their own worth.
And when this gift is received with respect — when fathers and mothers truly partner, when intuition is honored alongside logic, and tenderness is allowed to lead — everyone grows.
Including our children.
. . .
God made us their first translators
People marvel at how mothers can understand their babies’ cries and babbles — how we know the difference between hungry, tired, overstimulated, or just needing to be held.
But it doesn’t stop there.
That same deep, God-given knowing follows us as they grow — when the feelings get bigger, but the words don’t always come.
We become their first translators. Their voices. Their safe place.
Because children — especially neuro unique children — often can’t explain what they’re feeling.
They lack the language.
But we feel it.
And because we feel it, we validate it.
And when we validate their struggles, we validate them —
as whole human beings, worthy of love, dignity, and belonging.
This is where healing begins.
This is how confidence is built.
This is how children grow — rooted in the safety of being understood,
not just managed or corrected.
This empathy we carry — it isn’t soft. It’s strength.
And it’s one of the many ways God equips us for our calling.
To comfort.
To guide.
To advocate.
To mirror back their worth until they can see it for themselves.
And above all, we hold hope.
For who they are becoming.
For what lies ahead.
For the strength they’ll one day carry in their own hearts.
We hold it fiercely. Faithfully. First.
So that one day, when life gets heavy,
they’ll know how to hope too.
Because that’s what God made a mother for.
. . .
So to every mother walking this path—this is for you.
To the ones raising beautifully complex, misunderstood, fiercely loved neurounique children.
To the ones whose kids don’t fit neatly in boxes.
To the ones who see the effort no one else sees,
who carry their children’s struggles in their own bodies like sacred echoes…
You are not alone.
You are doing holy work.
And every time you give voice to your child’s pain,
you’re not just helping them cope —
You’re helping them believe in their worth.
And one day, when they are grown,
they’ll look back and know without a doubt:
My mother understood me.
My mother believed in me.
My mother never gave up on me.
Because that’s what God made a mother for.
To every father learning how to love well — this is for you.
To the ones trying to understand what they can’t always feel.
To the ones who’ve been told to be strong — but are learning that tenderness is strength too.
To the ones who get overwhelmed, who shut down,
who want to fix what hurts but don’t always know how...
You don’t have to get it perfect.
You just have to stay.
Lean in when it’s loud.
Be still when it’s messy.
Listen when the mother of your child tells you, “Something’s not right.”
That sensitivity you see in her? It’s not overreaction.
It’s God’s gift to your child — through her.
Honour it.
Hold it gently.
Because when you do, you teach your child that both strength and softness have a place in love.
You don’t have to be the one who understands everything.
But you can be the one who tries.
And that? That changes everything.
One day, your child will remember:
My father showed up.
My father kept learning.
My father loved me enough to stay.
And that’s what God made a father for.
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