It's Not Safe to Be Me Series — Part 4: Rebirth
"You’ll get alone time on your way to and from yoga,” said no AuDHD person ever.
When my daughter Kendall chucked her third-grade TDA* assignment on the floor, I was like, “That’s it.” And just like that, we were unschoolers* the very next day.
This was spring 2020, the height of COVID’s ‘e-learning’ era. That school year, we’d been inundated with notes from the school about Kendall’s “refusal” to do her work and even to speak. For reasons unknown, Kendall really didn’t want to do these specific assignments. They became a clear trigger for her—oddly, the only assignment she refused to do. Since TDA tasks were a core part of assessing her readiness for the next grade, the school was adamant she completed them.
A "TDA assignment" for a third-grade student in South Carolina refers to a Text-Dependent Analysis writing task where the student must read a passage and then write a response directly related to the text, using specific evidence from the passage to support their answer.
From the days Kendall started Kindergarten, hiding under desks or spending time with the principal, to the many “sad notes” we received about Levi’s behavior, school had always been a source of stress in our home. It’s a familiar story for many neurodivergent families.
We leaned into natural learning through living, without curriculum, homeschooling, or anything resembling schoolishness (a term coined by the incredible Akilah Richards). Before then, I always said, “I’d never homeschool.” My need for space to create is deep and primal. How could I do that with the kids home? Well, I did it.
Eliminating school was restorative in every way—for every one of us. Even with the kids around me 24/7, I created The Life Brand Method, wrote a chapter in a published anthology, and shipped DGS Playbooks around the globe. I created my heart out amidst all of our adventures. I felt the most alive I’ve ever felt.
Unschooling is a form of child-led learning that rejects traditional curricula, allowing children to explore their interests and learn through everyday experiences rather than structured schooling.
Unschooling was my most favorite season in my family’s life. It’s going to be hard to top! This was largely because we had a plan for Levi that brought peace for everyone. That sentence may sound like I’m about ‘treating’ Autism and ADHD, but it’s not that. Remember from Part 1, without stimulants, Levi seemed to live in a state of mania and euphoria and without access to his inhibition. I’ll say it again: stimulants give Levi access to his true self. This isn’t a typical presentation of ADHD, yet that’s the only explanation we’ve been given. The point is: his stability was in harmony with our entrance to unschooling.
As a family, we were connected, traveling, making friends, spending so much time outside, and thriving. We were living on the fringes of mainstream society, guided by curiosity and autonomy. I was so proud of us.
Then came July 2022. I was doing EMDR therapy for trauma and still emotionally unstable after nearly a year.
My husband and kids had lost their wife/mom in every sense of the meaning, apart from having a heartbeat.
That month, we made a decision that crushed my soul: re-enrolling Levi in public school. For the record, this wasn’t really my choice. I’d succumbed to the idea that it needed to happen.
The plan was to reclaim 1:1 time with Kendall, focus on healing from PTSD through EMDR therapy, and dip my toes back into my creative work with a bit more space in my days. Meanwhile, Levi would get the attention and engagement I wasn’t able to give him. Dave was working long hours, often on the night shift, so his energy was already stretched thin, leaving much of the day-to-day parenting weight on me.
The reality was that, despite my belief in unschooling, I couldn’t engage with my kids in the way it required. Our days had become a monotonous cycle of screen time (the unhealthy kind), isolation, and a lack of the adventures that once defined us. Believe me, I love my alone time. I believe gaming and screens are fantastic. I spend most of my days on a screen, and I honor both of those needs for my kids. But this—the whole vibe in our home—was not that.
I didn’t have the bandwidth to provide an environment for them to engage in what they love with the people they love having around. My kids seem to really need body doubling. My inability to meet their needs brought so much shame—a gnawing guilt that whispered, “I’m failing my children by choosing myself. Why can’t I be the involved, mommy kind of mom my kids deserve?” But shame is a cruel liar.
Shame hid the truth.
Our capacity isn’t something we can simply will into existence.
By honoring what I could manage, I wasn’t giving up on them. I was giving them the best version of me that I had to give.
Meanwhile, an opportunity to get involved with a community project popped up. I was unexpectedly voted in as board secretary for a startup nonprofit planning to open a school for neurodivergent kids. The kids were doing well, and I was doing EMDR with someone else, so we terminated our therapist/client relationship, and I was all in on building this school.
When I thought of teenage Marie, I felt like I was finally contributing to the school experience I wished I’d had. When I thought of my almost-teenage kids, I felt hopeful that I could help create a dream learning environment tailored to their needs and desires.
For the first time in too long, I felt more like myself—engaged, purposeful, and free of the pressure of being fully in my own orbit. Supporting someone else’s vision and collaborating with other women was restorative.
onment tailored to their needs and desires.
For the first time in too long, I felt more like myself—engaged, purposeful, and free of the pressure of being fully in my own orbit. Supporting someone else’s vision and collaborating with other women was restorative.
But the school wasn’t what it seemed.
Cracks began to show. What started as hope began to unravel as I noticed the school’s emphasis on becoming an accredited, college-track institution and its use of language like “neurodiverse students,” “having neurodivergence,” and “having ADHD/ASD.” This phrasing reflects a medical model perspective that strips away neurodivergent pride and culture. Yet, they threw around terms like “strengths-based” and "experiential learning" as if that could cover up the deeper, systemic issues. Then there was the $20,000 annual tuition, another bright red flag, knowing families like mine could never afford it.
The culture track prioritized traditional academics (masked by farm activities and weekly field trips) over neurodivergent culture: true individuality, bold identity, complete autonomy, and the profound value of special interests and joyful hyperfixations. Even now, with a few new team members who claim alignment with neurodivergent-affirming practices, pathologizing language is still plastered across their website.
It’s great if a student is into kinesthetic learning, farming, or horses, but what happens when those things aren’t their special interest? At the time of my involvement, there was no room for self-led learning rooted in a student’s deep interests. And here’s the problem: for many Autistic individuals, special interests aren’t just a source of joy—they’re a lifeline. Special interests help neurodivergent people organize their lives, make sense of the world, and regulate their emotions. Ignoring this isn’t just a missed opportunity—it’s ableist and, frankly, educational malpractice.
When I brought up my own issues of not having enough space for my creativity—my special interest—the Executive Director, who was also my therapist at the time, told me, “You just need balance,” perpetuating the belief that I was the problem. She actually said, “You’ll get alone time on your way to and from yoga,” which, as any neurodivergent person knows, is not remotely equivalent to the deep, uninterrupted solitude an AuDHDer with a rich inner world requires just to function at baseline. This is exactly the type of subtle nuance that was missing—and one I didn’t fully understand at the time but now see clearly. Once I started working with an openly neurodivergent therapist, the difference was night and day. And the leadership at this school? Not even close.
Leadership decisions were made almost entirely by likely non-neurodivergent individuals—or, at best, people unwilling to disclose their neurotype. During my time on the Board, I raised concerns about the lack of neurodivergent leadership and representation, as well as the problematic dynamic of non-neurodivergent individuals making decisions for neurodivergent students. These concerns were dismissed outright, and the other openly neurodivergent voice in the room seemed to embody internalized ableism, further normalizing these harmful dynamics.
And here’s the kicker: this school was created exclusively for *neurodivergent* students who have experienced “problems” in other learning environments. Read that again.
By even the most basic standard, spaces created for a specific group should be led by members of that group. Period.
The leadership refused even the basic transparency of sharing whether their decision-makers were neurodivergent, under the guise of “protecting privacy,” perpetuating the harmful idea that neurodivergence is something to keep hidden. Oh, but you “could share if you wanted to.” One board member even leaned on her family member’s shame about their own neurodivergence as justification. But seriously—hello—the school is for neurodivergent kids.
It’s like attending an HBCU and hiding the fact that you’re Black. Would an HBCU have an all-white board and leadership? Absolutely not.
And don’t even get me started on the overwhelming whiteness that permeates the space—it’s glaring.
In the end, the more I observed, the less the school looked like an innovative haven for neurodivergent students. Instead, it looked more like the many therapeutic boarding schools that reek of neuronormative standards—this time repackaged as a shiny new, year-round day school with a farm.
My concerns about the absence of openly neurodivergent leadership, the reliance on medicalized language, and the dismissal of neurodivergent culture were either ignored or invalidated. I couldn’t align myself with a project that so blatantly betrayed the values it claimed to champion. Leaving wasn’t just difficult; it was devastating. But staying? That would have been a betrayal of everything I stand for.
As you can imagine, my deeply thought-out, abrupt departure was another blow on the path to myself.
Meanwhile, I was consumed by learning everything I could about being a 2e AuDHDer. On one of the school tours, I listened to my first episode of The Neurodivergent Woman Podcast, which was Exceptional and Unusual Abilities in Neurodivergence. It was as if they had tapped into my brain and narrated my exact story. I became an instant fan.
So, I reached out to the hosts, Michelle and Monique, to pitch a collaboration. Soon after, I began creating polished transcript articles for their most popular episodes. This work became a lifeline.
Levi was thriving in school and making new friends. His happiness didn’t erase my lingering doubts about this path, but it did soften the sting. Slowly, I moved from reluctance to acceptance, allowing myself to lean into the peace that came with seeing him flourish.
As 2022 came to a close, I wasn’t fully back to my own work, but I was creating again. Slowly, piece by piece, I was finding my way. With the energy of a new year (2023), I let myself believe that maybe this will be the year I reclaim the parts of me I thought I’d lost. Maybe this will be the year I feel truly alive again.
I had no idea how hard my body had been working to hold me up until it started to collapse.
Continue on to Part 5, Reclamation
Note: For transparency, the school I’m referencing is Trailhead Community Farm School. You can visit their website here, though I encourage you to approach it with a critical eye. Despite happy parents and feel-good anecdotes, these surface-level wins mask deeper systemic issues.
Their claims of being strengths-based and neurodivergent-centered fail to align with the principles they claim to uphold. A troubling reliance on medicalized language suggests a lack of foundational understanding of neurodivergent-affirming practices, raising questions like: What specific training does leadership undergo to understand and implement neurodivergent-affirming practices? Combined with inaccessible tuition and a glaring failure to immerse students in neurodivergent culture, the school’s framework is deeply flawed.
A school "for" neurodivergent students should be deeply rooted in the lived experiences, perspectives, and culture of the community it claims to serve—this school is not.
If you’re curious, I encourage you to call the school (or any establishment claiming to be for neurodivergent individuals) and ask thoughtful questions like:
What proportion of your leadership and staff openly identify as neurodivergent?
How do you incorporate neurodivergent culture and pride into the day-to-day student experience?
What specific training does leadership undergo to ensure their practices are neurodivergent-affirming?
Asking these questions can help you see for yourself if the values they claim match the reality. Maybe you’ll find that my information is outdated and all is well in the world—though given the language on their website, I find that unlikely.
If you feel compelled, share your concerns or thoughts in public reviews. Voices like yours are essential to driving change and ensuring spaces like these truly honor the communities they’re meant to support.
Here’s the entire It’s Not Safe to Be Me series: