When support feels like surveillance
rethinking how we show up for neurodivergent children
As adults, we're taught to act quickly when a child is struggling. Step in. Offer support. Be attentive. Notice the signs before they escalate. We're told not to leave a child alone with big feelings. To hover gently. To reassure them with our presence.
And it comes from a good place, truly. We want to help. We want to soothe. We want to fix it before it gets worse. But sometimes, especially for neurodivergent children, the way we show support doesn’t feel supportive.
It feels like pressure. It feels like being watched. Judged. Anticipated.
It feels like someone waiting for you to get it together. Quietly. Quickly. And without resistance.
It feels like surveillance.
When it all feels like a spotlight..
Let’s set the scene. I used to think I was being the good adult, the safe one.
I'd sit nearby. Offer a calm voice. Hover ever so slightly, you know..just in case.
A soft “You can do this.” A gentle, “Do you want some help?”
And my personal favourite: “I’m just here if you need me.”
I wasn’t shouting. I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t demanding, really.
But at some point, I started thinking about this :“You’re watching me, aren’t you?”
See, support isn’t just about tone and it isn’t just about what we say.
It’s about how we exist in someone’s space.
And that presence, even the warmest kind, comes with weight.
The weight of being seen
For neurodivergent children, that weight can feel heavier than intended. It feels like the performance pressure of being seen, watched.. and this visibility can cause so much overwhelm and unnecessary stress.
They pick up on subtle cues like tone shifts, facial expressions and body language.
Lived experience has taught them that adult attention in certain environments comes with hidden expectations of being regulated, compliant and engaged.
So even when we don’t say anything, their nervous system is already working overtime, bracing for what might come next. And so, what we intended as care becomes a trigger. What we intended as support becomes a demand and what we intended as comfort becomes pressure.
Why this happens
It all comes back to nervous system safety.
Many neurodivergent children live in a state of heightened sensitivity always scanning for what’s expected of them, all because their bodies and brains have learned, often through repeated experience, that adult presence tends to come with an agenda, albeit a kind one.
So while we think we’re de-escalating, we may actually be layering on more invisible pressure.
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So what does support look like?
It starts with shifting from presence as intervention to presence as safety.
Think co-regulation without urgency. Predictability without scrutiny. Availability without expectation.
Here’s what that can look like:
Parallel play. Being beside without being on top of.
Gentle body doubling. Doing your own thing nearby, quietly, no commentary.
Opt-in support. “Would you like help, or would you prefer I wait over here?”
Stillness without watching.
Choice without pressure, because that freedom reduces the need to mask.
Let them define what help looks like because support is only supportive when it feels safe.
Support isn’t measured by how close we are or how soothing our voice is. It’s measured by how safe someone feels to be exactly as they are.
Even if that means they’re not okay. Even if they’re not ready. Even if they don’t want our help right now. And that’s perfectly ok.
The beanbag, not the spotlight
These days, I try to think of support like a beanbag: something soft they can lean into when they choose or want to and not a spotlight that locks in and waits for performance.
Real support isn’t performative. It doesn’t demand change to feel effective.
Real support says:
“I’m here either way.”
“You don’t have to be okay for me to stay.”
“You’re not being watched. You’re being held.”
Support is not proximity. Support is not urgency. Support is nervous system safety.
And sometimes the kindest, most radical thing we can do is take one step back as hard as that may be, in order to offer connection without pressure.
Especially when things are hard.
Especially when they’re struggling.
Especially when they don’t have the words.
Because the truest form of support is not a rescue mission but reassurance without asking for anything in return.
I have to be honest and admit that unlearning and relearning what support is supposed to be, didn’t come naturally to me.
I’m a fixer. I notice things, I anticipate needs and I like to make things better - call it the occupational hazard that comes from raising three neurodivergent children with varying degrees of needs.
For a long time I thought that supporting someone means acting quickly, offering solutions and softening the hard parts before they became too big. But lived experience has taught me that it really isn’t always possible or in fact sustainable.
I had to relearn what support really means and that was tough! I had to sit with the discomfort of not fixing anything and of letting a moment unfold without rushing to patch it up.
I had to learn that sometimes my need to help came from my nervous system needing relief, not theirs. That was a difficult pill to swallow.
I have finally come to terms with the fact that true, meaningful support isn’t about fixing anything, but making the hard times feel less lonely.
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