Raised by Narcissists, Didn’t Know I Was Neurodivergent, and Now I’m a Mum Breaking the Cycle (One Boundary and Cry at a Time)

Some people inherit family heirlooms. I inherited generational trauma and a talent for spotting manipulation from a mile off.

Growing up in a narcissistic household while unknowingly neurodivergent is a bit like trying to build IKEA furniture without instructions—while someone stands over you insisting the problem is you, not the fact you were handed a bag of bolts and chaos.

As a kid, I was always “too much.” Too loud. Too emotional. Too distracted. Too sensitive. If I asked questions, I was being rude. If I cried, I was “just trying to get attention.” If I said I was struggling, it was a personal attack. And when I tried to explain how things felt inside my brain—well, apparently that made me manipulative.

Spoiler alert: I wasn’t manipulative. I was a child. A neurodivergent child. But back then? ADHD in girls basically didn’t exist. Not in school, not in parenting books, and definitely not in the world I grew up in. If you weren’t bouncing off the walls or disrupting the classroom like a cartoon Tasmanian devil, no one looked closer.

No one stopped to ask why I was overwhelmed, or why I couldn’t focus, or why I seemed fine one minute and completely shut down the next. I wasn’t a straight-A student—I had dyslexia, and school felt like one long, exhausting battle. I wasn’t lazy or stupid, but I sure was made to feel that way. I couldn’t handle the pressure, the noise, the expectations. And instead of support, I got shame.

They tried to mould me into the “easy” one. The “quiet” one. The compliant one. But I never really fit the role—and trust me, that didn’t go down well. I was too loud, too opinionated, too emotional, too me. And because I wouldn’t shrink myself, the labels came in hard: dramatic, disobedient, difficult. And over time, I started to wonder if maybe they were right.

Let Me Tell You About the Time I Learned About Boundaries... From the Sun

There was this one family holiday—we were going to a water park, and I was a teenager obsessed with the idea of getting a tan (despite having skin so pale and Irish I basically turn into a tomato under a reading lamp).

Everyone told me to wear sun cream. I didn’t want to. I wanted to be brown. I thought this would be the start of my glowing, bronzed goddess era. Spoiler: it was the start of third-degree regret.

I burned. Badly. I’m talking full-body crawling skin, can’t sit still, can’t think straight, every-movement-is-agony burned. And guess what? The next day, we were going back to the water park. Did anyone say, “Hey, maybe Zoe should stay back and rest”? Nope. Everyone else was going, so I had to go too.

So there I was. Bright red, hiding under a towel all day, refusing to eat or drink because I was in so much pain I felt like my skin was going to peel off in sheets. I wasn’t sulking—I was cooked. My skin hurt, my head hurt, everything hurt. But instead of compassion, I got labelled “a spoilt brat.” Because my pain was seen as dramatic and inconvenient. Not real. Not worthy of care.

And just to really top it all off? They turned it into a family joke. To this day—to this actual day—they still call it “toilet gate.” Because I sat under a towel and didn’t join in the fun. Like I was staging some kind of protest, not trying to cope with literal sun poisoning. Decades later, it’s still brought up like some kind of hilarious memory. “Remember when Zoe ruined the water park day?” Yeah. I remember. My skin remembers too.

The only saving grace of that whole experience was my grandparents. Quietly, gently, near the end of the day, they pulled me aside and snuck me off to get food and a drink. No mocking. No guilt trip. Just love. They didn’t need an explanation—they saw I was in pain, and they showed up. That tiny moment of kindness still sits with me, years later, like a warm patch in a cold memory.

Looking back, that story is so much bigger than a sunburn. It’s about what happens when a child in pain is treated like a punchline. It’s about what it feels like when your suffering becomes a running joke, instead of something anyone ever apologised for. And it’s about how long it can take to realise—you weren’t being dramatic. You were being dismissed.

Parenting While Unpacking Emotional Baggage

(0/10 Would Not Recommend… But 10/10 Worth It)

Being a mum to three chaotic, brilliant kids has been the biggest mirror I’ve ever looked into. Nothing drags up old trauma faster than seeing your own childhood play out in reverse—and choosing to respond differently.

When my kids cry, I don’t shut them down. When they melt, I don’t mock. When they mess up, I don’t make them question if they’re still loved. That’s the work. That’s the cycle breaking.

My middle son has ADHD, like me. He’s full of fire, movement, and emotion. He reminds me of everything I was punished for. So I give him what I needed: space, patience, brain breaks, and reminders that he isn’t too much—his brain just works differently.

My eldest is calm and sensitive. He’s gentle in a world that pushes loud. And I don’t try to toughen him up—I protect that softness. It’s beautiful.

My youngest is a wildcard, and she’s already teaching me to parent without a script.

Each of them needs something different—and that’s exactly what they get.

Because in my childhood, everything was one-size-fits-all—and if it didn’t fit, you were the problem.

In this house? We make room.

I still get triggered. I still hear my mum’s voice come out of my mouth sometimes—and it stops me cold. But then I breathe. I say sorry. I try again.

Because I am not her.

And they are not me.

And this? This is healing.

Some Tips for Breaking the Cycle

(from a Mum Who’s Still Untangling Hers)

1. Boundaries are sacred.

Setting boundaries with narcissistic people feels like slapping a bear in the face. They will roar. They’ll call you selfish. Do it anyway. Your peace matters.

2. Guilt doesn’t mean you’re wrong.

It just means you’re doing something unfamiliar. Guilt is part of growth. Feel it, then keep going.

3. Your kids don’t need perfect. They need safe.

Say sorry. Take breaks. Let them see you model real emotions, not perfection.

4. You don’t owe your trauma to anyone.

You don’t have to explain your healing, your silence, or your boundaries. You don’t need permission to protect your peace.

5. Rest and joy are resistance.

Crochet something daft. Watch Star Wars for the 100th time. Laugh with your kids. Choose softness every time you can.

To every neurodivergent adult raised by narcissists—your needs were never too much. You were never too emotional or too sensitive or too “everything.” You were too unsupported. Too unseen.

And if you’re out here trying to break the cycle while still healing yourself, I see you. You're not just doing the work. You are the work.

Let’s raise kids who don’t have to recover from their childhoods.

And let’s keep showing up for the kid inside us—who still needs softness, safety, and a bloody good snack.